by Diana Gardin
She does so, and I can’t help the smile in my voice. “Good job. Want to try it?”
She nods. Her steely, determined expression tells me that all of the nerves are gone. “Ready.”
I dart at her suddenly, dropping my arms over her shoulders. For an instant, she stiffens as panic overtakes her. Her arms are trapped by her chest, and her hands are useless. I suck in a breath as she struggles vainly.
“Stop, Greta. Remember what I told you. If you struggle, you’re only using up all of your energy.”
She stills, and her chest stops heaving as her breaths slow. I softly repeat the instructions I gave her earlier, and wait while she steps to the side and squats down.
“That’s it. Now use your head. Go!”
She jerks her head backward, making contact with my face. The burning sting only fuels me, because she’s succeeded in her task.
“Ouch.”
Alarmed, she looks over her shoulder. “Oh, my God. Are you okay?”
“Keep going.” My teeth clamp tightly together and I nod my head, urging her forward.
She uses her left elbow to jab me in the stomach. She doesn’t hurt me, but I double over as if in pain. When I do, she’s free to turn around and face me.
I stand up and face her. “And then, you run. Got it?”
She frowns. “But I want to finish him.”
I put my hands on my hips and laugh. I’m not mocking her; I’m proud.
“Down the line you’ll learn to take them out. But for now, at the beginning of your training, you only need to be able to incapacitate them and get away.”
She puffs out her lips and scuffs a sneakered toe on the floor. “So this is really more like self-defense, then?”
I cup her chin in my hand, staring deeply into her eyes. I forget for a second that I’m supposed to be amused with her irritation and instead lose myself in the endless ocean of her gaze. I step even closer, and my heart picks up the pace in my chest. I wish I could force it to slow down, because the fact that she can surely feel how ridiculously fast it’s racing is embarrassing.
“Self-defense and combat are the same thing. You’re always trying to defend yourself in a fight. And most of the time, it’s either your life or the other person’s on the line. So I want to teach you to take them out. I just want to make sure you have a few initial maneuvers down pat first, okay? Your safety is really important to me, Grits.”
A shiver runs through her as I drop my voice. All the blood rushes to my cock, and her eyes darken with something stormy and certain.
“Why?” she whispers.
I hesitate, my gaze dropping down to her lips. My mouth is suddenly as dry as desert air, and I swallow audibly.
“Because I care about you.”
Before I went into SEAL training, Greta was Berkeley’s roommate. We knew each other only through our mutual friendship with Berk, but there was an attraction there I never felt comfortable exploring. It just wasn’t the right time back then.
It might still not be. But as her eyes glisten, staring at me with an expression of pleased surprise, I find myself wondering if this is a moment I should seize. Greta’s the kind of girl who makes me want to capture every single second I spend with her, saving them up like a chest full of treasure.
The door to the training room opens and she takes a step back from me, forcing me to drop my hand from her face. We both turn to face her father, who’s standing there with his arms crossed over his chest.
“Lesson over?” he asks without amusement.
“Almost.” I clear my throat. “Greta’s got a couple of moves under her belt, but I want to make sure she knows one more before we leave today.”
Greta’s father’s eyes float toward her, and she shrugs. I feel like I’ve been caught with a girl in her room, which is absurd because we’re adults. But his presence has the ability to shrink me down to size. He’s her father, and I’d respect him for that fact alone. Not to mention his size and his credentials.
“Are you tired, Greta? You two have been working for about an hour.”
She shakes her head. “I’m good, Dad. I’m going to let Grisham finish his lesson.”
Her father nods, taking one last look at us before he steps out of the room.
When I glance at Greta again, her face is heated. She spreads her legs apart and crouches into a fighting stance. “What’s next, sensei?”
Her lips turn up at the sound of my chuckle and we get back to work.
It’s another thirty minutes before I decide we’re done for the day, and we both grab water bottles from the stocked fridge in one corner of the room. I let her lead the way back downstairs, where her father is on a call in his office.
“Even though Night Eagle is technically closed for the holiday, I’m not surprised he’s putting in hours. That’s what Jacob Owen does. He puts work first.”
Her tone is half bitter, half amused, and I quickly assess her facial expression. She’s staring wistfully into the office.
We haven’t talked about how deep our issues with each of our fathers go, but I can read deeper into her feelings about Jacob nearly every time I’m with her. It seems like she’s missing something important from him. Something she wants him to give but never actually receives.
We wave good-bye on our way out, and Jacob lifts his hand in a dismissal.
“So your dad’s pretty intense. He’s exactly what I expected him to be like.” I glance at her as we walk.
She laughs as she walks to her car, which is parked in the lot directly beside the building. My Jeep is parked right next to her car.
“He is, yeah. Work is his life, you know? So I guess if I’m going to be working here, he’s pretty serious about me learning to fight.”
Thoughtful, I nod. We reach her car, and she uses her key fob to unlock her doors. I lean against the driver’s side as she throws her small gym bag into the backseat.
“Work is his life? You really feel that way? Where does that leave you and your sisters?”
She shrugs. “Out in the cold. I’m so used to it that it barely registers anymore. And now I’m going to be part of his work life, so…” She sighs. “I still feel really bad for my sisters, though. Gemma and Gabi are still young, teenage girls who need their dad. My mom and I aren’t substitutes for that, even though we try. Did I tell you that Gabi has CF?”
I frown. “Cystic fibrosis?”
She nods, leaning against the car, right beside me. “Yeah. She’s a tough kid, but it’s really rough sometimes, you know? For all of us.”
I whistle low as shock and sympathy slam into me. “Damn, Grits. I didn’t know. I’m sorry to hear that.” I’m stabbed with a prick of acute pain somewhere inside me at the aching look that crosses her face when she mentions her sister’s disease.
“We handle it. But my dad has never really been there for her and my mom the way he should have been. I mean, he pays for everything. Which is helpful, of course. We’d be up shit’s creek in medical bills if he didn’t. My mom’s a nurse, but she only works part-time so she can take care of my sister if she’s sick. So her salary wouldn’t cover all of that.”
Her voice breaks on the last word, and I don’t hesitate. I pull her into my arms. She rests her cheek against my chest, and I think she’s glad I can’t see her face.
“I just wish he’d realize that throwing money at a problem doesn’t actually fix it. Gabi and Gemma want him, not his money.”
I stroke her incredibly soft hair and brush my lips across the top of her head. “What about you, Greta? What do you want from him?”
“N-nothing.” She sniffs.
“I think you need to be honest with yourself about that. You feel like you’re missing something. You brush it off as sympathy for your sisters, which I’m sure is partially true, but he’s just as absent from your life as he is from theirs. Working with him might be the first step to changing that, right? This is going to be a good thing for you two.”
She nods. “I hope
so.”
And then we just stand there while I hold her. It feels amazing cradling this girl in my arms. She’s soft and warm. She feels like if I hold on tight enough, I can be whole again. Greta’s like a tether from the darkest place inside me, from all the scary, dirty things I’ve seen and done a world away, to the light. She draws me further into her sunshine each time I’m with her. With her, I believe I can be important to someone again. I can start over once my SEAL days end. She’s my glimpse of the future, and she feels perfect standing against me.
She feels like home.
10
Greta
I can’t remember the last time I talked about my father with someone. I’ve talked to Mea about him and the way my relationship with him makes me feel, but Grisham is pulling emotions out of me I thought were dead and buried. I don’t cry about Jacob Owen anymore. What’s the point?
It could be worse. Some people have never met their father. Some people have lost theirs. Mine is still here, he’s just not here in the way I’d want him to be in a perfect world.
I know it’s not a perfect world.
For the remainder of that week, I’m unable to see Grisham because of how busy he is at work, helping his team prepare for another mission. He hasn’t said much about it, but I know he’s devastated about the fact that he’s not going with them. I’m not sure what to say to help him through it, though. We haven’t reached a point where I can offer him any type of encouragement where his job is concerned. I’d like to be there for him, but I’m equally as busy learning the ropes at Night Eagle.
On Friday morning, I arrive at the office before my father. With a little whoop of triumph, I use the key card he gave me to let myself in. I turn on the computer at the front desk, which is now my desk, and head to the little lounge to make myself a cup of coffee. My father cleaned out a secondary desk in his office for Kyle, and I know it won’t be long before he arrives.
There’s a knock on the office door, and I check the giant wall clock hanging in the front lobby: 7:45 a.m. We don’t even officially open until nine. Who would be knocking?
I hesitate, wondering whether I should just ignore it, or open the door and inform whoever it is of our office hours. The visitor knocks again, and I curse under my breath.
I walk to the front door. Right now, I really wish this was a retail facility and the doors were glass, rather than the dark steel so that I can have a view of who is standing on the other side.
Suck it up, Greta, I tell myself. The boogeyman doesn’t come out this early in the morning.
I pull the door open to find a bike messenger standing there. He hands me a large white box, and nods. “Have a nice day.”
“Wait!” I call as he mounts his bike.
I want to know why the hell a bike messenger is delivering to us so early on a Friday morning. But he ignores me, riding away before I can say another word or ask him a single question.
Shaking my head with confusion, I sit down at my chair and inspect the white box. My name is labeled on the front, but nothing else. Just my first name.
When I open the box, I gasp, one hand flying to my mouth.
Lying in the box are a bunch of long-stemmed bloodred roses.
“What the...” I dig around in the box, searching for a note.
I’ve never been sent flowers before in my life. I rack my brain, trying to think of who would even think to do such a thing. Just then, I hear the buzz of a key card being used and Kyle walks in through the front door.
“Hey, Greta,” he greets me cheerfully. Our eyes meet, and his eyebrows shoot up curiously. “What’s wrong?”
I glance down at the box, unable to speak, before looking back at him helplessly. He comes over to the desk quickly, walking around to where I’m seated, and peers into the box.
“Wow,” he says quietly, fingering the bud of one perfect rose. “From your SEAL, I’m guessing?”
Well, crap.
I hadn’t even thought of Grisham until Kyle referred to him as my SEAL. Would he send me flowers? A heated smile crosses my face without my permission before I beat it back down with pure willpower.
“First of all,” I retort, “Grisham isn’t my SEAL. We’re friends.”
Kyle looks doubtful. “A friend who makes sure he’s the one teaching you combat moves instead of the well-trained guys who work here? A friend who sends you roses?”
I gaze down at the box of roses in my lap again. Fingers of pleasant surprise walk across my skin, paralyzing me. “I have to send him a text…thank him.”
Kyle shrugs. “Hop to it, then. You want me to find something to put those in? You can keep them on your desk all day.”
Now a real, unhidden smile breaks out, and I don’t bother to try and hide it. Looking at flowers sent by Grisham all day is going to make this the best Friday ever.
“Thanks, Kyle.”
He goes off in search of a vase, and I pull out my phone to thank “my SEAL.” I know he’s in a workout, and I don’t want to interrupt him with a phone call. I figure he’ll text me back when he’s finished.
Hey Romeo…thanks for the flowers
There. That should do it. Not too sappy, even though I feel like gushing.
I’ve just put my phone back in my purse when I hear the ding that signifies I have a text. My spirits soar, realizing that he texted me back during a workout.
Grisham and I have spoken or texted every night this week. Our conversations have been easy and flirty, but every single time we talk, I get off the phone with tingly limbs and a racing heartbeat. He just makes me feel…lifted. Like I can fly. I’m excited about the prospect of hearing from him every single day after work, and when I do, it’s like I’ve just come in first place in a race. It’s euphoric. And it’s scary.
When I read the text, my confusion ratchets up again.
Hey beautiful. I know I should just take the credit but…I didn’t send you flowers. Yet!
He didn’t send them? Then who on earth did?
My gaze is flipping between my phone and the flowers when Kyle comes back into view, holding a water jug that he’s cut the top off of. He smiles apologetically. “This will have to do, yeah?”
I nod numbly. When my phone dings again I startle before glancing at the text.
Should I be jealous? So who DID send you flowers??
I shake my head to clear it, and then I type back a quick response.
No clue. They’re pretty though.
I put my phone down on my desk, place all of the roses in the jug, and settle in to get some work done. My dad’s schedule is kind of a mess, so I’m putting all of his appointments and conference calls into an Excel spreadsheet and exporting it to a cloud so that he can access them from any device or computer at any time. I shake my head as I work, in disbelief that this hasn’t been done before.
Over the past week I’ve realized that although my father is the best at what he does—running a private security business, effectively acquiring and successfully completing government contracts, and protecting people—his office skills are seriously sucky. I’ve made it my personal mission to help him with that and make this office a smoothly running operation, just as efficient as his field missions are.
I’m working so hard that lunchtime comes and goes. My father, Kyle, Dare, and the other members of the team have been locked in the office all morning, going over the particulars for a new project they’re working on. I haven’t been briefed on the details yet because they’re still hammering them out. But next week, my father will let me know what they’ll be doing for the project, because he’ll need me to input data into his computer system and make travel arrangements for the team as needed.
Early in the afternoon, I’m finished with my administrative tasks. The list I set out to accomplish by the end of the week is done, and it’s a freeing feeling. I didn’t expect to like this job, but it actually suits my skill set. I’m good at organizing things, with keeping details in order.
I’m goo
d at this. The thought brings a smile to my face. I sit back in my chair, realizing my stomach is grumbling. I head to the lounge to grab the sandwich I’d stuck in the refrigerator this morning and bring it back to my desk. I don’t want to be away in case someone comes in for a consultation.
The door opens, bringing in fresh, salty air, a seaside breeze, and Berkeley Holtz.
“Berk!” I exclaim, standing as she lets the door swing closed behind her.
“Hey, Greta!”
We meet in the middle of the room, pulling each other into a tight, squeezing hug. Berkeley and I grew pretty close while she lived with Mea and me, and now she lives with Dare. The fact that she’s not around all the time, thought, makes my feelings for Grisham a bit easier. Even though my head tells me that he and Berkeley never actually dated, my heart sometimes protests that I’m breaking some kind of girl code.
“What are you doing here? Your man’s in a meeting.”
She flips a chunk of her long, curly blond hair over her shoulder. “I know. I brought him a smoothie.” She indicates the drink in her hand. “He always needs a pick-me-up at this time of the day, and he didn’t have time to make one this morning.”
She suddenly turns crimson, and I give her a slow, knowing smile.
“He didn’t have time? Were you keeping him busy?”
She swats at my hand, giggling as she heads toward the lounge. “Oh, shush.”
I sit down to continue eating, and when Berkeley returns she perches on the side of my desk.
“So, how’s the new job going?”
I sigh happily. “It’s good. I thought I’d get to see more of my dad, but he’s a pretty busy guy. I’m keeping busy with all of this, though.” I gesture toward my desk and computer.
Berkeley smiles. “And…how are things with Grisham?”
My mouth drops open. “What? What are you talking about?”