by Tawny Weber
Tessa opened her mouth. Livi leaned forward. She wondered if she’d finally find out what the hell her friend’s problem with military guys was. Then the brunette snapped her teeth shut and shrugged.
“You’re seriously going to date the guy?” Anger gone, leaving her looking empty for a moment, Tessa dropped onto the pale blue couch, shifting the watercolored pillows aside. “Livi, you know I’m not big on rules. Especially not rules made by people for their good and not your own.”
Livi puffed out her cheeks, knowing where this was going.
“But put aside the drama you know Pauline will create if she finds out a lowly sailor has had the gall to put his hands on her daughter, and think about her reasons for objecting.”
“Mitch isn’t just a sailor. He’s a SEAL,” Livi pointed out stubbornly. As if making it worse was going to help.
Tessa gave a look that echoed Livi’s thought.
“Livi, your mom is the last person I’d defend in almost any situation except this one. Here, she’s got a right to be biased, don’t you think?”
Livi dropped her gaze to her lap, watching her fingers as they combed through the knotted fringe of her amethyst throw.
She’d grown up fatherless. The word Unknown had been typed in the Father box on her birth certificate. As far as Pauline had been concerned, Livi might as well have been conceived at a sperm bank. Actually, for quite a few years Livi had wondered if she had been. But her mother had always refused to even tell her that much.
It hadn’t been until Roz had contacted her that Livi had found out anything about her father. Apparently Roz hadn’t even known she had a niece until a sailor who’d happened to know her brother stopped in her bar and started reminiscing. When he’d wondered what’d ever happened to Trent’s kid, Roz had gone ballistic, calling in favors and tapping sources until she’d found out.
She’d been the one to break it to Livi that her father had died during Hell Week of SEAL training. But that wasn’t why Pauline felt Navy guys should be castrated right after being sworn in. It was because Trent Evans had walked out on her when she was five months pregnant to chase his dream of being a SEAL, telling Pauline that a family would only hold him back.
He’d paid sporadic child support for the first couple of months of Livi’s life, but had been too focused on his goal of getting into SEAL training to bother to see her. By the time she was six months old, he’d achieved his dream of going to BUD/S, and lost his life.
Livi knew all of this secondhand. She didn’t know if her mother had loved her father. She wasn’t sure if they’d been together long, or what sort of relationship they’d had. She had no idea if it’d been hard on her to raise a child alone.
Pauline said life was a one-way street, and it was pointless to look backward. But for a woman who refused to discuss anything to do with the father of her child, Pauline sure spent a lot of time demanding that child make up for his sins.
Livi stared at her fingers. It was silly to be hurt over her parents’ choices. They had nothing to do with her personally. She knew that, logically.
But emotionally?
Livi closed her heart against the miserable self-pity trying to take hold in it.
There was no reason for her to feel sorry for herself. She had a great career, fabulous friends and a rockin’ healthy body.
And a date with the sexiest man she’d ever met.
“I can’t make my decisions based on my mother’s history,” she told Tessa quietly. “I have to make my own history and live my own life. Don’t I deserve that?”
Giving her a long look, Tessa frowned. She pulled her dented halo off and tossed it on the marble-topped table with a sigh.
“Okay, yeah. It’s your life and all that.” She pressed her fingers into her scalp before giving Livi a pleading look. “But please, whatever happens, talk to me before you do anything...”
Anything what?
Sexy?
Wild?
Panty-meltingly awesome?
Too late.
“Before you do anything emotional, okay. Please.”
Emotional? This from Tessa, who didn’t believe emotions belonged in any room containing naked bodies? Livi almost rolled her eyes, but she could see her friend was truly worried.
“You mean emotional like falling for him and thinking we can do the happy-ever-after thing?” At Tessa’s shrug, Livi shook her head. “Don’t you think my divorce cured me of crazy thinking?”
“There are nice guys out there, Livi,” Tessa said, looking like she wanted to kick herself. “Don’t let Derrick stop you from believing in marriage and all that stuff.”
As soon as the words were out, Tessa stabbed her finger toward Livi. “Except with a military guy.”
“I’m not going to marry anyone, military or otherwise,” Livi said with a stiff smile. “And not because my ex is an ass. I’ve done the marriage thing and it wasn’t for me.”
Livi might not have grown up in a nice, traditional family. But she’d always wanted one. A husband, children. She even thought about joining the PTA. She loved kids and had always dreamed of having one or four. She’d figured when she and Derrick had married, she had been on her way to the start of that dream. Until she’d been diagnosed with PCOS, or polycystic ovarian syndrome, and realized her chances of getting pregnant were on the “none” side of slim.
When she’d told him, instead of being heartbroken like she was, Derrick had been relieved.
He’d claimed kids would have gotten in the way of her career, and the only marketable asset in his portfolio at the time had been Livi’s body. She had it all going on, he’d said. Why ruin things?
Within a couple of months, Livi’s career had skyrocketed. Her no-muss, no-fuss, bottom-line-results style of workouts was the cornerstone of Stripped Down Fitness. And people loved it. It was as if all she’d had to do was give up her dream in order to have it all. Famous clients, video deals, endorsements. Derrick had been in his element, wheeling and dealing, spending money like it was water. The higher she’d climbed, the harder she’d worked, the more he’d spent. Horrified—and yes, probably a little bitter over his emotional deceit—Livi had finally put her foot down. She’d insisted they live on a budget and invest for the future. After all, her body had betrayed her once. She had no illusions that it couldn’t again.
So Derrick had walked out. He’d taken with him over five hundred thousand in investor funds and left her a pile of debt. She’d had no clue how to run her little empire.
Livi had done what any smart girl would do. She’d climbed into bed with a gallon of double-chocolate ripple and cried for a week. Then she’d called her mother. Pauline Kane knew nothing about career management. She had no connections in the fitness world and nowhere near enough money to save her daughter from financial ruin.
But she was a pragmatic businesswoman with a knack for marketing. She consigned Derrick to the bowels of hell, patted her daughter on the shoulder and rolled up her sleeves. Before Livi had recovered from the ice cream−induced gut-ache, Pauline had liquidated all of the business assets, frozen their personal ones, arranged to cosign loans to cover the repayment of investors and taken over Livi’s career.
And Livi had started over.
People thought she’d been hurt by her divorce, but Livi didn’t see it that way. Her divorce had freed her, even if that freedom had carried a hefty price tag. Livi’s only hurt had been in giving up her happy-ever-after dream, the one she’d nurtured since childhood. Derrick hadn’t been that dream. Family had. Livi stared at her fingers as familiar grief poured through her.
Seeing it, Tessa curled her fingers over Livi’s hand and squeezed.
Livi glanced up. Her friend’s eyes were bright, her scowl deep. Then she took a careful breath as if she were about to impart some emotionally supportive, empowering a
nd inspiring words.
“Derrick was a douchebag with a tiny-penis complex who deserves to be thrown under a herd of stampeding discount shoppers on Black Friday.” Tessa pursed her lips then added, “While wearing granny panties.”
Ah, empowerment. Livi considered that image , then blew out a breath. Couldn’t argue with facts like those, either.
“See, another reason to be careful,” Tessa stated. “Look at the mess Douchey Derrick left you with. I’m not saying you should avoid men. Hell, do four at a time if you want. But be, you know, emotionally careful.”
Four? Where the hell did things go when there were four? Livi debated asking but decided she didn’t want to know.
“It really isn’t a big deal,” she assured Tessa instead. And yes, maybe herself, too. “Mitch is sexy as hell and very nice. But we just met. I’m not going to do anything stupid.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.” Livi sealed the vow with a hug.
“Besides, I don’t even know when we’d go on the date. He’s leaving town for a while.” She leaned back on the couch, frowning a little as it hit her what that actually meant. “The soonest I’ll see or hear from him is when he gets back. And by then, who knows. He might have forgotten all about me.”
The hottest guy she’d ever met.
The first one to make her forget all of her inhibitions.
The one she knew she’d be thinking of for months, if not longer.
He might forget all about the rain check, about their kiss. About her.
That was depressing as hell.
Thanksgiving
Little Creek, Virginia
“DID YOU GET ENOUGH, Mitchell?”
Enough? Mitch almost laughed. Was that possible? Had he ever tasted anything as delicious as Olivia Kane’s mouth? He could feast on it for hours, days, even. The only thing more tempting than her lips was her body. It was a body made for worship. Perfection wrapped in delight coated with sweetness.
The taste of her filled his senses. If he buried his face in the gentle curve of her throat, he could breathe in her scent. It reminded him of the ocean at midnight—refreshing and cool, with overtones of mysterious danger. It’d only take one deep breath to fill his lungs before he skimmed his lips over her shoulder. Down the smooth skin of her chest before he lost himself in her body.
God, that body.
Taut muscles, generous curves.
High, lush breasts ample enough to bury his face between before he kissed his way over her firm belly. Mile-long legs corded with silken muscles, every inch of them worthy of hours of appreciation.
He wanted to start at her toes and kiss his way up those legs, draw his tongue along her smooth thighs, then bury his head between them and lose himself in her taste.
He wanted to see that body poised over his, watch her face as he entered her, as she rode him hard, sending them both into shuddering explosions of pleasure.
Yeah.
He wanted that.
Then he wanted to do it again.
A sharp jab in the ribs yanked Mitch out of his fantasy and into the present.
“What the—?” He shot a scowl at Romeo.
And got an unrepentant smile in return. The other man tilted his head. A tiny move that silently communicated a myriad of words. Busted, Pay attention and What’s your problem? came through loud and clear. Layered over them all was an amused sort of anticipation, as if his friend were looking forward to whatever was going to come next.
“Mitchell, are you listening to me?”
Crap.
Mitch grimaced, glancing from the forgotten fork in his hand to his plate. Sliced turkey, stuffing, vegetables, mound of mashed potatoes swimming in gravy.
Soft music created a classical backdrop to the polite murmur of voices, the rich aroma of an equally classic meal filling the air. The only-at-family-dinners-pressure of a tie around his throat intensified for a second.
Damn it, Mitch thought. Romeo was right—he was busted.
Mitch shifted mental gears and gave thanks that his mother served Thanksgiving dinner at a linen-covered table. It’d hide the physical evidence of his fantasy for the few extra moments it took his body to change gears, too.
Rearranging his expression, Mitch turned to offer the elegant woman across from him a conciliatory smile. As carefully presented and thoughtfully put-together as the tasteful meal and understated decor, Denise Donovan prided herself on her dinner parties. It didn’t matter if it was a fancy banquet for the military brass or a quiet family dinner—she had expectations.
Mitch wasn’t sure if he’d ever failed to meet them before. But he definitely had now.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” he offered in his most sincere tone. “I was thinking about something else and didn’t hear what you said.”
“Obviously.” Her eyes flashed with rare anger at her only child. It was clear she was biting her tongue to hold herself back from lecturing him on his lack of manners.
She’d have had a point.
The family’s Thanksgiving dinner was probably not the best place for him to be wondering how many ways he could lick his way to the center of a very hot blonde.
Especially not with his prospective fiancée sitting right there.
His gaze shifting to the pretty brunette to his mother’s right, Mitch smiled his apology. For being inattentive, he tacked on mentally. Not for the fantasy. As nice as Charity Winslow was—and even with Denise Donovan’s perfect-daughter-in-law seal of approval—she wasn’t his type.
Mitch knew once his mother finally accepted that, she’d give Charity a regretful hug and send her on her way. Then in the tradition that’d started somewhere around his eighteenth birthday, she’d begin her search anew.
Unlike some of the previous contenders, Charity didn’t seem likely to hide naked in his bedroom, so he’d deemed it wise a few months back to make nice and put off the next round for as long as possible. With that in mind, and knowing it would go further than simply an apology to his mother, Mitch offered Charity an apology as well.
“I hear you’ve been busy on a new project,” he added. “Is this for your own work or for your father’s?”
“A little of both, actually. I’ve been researching physical fitness standards for grade-school children,” she said, her expression pleased. “I’d love to hear your thoughts on implementing military-style fitness programs.”
Mitch could just imagine a seven-year-old’s reaction to his PE teacher calling him a pansy-ass and ordering him to drop and give ’em fifty. But that probably wasn’t what Charity had in mind.
“I think a solid fitness regime is important, and the military gets effective results with its programs,” he told her. “But I think you’d need to retool most of their methods if you wanted them to work for the average person. And even more so if you were trying to inspire children.”
“I’m a machine when it comes to PT,” Romeo agreed. “But it’s like Irish said, I don’t work as hard as I do because it’s a part of my job description. I do it because I depend on my body. Because my team depends on my being in top shape. That gives me a lot more incentive than a hatchet-faced drill sergeant barking orders would.”
“I don’t think we’d train instructors in the art of intimidation,” Charity said with a laugh. “Wouldn’t good grades be enough incentive, though?”
“To do the minimum, sure,” Mitch agreed. “But isn’t it more important to build a love of fitness and a respect for what a healthy body can do?”
“How would you suggest doing that?”
“Games,” Romeo said. “It’s a tried-and-true training method in fitness and in the military.”
As Romeo led everyone into an animated discussion on the various games they’d all played growing up, Mitch thought about the games he’d like
to play now. His current favorite involved a telephone, a stopwatch and a challenge to see how fast he could talk Livi over the edge before he had to hang up.
His record had been set two nights ago with three minutes, twelve seconds. He was hoping to upgrade the games soon to include bare skin, body-to-body contact and a lot of sweating and moaning. He doubted the games would lead to much in the way of fitness, but Livi’s body was already rock-hard. So deliciously formed. So sweet.
“Mitchell!”
Dammit. Mitch grimaced. Not again.
“Let the boy think, Denise,” the Admiral ordered from the head of the table. The entire room came to subtle attention at the tone of his command. Mitch was pretty sure if the turkey could have stood and saluted a wing, it would have. “He’s got a lot on his mind.”
Her lips tightened in frustration before Denise pressed them into a smile for her father-in-law. After all, nobody disagreed with the Admiral.
Romeo, damn him, looked as if he could barely hold back his laughter.
“What did you think of DEVGRU?” the Admiral asked, pointing at Mitch with his forkful of turkey. “You interested?”
As he considered the question, Mitch accepted the turkey platter from his father. The platter, like many of the serving pieces, had been in his mother’s family for generations. A reminder, she liked to say, of the endurance of traditions.
Mitch had always figured it had more to do with the fact that she triple wrapped each piece in Bubble Wrap and stored them in a padded case between uses. Which, he supposed, probably proved her point, too.
Traditions were as important to his grandfather, Mitch knew. Generations of Donovan men had served their country with honor. That his grandson was taking that service further than anyone else had given the Admiral plenty of bragging rights.
And he was looking for more.
“I’m not sure it’s the direction I want to take,” Mitch finally told the Admiral, passing the plate to Gabriel without taking any turkey. “It’s an honor, of course. But I’m just as interested in the program in Coronado.”