A SEAL's Desire (Uniformly Hot!)

by Tawny Weber

  “Nobody likes a smart aleck,” the older woman snapped, her carefully drawn-on eyebrows arching almost to her modified beehive as she tried to stare Blythe down. But Blythe was an expert on disapproval. Sammi didn’t even get to the mental count of three before Mrs. Ross gave up with a loud sniff and flounced out of the room.

  “I love smart alecks,” Sammi claimed as the door slammed. Grinning as Blythe laughed, Sammi found the shoe box marked with Blythe’s name and set the heels on the floor next to the dress.

  “That woman is a complete nightmare. Especially the way she lords over the dresses,” Blythe muttered as she shucked her clothes with all the inhibition of a five-year-old. “Does she get paid extra to impose her views on everything? Has she demanded the cake be four tiers instead of three? Changed your jewelry again? I don’t know why you put up with her.”

  “She’s not a complete nightmare,” Sammi defended halfheartedly. Mr. Barclay had carefully chosen the wedding coordinator, both for his only child’s wedding and because he wanted an expert on hand to advise them before they launched Weddings at the Barclay Inn.

  As both the bride and the assistant manager of the inn, Sammi was a little disappointed that he wasn’t letting her handle it on her own. But it was the end result that mattered, she told herself as she unhooked and unzipped the amethyst satin dress on the hanger. In a few short weeks, she’d be married to a man she respected who’d then gain her the respect of others. And if this new venture worked as well as she hoped, she might even get that long-promised promotion to manager.

  She gave a happy sigh. Manager of an inn that offered the loveliest wedding packages in western Texas. Didn’t that sound awesome?

  “Mrs. Ross knows this event will kick off Weddings at the Barclay Inn.” She handed Blythe her bridesmaid dress, noting that it weighed a lot less than her own. “She’s probably a little overenthusiastic.”

  “Uh-huh.” Blythe twisted her mouth but didn’t say anything else as she stepped into the dress. She tugged the fabric chest-high, then turned so Sammi could zip her up. Strapless and fitted to the hips like Sammi’s, the rich purple exploded over the knees in petal-like layers. “I notice you didn’t deny that she’s lording over the dresses.”

  “The woman watched while I washed my hands to make sure I did it right before she’d let me touch my dress.” Giving in to her own sense of the ridiculous, Sammi rolled her eyes.

  “You manage the fanciest inn in the county, you’re so organized it’s scary and you have exquisite taste. Why wouldn’t old man Barclay let you arrange your own wedding?” Blythe tweaked her shoulders this way, then that, arching her back and trying to make it look as if she had breasts holding up that fabric.

  “I’m assistant manager,” Sammi corrected meticulously. Don Reedy was the actual manager. Sure, he was away as often as he was here, given that he handled a number of Mr. Barclay’s properties. But he still had final say in everything, and the inn was run to his specifications.

  “But didn’t Barclay promise over a year ago that he’d promote you to manager?”

  “Once I proved myself.” Sammi nodded. And she had, hadn’t she? In the past year, she’d increased reservations by 20 percent, arranged for the launch of a new website for the inn and had cut kitchen expenses by purchasing from local farmers and suppliers. “I think the wedding venture will do the trick.”

  “Hmm.”

  “You doubt me?”

  “You, no.” Blythe shook her head. “Barclay, yes. So far he’s managed to give credit for everything you’ve accomplished to someone else. All the while, he’s got you living on the property as a full-time caretaker while paying you minimum wage by claiming he’s covering your wages with room and board.”

  Sammi waved that all aside with a flick of her hand. She’d explained plenty of times that while Mr. Barclay had shared the credit for those improvements she’d implemented, he’d still thanked her personally. And though it hadn’t been her idea to take room and board instead of a salary, Mr. Barclay’s reasons were sound. After all, any cash she made was like a red flag waving high over the town, just daring her mama to come sashaying in with her hand out. And Sammi did owe Mr. Barclay for paying for college, at least for the part that her scholarship hadn’t covered.

  Blythe unknotted her hair, letting it fall to her shoulders. As she fluffed it around her face, her eyes met Sammi’s in the mirror.

  “I suppose the RSVPs are coming in,” she asked, her voice so casual it was an instant tip-off.

  “They are and she’s not,” Sammi said, her voice as tight as the knot in her stomach. Buying time, she rummaged through a tackle box labeled Bridesmaids until she found a new comb to give Blythe.

  “You’re really going to get married without Cora Mae?”

  “Well, I graduated high school without her. And college. Why should getting married be any different?” Sammi shoved her fingers into her hair, but they got stuck in the fancy French twist. Glad for the distraction, she started tugging hairpin after hairpin loose.

  “Is she not coming because she objects to who you’re marrying? Or because you don’t want her there?”

  Not want her there?

  Sometimes it felt as if Sammi had spent her entire life wishing her mother would be there, really be there.

  Like when she’d found herself home alone at ten when her mother took off for a week in Vegas with a guy named Spike.

  Or at eleven when she’d been so excited to play an angel in the holiday show and had stood there on stage, waiting and watching the audience with her hopes high. Only to walk home alone with her tinsel wings drooping to find that Cora Mae had found herself a new beau when he’d stopped in at the Quickie Mart where she worked for cigarettes, and simply hadn’t been able to tear herself away.

  At thirteen, Sammi had given negative attention a try, getting into fights and ditching class. But after Cora Mae had skipped four meetings with the principal in a row, she’d had to accept that even that wouldn’t work.

  At sixteen, she’d told herself she didn’t care anymore. She’d gotten a housekeeping job at the Barclay Inn and, with Mr. Barclay’s help, she’d had herself declared emancipated. She’d left the trailer park, and her mother, behind. At least, that’s what she’d told herself.

  Except some sad part of her buried deep in her heart kept wishing otherwise. It was easy enough to ignore most of the time. It was just the occasional event, like Mother’s Day, Christmas morning—or whenever that cheap beer commercial played on TV—that her heart ached a little.

  But no amount of aching was going to change anything.

  “Sammi?” Her hair fluffed around her face like static-charged fur, Blythe pointed the comb. “What’s the deal? Why isn’t Cora Mae coming?”

  “Mr. Barclay put his foot down.” Leaving her own hair still tangled with the couple of hairpins she hadn’t found yet, Sammi hit the tackle box again, this time for a bottle of hair serum. She dabbed about a half-drop on the palm of one hand, then rubbed both together before smoothing them over Blythe’s head. As her fingers slid through, separating the curls and taming the frizz, she met her oldest friend’s gaze in the mirror. “He was right to ban her, wasn’t he? I mean, she’d be a nightmare. You know how she is.”

  “She is a nightmare,” Blythe agreed quietly, her eyes dark with sympathy. “She’d probably get drunk and dance on the tables, fall into the cake and hit on the minister.”

  It shouldn’t be funny, but Sammi’s lips still twitched at the image. She gave Blythe’s hair a final smooth, then sighed and started searching for her hairpins again. Blythe found them faster.

  “Still, it should be your choice,” Blythe said, handing Sammi the comb.

  But by not having to make the choice, she avoided the guilt of not wanting her mother at her wedding, dancing drunk on the tables with the minister. Was that so wrong?

  “Why would anyone object to my marrying Sterling?” she asked instead of answering, focusing on Blythe’s earlier comment.
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  “You are kidding, right?” Blythe snorted. “Bless her heart, your mama probably figures that she has more reasons than a dog has fleas for hatin’ on the idea of you marrying a Barclay.”

  Sammi didn’t need to see Blythe’s face to know that dislike for Sterling Barclay and the fact that grass grew green were about the only things she’d ever agree with Cora Mae about.

  “That’s ridiculous. Sterling is a great catch. Everyone says so. He’s handsome and cultured. He’s intelligent and well-read and ambitious.” Sammi’s stomach tightened as she searched for more and came up blank. Then she caught the look on her best friend’s face.

  “What?” Sammi’s stomach tightened again.

  “Just, well, there are rumors going around again. I’m not saying it’s true or anything, but there’s talk that Sterling has been seen with one of the waitresses at Longhorn’s.”

  Sammi had to swallow hard to get past the knot in her throat. It wasn’t as if she and Sterling were a love match, or even marrying for hot, wild passion. But that didn’t mean he’d cheat on her, did it?

  Her fingers clenched and unclenched as if she could grab the dots dancing in front of her eyes and squeeze them into oblivion, but after a couple of seconds, Sammi was back in control enough to see the expression on Blythe’s face.

  Her spine immediately stiffened.

  Best friend or not, the last thing Sammi wanted was pity.

  “Oh, that,” she said with as airy a laugh as she could manage. “It’s nothing.”

  “Sammi—”

  “Did you want to look at the jewelry choices before the others get here?” Sammi interrupted. “I want you to have first pick.”

  As if they’d been waiting for their cue, the door sprung open and with it, three women bounced into the room. She welcomed them with a grateful smile. She’d deal with wondering about Sterling and the waitress later. Right now, she had friends to greet.

  And greet, they did, with their usual laughter, hugs and exaggerated air kisses. She’d roomed with Amy and Mia when they were at the University of Texas in El Paso, and had met Clara when she’d come to visit her sister Mia. She’d always be grateful to them, not only for helping her adjust to college life but because, thanks to them, she’d managed to develop a sheen of sophistication. Granted, her sheen was only surface and theirs went skin-deep, but she’d take what she could get.

  “Hey there, Blythe,” they greeted, their tone a shade cooler. Given that Blythe was offering a stony stare, the chill wasn’t surprising. Sammi didn’t know if it was because they were out-of-towners, because they were country-club sleek or simply because they represented a different part of Sammi’s life—one Blythe wasn’t part of. But Blythe had taken an instant dislike to the other women.

  “Sorry we’re late,” Amy said with a breathy laugh that went perfectly with her sultry looks. From her long mink hair to her this-season Louboutins, Amy screamed luxury.

  “We’d have been on time if a certain someone hadn’t been indulging in a little afternoon delight with her new hubby.” As no-nonsense as her gamine-cut ebony hair and simple linen pantsuit, Clara shot her sister a chiding look.

  “Whine, whine, whine.” Mia said, dismissing the criticism with an airy wave of her hand, her glistening wedding ring catching the light, sending rainbow sparks around the room. “We’re newlyweds. We’re supposed to have uninhibited, spontaneous sex as often as possible. Right, Sammi?”

  “I’m not a newlywed yet, but I’ll be sure Sterling knows that rule,” Sammi joked, pushing her hand through her heavy fall of hair.

  Now that it was combed out of its fancy twist, the russet waves tumbled wildly around her face, so she grabbed a clip to pull it back. As she did, she noticed three pairs of eyes lock on her left hand.

  Her bare left hand.

  As one, they frowned. Clara opened her mouth, then snapped it shut again when Mia stepped on her foot. All three started talking at once, so the room was filled with random observations about Blythe’s dress, the weather and how many calories there might be in lemonade.

  Sammi sighed. She’d rather ignore it, but she knew it was better to head off their concern.

  “Did I mention that Sterling is having his mama’s rings redone for me?” she said with a little laugh, curling her fingers into her lap. Granted, it was his mama’s cocktail ring and they’d visited the jewelers for the fitting a month ago. But that was beside the point. “It’s taking a little longer to get them back.”

  “Oh, there’s nothing like an heirloom,” Amy gushed, giving Sammi’s shoulder a friendly rub.

  “Oh, I have something for all of you,” Sammi exclaimed as if she’d just remembered. She hurried over to the glossy writing desk where she’d left the envelopes. She’d actually planned to give them each the hand-painted cards as they were leaving. But hey, why pass up a good distraction?

  “Oh, Sammi Jo,” Mia breathed as she opened hers.

  Still, Sammi bit her lip as they all sighed and murmured their delight, each woman, including Blythe, showing the others her card and exclaiming over theirs.

  “I’m so glad you like them.”

  “Like? Oh, no, love.” Amy traced her finger over the delicate watercolor roses twining around the elaborately lettered Thank You before giving Sammi a beaming smile. “You are so talented. You could make a living painting cards, Sammi Jo.”

  “You did for a little while, didn’t you?” Mia asked, holding her card, with its long, leggy irises, close to her chest. “Or was that only in college?”

  She’d had quite a small business going in college, painting cards, wall hangings and the occasional stationary set to supplement what she made waiting tables. Most semesters her art had not only covered the cost of books, it’d given her enough to actually fit in with her friends instead of standing out like a country bumpkin. But once she’d come home and started working at the inn, she’d been too busy for painting, except the occasional gift.

  “I dabbled,” Sammi said, shrugging as if she hadn’t hated to give up that dream.

  “You could still dabble,” Blythe pointed out, carefully tucking her sunflower-covered Thank You back in its envelope.

  “Maybe after you’re married,” Clara said. “I’ll bet Sterling would love it if you spent more time on your art.”

  Sammi didn’t think Sterling was even aware that she painted. Thankfully, Mrs. Ross chose that moment to barrel into the room, saving Sammi from having to comment. As she began leading the women through their fitting, the talk bounced more naturally now, the women sharing their latest gossip while Sammi curled up on the bed, her robe draped around her feet as she enjoyed the vicarious fun.

  “Sammi, has Sterling finalized your honeymoon plans yet?” Amy asked as she preened at her reflection in the mirror.

  So much for fun.

  “Honeymoon?” Sammi bit her lip. She didn’t want to tell them that Sterling had decided to put off the honeymoon for a couple of months until they were both less busy. So she went with, “Oh, no. He’s keeping it a surprise.”

  “I so admire your patience, Sammi Jo.” Mia stood with her arms wide as Mrs. Ross pinned and tucked her sapphire dress to a perfect fit. “I was all over Conner about the arrangements months before the wedding.”

  “You’re always all over Conner,” her sister muttered, earning a snicker from Blythe.

  “How do you know what to shop for if you don’t know where you’re going?”

  “Not everyone is a shopaholic, you know.” Holding up one lipstick and then another to the mirror to check the color against her dress and her complexion, Clara paused to roll her eyes at Amy. “Some people actually wear the clothes they already have instead of shopping for an entire wardrobe.”

  “Says the woman with fifty lipsticks in her bag,” Mia responded laughing.

  “Amy is right, though,” Clara declared as she tried on a pale pink lipstick, then wiped it right off. “Even if you dress from your wardrobe for the honeymoon, you’ll need somethin
g extra sexy for your wedding night.”

  “Extra sexy?” Sammi repeated, frowning down at her robe-covered body. Under her practical cotton was more practical cotton. Why would she bother with anything else?

  As if hearing her thoughts, the other women dove into a discussion on the merits of various lingerie styles when it came to the art of seduction. When the talk turned to sex play, Sammi had to force herself not to run, screaming, from the room. She pressed her hands against her churning stomach.

  Just bridal nerves, she assured herself. It was natural to be nervous. Totally normal to freak out. She knew lots of women who’d been nauseous before their wedding day. Granted, they were pregnant. She didn’t think she could lay her nausea on that without the blessing of divine intervention.

  After all, she and Sterling had never had sex.

  Which wasn’t a big deal.

  She’d seen enough evidence in her life that sex was better left off the table. People either put too much meaning on it, so that it became an obsession that screwed up their lives. Or the only value they put on it was the mileage they got out of bragging about it after the deed was done.

  The only lingerie that suited her attitude toward sex was a flannel nightie or, maybe, a chastity belt.

  Not that she’d say that aloud. They were all friends—good friends—but she just couldn’t talk about that sort of thing.

  Except with Blythe. Sammi’s gaze cut over to the bubbly blonde being tucked and pinned into her dress. Blythe was like a sister to her. They told each other everything. But she hadn’t found a way to tell her best friend since first grade that she hadn’t slept with the man she was about to marry.

  She’d thought about pointing out that there was nothing wrong with saving yourself for marriage.

  But Blythe knew perfectly well that Sammi had had sex before. So she was going to want specifics on why Sammi hadn’t had it with the man she was about to commit the rest of her life to.