Matched (Navy Seals of Little Creek Book 2)

by Paris Wynters

  I huff and stomp down the hall to the linen closet where I grab a blanket and pillow. I return and chuck them at his lap with no small amount of satisfaction and then lean down and pat him on the cheek. “Oh honey, I have the next best thing. It’s called a couch.”

  The disappointed slump of his shoulders gives me both a sense of satisfaction and sympathy as I spin and strut down the hall for the comfort of my own room for the rest of the evening. The man has been deployed and I’m asking him to sleep on the couch. But then again, this is Anthony Martinez and sharing my bedroom right away will give him the wrong impression. A marriage isn’t built on sex.

  So for now, the couch will have to do.

  Chapter Three

  Tony

  Once Inara flounces off and her bedroom door slams shut, I flip my feet up onto the couch, fold my hands under my head, and scan my surroundings. Her place isn’t bad. Not in as much as I don’t have a room. That part’s bad, but at least the sofa isn’t the most uncomfortable piece of furniture I’ve ever slept on, with its cozy, chenille-like fabric and plump cushions. Definitely better than the barracks, even with my feet dangling off the end. And her entire place is decorated in bright colors and filled with a floral scent. Like something inherently Inara.

  I close my eyes and drift off as the television plays in the background, only to be awakened at some godforsaken hour by a hideous screeching noise and a crick in my back.

  What the hell? Where am I?

  As I rub my eyes, reality returns. Shit, that’s right. I’m at Inara’s. I’m married.

  And that god-awful noise is my sweet wife stomping through my sleeping area and whistling like a horn-blowing reveille player before the sun even pokes over the horizon.

  I growl and hoist myself off the couch. “For God’s sake, woman! There isn’t a flag that needs raising.”

  This must be payback for me acting like a jackass and hitting on her back when Taya was in the hospital. If that’s the case, I’d better apologize sooner versus later if I plan to ever get a good night’s sleep.

  Since this is my home now, I don’t bother putting on a pair of pants and walk into the kitchen in my boxers. Perfectly respectable boxers. Boxer briefs in an attractive shade of hunter green to be exact. Unfortunately, she’s bending over to take a pan of cinnamon rolls out of the oven and, being I just woke up, I might as well be part lumberjack for all the wood I have. My wife has an ass I could stare at all day, hang on to all night, and appreciate in memory when we’re apart.

  Because I don’t want to startle her into burning herself, I wait until she closes the oven door and twists the knob to the off position before I dare make a sound. She turns when I clear my throat—as much fair warning as a guy who hasn’t taken his morning piss can give—and looks me up and down, stopping when she gets to my waistline and gapes like she’s seen a ghost. “Jesus, Tony. You don’t own pants?”

  Relief floods me when I look down and find I’m still covered. For a second there, I’d thought maybe I’d flashed her somehow. “At eight in the morning, I don’t know that I own anything.”

  She continues to look over her shoulder at me. Her skin is the shade of a ripe tomato and her eyes are wide. “We need boners.”

  Now it’s my turn to gape. “Excuse me?”

  The red shade on her face turns fifty shades darker. “I mean, rules. About boners.”

  “Rules about boners?” My lips twitch. Now this is a conversation I am more than willing to take part in.

  “You aren’t allowed to have boners.” She shakes her head again and rolls her eyes. “I mean in the kitchen. Or in the house at all.”

  “So, I should confine my boner to the front yard? Won’t the neighbors complain?” I should take pity on her and stop, but I can’t help myself. Seeing her flustered is refreshing. Breathtaking. Hot as fuck. “Besides, I can’t help what you do to me. In the kitchen. Or anywhere else, for that matter.”

  “My mom could come over.” She’s looking everywhere but at me. Still cute. “She’ll see your—” She shakes her head and sputters, then points. “That.”

  To my credit—for which, I should get big kudos—I don’t point out that history and her birth prove her mother knows her way around a boner. Instead, I walk closer and reach around her for an apple sitting on the counter in a powder-blue fruit bowl that matches the wall color, the coffee maker and a stand mixer I can’t wait to show her I know how to use. Chicks love guys who can cook. It’s helped me score on more than one occasion. But while I’m ready to score with my new wife whenever she says the word, a part of me is just as eager to prove to her I’m good for more than terrible pick-up lines.

  She gives a little gasp as my fingers brush against hers, and I shiver. Yeah, no. Getting to know my wife in the biblical sense definitely edges out proving my usefulness on the scale of things I’d like to accomplish today.

  I could cover up. Could even take a piss and get rid of the problem, but this is more fun than I’ve had in a couple of days. More like months. And I’m not itching to hurry it away. “So, is this breakfast you’ve baked for me?”

  Her eyes go dark, what could be classified as deadly, and she smiles slow, devious, a smirk of proportions so epic, I’ve never seen another like it. “Cold day in hell, mi esposo. And before you even think to open that stupid mouth of yours once more, for the indefinite future, your situations are your problem.” She wax-on/wax-offs her hands in front of her. “This is off-limits until further notice.”

  She’s pretty confident for a woman who hasn’t benefitted from the full effects of said situations. I cross my arms, stare directly at her, and wiggle my eyebrows playfully. “I think we’re gonna need to check the contract on that.”

  She cackles and I’m reminded of a children’s movie. Wicked witch and all. “I checked already. As soon as I saw your name. And guess what? You’re on your own, big boy. No boner clause is in the contract.”

  I cock my head. She’s taking a bit too much delight for my liking. “Pretty sure of yourself, huh? Think you can resist”—I mimic her wax-on/wax-off move—“all of this?” I add a little hip thrust for good measure.

  She goes rigid at first and narrows her eyes. Then her smirk becomes wider and brighter. “Without breaking a sweat.”

  “Oh, baby, don’t you know?” I drop my voice low and move in close enough to whisper in her ear. “The sweating comes later.”

  She coughs as if choking while I set my apple on the counter and wink. “I need a shower. Wanna join me?” I take a pause, a practiced pause, to let the words sink in and to give her time to form the image in her head.

  Her beautiful face broadcasts a whole arsenal of feelings, but she’s cool and seemingly unaffected when she finally responds. “Bathroom’s down the hall. Towels are in the linen closet.”

  Her rejection doesn’t faze me. I’ve got an entire year to win her over. Really, it’s only a matter of time before she’s unable to resist her bad-ass, love-machine hubby. For now though, I need a shower, shave, and toothbrush.

  I whistle while I walk down the short hall to the bathroom, which is so small I can barely manage a full about-face. The bathtub is white, the wall is orange, and there’s some abstract painting that looks suspiciously like a Georgia O’Keeffe hanging on the wall. The towels are soft and plush, emanating the scent of fabric softener. And I’m standing in the bathroom, still hard, thinking of using one of these towels to wipe droplets of water from every one of Inara’s luscious curves. Not helpful when one of my main objectives is not pissing on the ceiling.

  But standing so close to her in the kitchen, inhaling the scent of her—that same perfume that’s lingering in the house and a blessedly fruity shampoo—while her face changed color, touching that silky skin, and no more can I claim the boner as morning wood. Part of me longed to keep baiting her until we ended up rolling around the countertop.

  I groan at that image. So not helpful.

  Instead of thinking more about her, I consider my opti
ons. Inara’s going to be a tougher nut to crack than the usual airheads I go for. She doesn’t fall for my lines, doesn’t think my jokes are cute. And the way she looked at me—like I’m nothing but an annoyance—after our interlude in the kitchen, lessens my odds to somewhere around one in fifty of scoring anytime soon.

  My fingers grip the ceramic of the sink as I take in more of my surroundings, hoping to uncover something that will help me figure out the quickest way to loosen Inara up. There are drawers in the vanity, a stack of shelves with accoutrements and baskets of hair essentials, and a cabinet. Because I’ve never really investigated a woman’s bathroom before, I take a peek in the cabinet hanging over the toilet.

  Jesus Christ.

  How many tubes of mascara does one woman need? And why does she have four boxes of Band-Aids? I rub my hand over my head and groan when my gaze falls on the colorful box of tampons. This is so pointless. No, I’m not scared of tampons. I grew up with four sisters, so I know all about periods. Hell, they used to send me into the drugstore to buy them. And my sisters love me. But Inara. Forget love—she doesn’t even like me. The woman is uncomfortable anytime I’m within a twenty-foot radius. Which is what led me to this pathetic situation of searching for clues among her feminine products on how to get her to relax.

  I huff and slam the cabinet door shut. At least now my boner is deflated, and I can finally piss without becoming a water-wiggle. I would happily tackle shaving as well, except stupid me left my razor kit in one of the boxes still in the entryway. Along with my toothbrush. Fortunately, Inara left one in here. A quick rifle through the vanity drawer produces toothpaste and I’m a teeth-cleaning machine.

  When I reappear after a quick shower, clad in a towel knotted at my waist because my clothes are also still in the boxes, she slips in the bathroom and shuts the door, keeping her gaze studiously off my naked chest. Spoilsport.

  I’m elbow deep in one of the boxes when the door flings open. She walks toward me with murder in her eyes and the toothbrush she’d left for me in her fist like a weapon. “Did you use my toothbrush?”

  “Your toothbrush?” Oops. Swapping spit while making out is one thing but her toothbrush? That crosses a line I can’t uncross. “I didn’t know.”

  “So, you just find a toothbrush in someone else’s bathroom and shove it into that germ factory you call a mouth?” She’s indignant and rightfully so, but also a little over the top. It’s not like I used the damn thing to clean the toilet. Although I don’t mention it because I’m not giving her the ammunition to compare my mouth to that.

  Also, damn. Why does she have to look so hot when she’s pissed off, with those flushed-pink cheeks and blazing eyes? I’d like to make her eyes blaze for an entirely different reason.

  I pull my mind out of the gutter and shrug. I’ve already been shot down once in the past half hour. No need to sign up for round two quite so soon. Also, now my own face goes hot as my mistake sinks in, but I’m not about to let her figure out I’m embarrassed. “Figured you left a toothbrush for me, like a good wife.” The idea gathers momentum and races out of my mouth like it was built by a NASCAR pit crew. This is at least partly her fault. She should’ve known I wouldn’t have unpacked. And I would happily continue that line of thinking, but she’s advancing like a tiger stalking her prey. I back up and the tall stack of boxes topples behind me, knocking over a book of word searches that skitters toward her feet.

  Her glare is hot enough to make a heat-seeking missile find a new target as she kicks the book off to the side. “Like a good wife? Did you really just say like a good wife?” Her voice is high-pitched enough to shatter windows.

  I put a finger in my ear and give it a good wiggle for show. I’ve seen the rocket’s red glare and the bombs bursting in air up close and personal. But something about this little spitfire is more intimidating, and yet I will not be deterred. “I just came back from deployment and was in a rush to pack up. Thought maybe you made sure I’d have the basic necessities, like a toothbrush.” I puff out my chest and cross my arms and stare at her, a look that has melted men twice her size to their knees in fear.

  Not Inara. If she’d been red a while ago, she was positively maroon now. And she isn’t quite done with her rant. “And it never occurred to you to bring your own damned toothbrush? You arrogant, disgusting pig.”

  Her spunk is adorable and I can’t hide my grin. I have an urge to keep pushing her buttons even when it means I might become the first-ever toothbrush homicide. I step forward with my arms open to embrace her and she jabs me with the business end of the toothbrush. Rubbing my chest, I quirk an eyebrow at her. “I’m trying to end the fight here. A little cooperation on your part would go a long way.”

  I’m not prepared for the strength behind the shove she gives me. Had I been, I wouldn’t be on my ass right now, with my towel gaping open and a diminutive woman who must be no taller than five feet peering at us through the storm door. My hands fly to cover my exposed dick before the woman lays eyes on my goods. “Uh . . . hi there.”

  “I heard yelling,” the woman says as she enters the home.

  Inara shake her head. “It was nothing, Mami. Just a discussion.”

  “Sounded like something. Anyway, I just stopped by to drop off some flan.” She lifts a glass baking dish in one hand.

  Mami. Ah, shit. I rub my hand over my scalp and suck in a deep breath. “Not the way I intended to meet my new mother-in-law. Please forgive me.”

  Inara goes rigid, her nostrils flaring. Before I figure out what I did wrong now, she chucks one of my boxes at me, and the edge of the thing catches me right in the dick. I growl when it hits. Okay, holler is more like it. I scream like a baby. Pain explodes in my groin and black spots flash in front of my eyes. I try to curl into the fetal position, but I can’t because there’s a fucking box on me. Plus, I can’t breathe. Or think. Or do more than lie there and gasp like I’ve run a marathon while my dick throbs in agony. Then, after she grabs her purse off the small console table, she stalks past me and steps around her mother, heading out the door.

  “Mija, where are you going? You need to explain yourself.”

  “To the drugstore. I need to buy a new toothbrush. And yeah, I got married.” Her words come to an end just as a car door slams, the engine revving a couple of seconds later. Tires rub against concrete before screeching to a halt. “Don’t interrogate my new husband either. Or bother guilt-tripping me later. It’s not like you ever informed me any of the five times you got married.”

  The tires squeal as she peels out of the driveway. I swallow hard. What the hell kind of family did I marry into? Five times?

  I shrug at her mother, who has a renewed interest in my predicament. Before I can say a word, Inara’s mom steps around me and heads into the kitchen, her black hair streaked with gray in a braid that hangs over one shoulder. After she sets the flan on the kitchen counter she returns, snorting in a way that reminds me of her daughter. “Well, it’s nice to meet you . . .”

  “Tony.” I still sound like a kid whose voice hasn’t changed yet, but the sense I might die is subsiding. Incrementally.

  “I must get going. I’ve got an appointment with my divorce attorney.” She makes her way to the door, stopping before she exits. She turns and looks at me over her shoulder. “Be kind to my daughter.”

  With that, she leaves.

  I set the box on top of my lap aside and roll onto my knees, the pain subsiding to a seven on a scale of ten. Though I’m not sure what bothers me more—that Inara physically hurt me, that she took off and left me with her mother whom I’d never met, or the fact I came off like a giant asshat. Why do people bother getting married? If I had remained single, I highly doubt a situation like this would’ve ever occurred.

  After picking through the boxes and finding a pair of pants, I make my way over to the couch. Not long after, Inara returns with her little white drugstore bag and two of the big-brand coffee-shop cups in her hand.

  I prepare to be scold
ed for debris from the toppling boxes still on the floor. But Inara just steps over the mess and turns to hand me one of the cups. “A peace offering.”

  “Thank you.” I sip the hot caffeine and sigh before setting the cup on the coffee table and squatting to stuff my belongings back into a box. When I’m finished, I hoist the box and stand. “Where can I take this so it’s out of your way?”

  A quick widening of her eyes is the only sign that I’ve caught her off guard. “The storage area in the garage would be great, thanks.” She points the way and I make quick work of it, hauling the boxes away until her living area is once again tidy.

  “Thank you.” She fidgets with the cardboard sleeve on her cup. “And, I’m sorry I don’t have a place for your clothes yet. I’ll try to work on that within the next few days.”

  “No problem.” She flashes me a genuine smile, which I meet with a slow grin of my own. And then I blow any newfound amnesty. “Could always move my stuff to the bedroom?”

  Her smile fades, her eyes widening briefly before she spins on her heel and stalks away, muttering something about a shirt and duct tape.

  The man who marries her next will be one lucky bastard. I pick up my cup and suck down a long swallow, my chest constricting at the thought of Inara with another man. But this union is temporary, something I must see through to make sure I get into OCS. Staying long-term, having a family even, is not for me.

  Chapter Four

  Inara

  Insufferable. Ridiculous. Tirón insoportable. I sit at the kitchen table, grab a catalogue that came in the mail, and slap the counter with it. But instead of the images on the pages, all I can see is Tony. Tony with his towel slipping. Tony doing a sexy little stripper move without a shirt. All of Tony. I had no idea I liked broad shoulders and defined pecs so much. I mean, I’ve admired before, but never gawked. And there’d been gawking. Ogling. Maybe even a gape.