Matched (Navy Seals of Little Creek Book 2)

by Paris Wynters

  “You like?” Tony’s nonchalant tone is belied by the way he’s taking in my every little reaction.

  Okay. I have to admit, it’s kind of cute, the way he’s so worried if I like his meal or not. “I love. This is absolutely delicious. Thank you for cooking for me. That was really sweet.”

  He freezes with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Sure. No problem.”

  We sit in companionable silence for the next few seconds while I take another bite. Maybe I’d judged him too harshly.

  Then, that familiar cocky grin spreads across his face and he ruins it all by opening his mouth again. “You know, any time you want to get cooking in the bedroom, too, you just let me know.”

  I set my fork down after I forcefully swallow the contents in my mouth. “You just had to go there, didn’t you? Wait—don’t answer!” I hold up my hand. “How about we eat the rest in silence so I can focus on how appreciative I am of your delicious dinner versus how close I am to slapping a piece of duct tape over your mouth? And before you say it—no, not in a kinky way.”

  His shoulders slump at that last bit but, surprisingly, he does as I ask. Even more—he collects the dirty dishes and silverware when I finish before I have a chance to stand up, rinses them, and puts them in the dishwasher.

  Never in a million years would I have guessed Tony Martinez was damned good at domestic activities. Maybe, just maybe, he’s more capable of being a good husband than I first thought.

  Chapter Five

  Tony

  I wake and stretch and snuggle deeper into the blankets on Inara’s bed. It took the whole week to unpack all of ten boxes thanks to work, and my shit is scattered throughout the apartment, since I still don’t have an official room. Not that I really need one. Most of my belongings are back at home in California, and I’m not really into material things. Even after I moved to Virginia Beach, I never found the need to buy anything outside of clothes, especially with living on base and being gone so much for work.

  While I’m starting to get used to my new home, I’m still bunking on the couch, though I’ve started sneaking into Inara’s room when she’s at work so I can have a few hours in an actual bed again. The sofa isn’t even a pullout, and I don’t give two shits about how stylish it is, when it’s so small my calves hang over the edge, unless I condense myself into the fetal position for the hours it takes for Inara to wake up and leave.

  I don’t get it. We’ve been making progress. Like that afternoon when I made lasagna. And all the other nights I’ve cooked dinner since. We are getting closer and I figured my position on the couch would be a distant memory by now. Yet, here I am. Still contorted into unnatural positions while trying to sleep. Sucks. I mean, she signed up for the Issued Partner Program, too, right? Why sign up to get married if you don’t want to reap all the benefits?

  On the one hand, I’m frustrated, but on the other, I get it. I mean, it’s probably smart for Inara to be cautious. Especially when, if things go as planned, I’ll be heading for OCS in Rhode Island in less than a year. But still. That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t make the most of things while we’re together. And by most I mean, enjoying all the benefits of long-term monogamy without having to do all of the wining and dining that typically precedes it. Not that I mind cooking for Inara. In fact, I enjoy it. Who knows? Maybe if things were different, courting her would have been a fun time. But we are already hitched. So I think it’s only right that, with or without her, I’ve decided to engage in a close personal relationship with her sheets. A man needs at least a few hours a day of shut-eye where his limbs don’t threaten to fall off in protest.

  And it doesn’t hurt that the sheets smell like her.

  Oranges and cloves. I waste a moment promising myself I’m not going to do it, but in the end, I can’t help but press my nose to the soft cotton and inhale the scent. I fill my lungs with her and my cock tents the lilac watercolor design on the blanket. With a curse, I roll out of the bed and scowl.

  I head into the bathroom and take a cold shower, hoping the chill will be enough to knock the starch from my cock. It doesn’t, but I’m more clearheaded than a few minutes ago. From the clues I’ve gathered over the last few days, Inara’s mom has no idea the Issued Partner Program is even a thing, and I haven’t even talked to my wife about her mother’s history of divorce.

  I’m slipping on my shirt and simultaneously trying to ignore and get a closer peek at the strappy little red dress in the bedroom closet when the doorbell rings.

  Fuck, I almost forgot they were coming over.

  I take a few seconds to put the bed back the way I’d found it before hurrying down the hall to the main entrance where I find my teammate and best friend, Lucas Craiger, along with his son, Mason, on the front stoop.

  “Uncle Tony!”

  I brighten and after exchanging a fist bump with Craiger, I crouch down until I’m eye to eye with the little munchkin. He throws himself into my arms with such enthusiasm, it nearly knocks me backward and I push back on my heels to keep from falling onto my ass. Like his dad, Mason is all golden good looks and bright-blue eyes.

  “Jesus, you’re getting big.” I groan, pretending to struggle as I rise to my feet. Mason leans back to look at me as I transfer him from my chest to one bicep, the expression on his face showing he knows I’m full of shit, even if he doesn’t have the vernacular to call me out on it. In truth, he’s a small kid—takes after his mother on that front—and he’s already starting to complain about being picked on by the other kids in his school for being the shortest one in class.

  I lead Craiger past the front door and into the living room. We haven’t hung out with one another since getting back to the States and I could use a dose of the familiar after a little over a week of nonmarital bliss.

  Craiger glances around the house, his gaze landing on my beer-stein collection prominently displayed on floating shelves on both sides of the television. Inara had some books she loved on the shelves—classics that were now stuffed in a box in the closet. Giving up the space was one of the first things she did. I’d expected there to be a problem, but surprisingly, she didn’t appear to mind at all.

  “You’ve got an Xbox?” Mason squirms to get down and investigate the extensive game collection and console on display on the entertainment center. Another of my contributions to the décor. Inara didn’t mind that one either, since she could now access Netflix and Hulu on something other than her phone or laptop. I toss him on the couch and he giggles as he plops face-first into the pillows with all the grace of a stone sinking into the ocean.

  “We got a tortoise too.” I point out the angry little weirdo that’s been stalking me for the last several days and Mason is faced with the crippling moral dilemma of which cool thing to play with first.

  “That’s gonna stump him for a while.” Craiger grins and I nod, pleased with myself.

  “Beer?”

  He snorts. “Such a gracious host you’re turning out to be. The new missus must be a good influence on you.”

  Pissed at his comment, I stomp to the kitchen. I’ve always been a gracious host—it was one of the things my mom instilled in me. For anyone to think otherwise is a blow to the chest because disappointing Mamá or her memory is the last thing I ever want to do.

  Something strikes me in the face and I blink, shaking my head to clear my mind before glaring at Craiger and Mason, heads bent together and whispering. Another pillow hits the center of my chest and flops onto the ground. Mason’s high-pitched giggle and Craiger innocently eyeballing the ceiling are enough to inspire a full-fledged war. I stare down at the pillows. When was the last time I’ve been so unaware of my own surroundings? If we were out in the field, my inattention would have gotten me killed.

  Shit.

  What if something happens to me before the year is up? What if Inara begins to fret about my well-being and decides spending hours distressed is not the way she wants to live?

  She can’t leave before the year follow-up if I w
ant any shot at becoming an officer. Redding will just take her request for departure as evidence I didn’t give the program my all, that I don’t deserve to be an officer. That I’m not as worthy as Jim.

  My lips tighten and rather than allow the thoughts free rein, I bend and toss the pillow at Craiger, like a Frisbee. It connects with his face with enough force to push his head back. Mason falls over on the couch, laughing his narrow little ass off before he lets loose a war cry that would have put Braveheart to shame.

  We spend the next few minutes play fighting and whooping like warriors. My weapon of choice—a delicate, white, frilly throw pillow perfect for smacking toddlers upside the head—goes wide, and there’s a sudden hush of silence as it sails into a flower vase. The glass hits the floor with a loud crash and we gather around the remains. Mason’s eyes are wide and his mouth is hanging open. But my guts are on fire.

  Inara is going to strangle me.

  “Oooh.” Mason takes several steps back as if putting distance between himself and the scene of the crime. Smart kid. Not his mess. Mine.

  “All right. WE can do this.” I bend and pick up the pieces. “First step is to get rid of the evidence. No evidence, no crime.”

  The glass not only looks expensive but has a weight the cheap stuff doesn’t. But maybe, if there’s any luck in the world whatsoever, Inara won’t notice it’s gone. Not for three hundred and fifty or so more days.

  Craiger shakes his head. “Can you not teach my son the best way to commit a crime?”

  I snort. “Someone’s high and mighty today. Sorry, Dad.”

  Craiger picks up Mason and shifts him back to the couch so he isn’t in the way while we clean up the tiny shards of the glass. “Is it dad-like to say that you shouldn’t have been having a pillow fight inside of the house?”

  Dad-like. Hell, yeah. Definitely something a dad would say. Especially my own father. “Absolutely. It’s also crazy talk. Where the hell else are you going to have a pillow fight? There are bound to be casualties sooner or later. And what the hell do you mean, ‘you’? I didn’t throw that first pillow at myself.”

  Craiger grins, strides into the kitchen, and comes back with a damp paper towel. “Sorry, I’m not taking the fall for this one. I’ve got a kid to think about.”

  “How ‘Bear’ of you.” I ignore his laughter as he bends to wipe the hardwood to catch the slivers of glass I hadn’t been able to grab. Once all evidence of the vase has been wiped from existence, we make lunch and settle on the couch to watch the game. The Sox are playing the Yankees at Fenway and it’s a double-header. Unfortunately, before the first pitch, it becomes abundantly clear Mason has missed his nap. He’s cranky and grouching about everything from his too-tight shoes to the lack of cheese puffs in the house. So, we end up watching Pixar and Disney for almost two hours. I enjoy animated movies as much as the next guy, but if I have to sing along with one more princess, I’m going to chuck the remote at the flat screen. Thank God, Mason finally curls into my side and falls asleep right about the time the ice queen is letting it go, and we can flip the channel to catch the last few innings of the game.

  An unconscious Mason is a nice respite and I’m unwilling to jeopardize our temporary peace. Craiger moves in increments to grab the remote from the coffee table. We’re men who’ve spent the afternoon drinking our beer to singing fish and a dancing snowman. We need to fuel our testosterone with swinging bats and balls hit deep to right center. But he bypasses ESPN for Bravo.

  “This is my shit,” I murmur in approval, nodding as the geniuses from Queer Eye teach some loser about the importance of accessorizing.

  Craiger settles back on the couch and takes a swig of his beer. “Don’t know if I like the reboot as much as the original.”

  We sit in silence for a while and I’m on the verge of nodding off myself when Craiger’s voice drags me back to full consciousness. “What do you think of Graves?”

  My jaw clenches. Trevor Graves is the newest member of our unit. He’s also a glaring reminder of the man we’d lost during our last deployment. “Too quiet. Takes Jim’s shit too much. Needs to give it back. Otherwise, he does his job, so I can’t really complain.”

  Knox, Jim, Craiger, Bear, and I were brothers. Knox dying was hard on all of us, but Jim took it the worst. The two had grown up together. Not to mention after a falling out with Jim, Knox had volunteered to extend his deployment while the rest of us went home. Jim still blames himself and deflects onto Graves. All I could do was try to keep the team running smoothly. All of us promised Taya we would get Jim back home to her, and so long as his attitude didn’t make me a liar, he was welcome to it.

  Craiger swirls the remaining beer in his bottle, staring as the liquid inside sloshes from side to side. “Speaking of awkward partnerships . . .”

  I stare at the television screen with laser focus. Unfortunately, my action isn’t very effective anymore thanks to the abrupt presence of commercials. One can only look interested in animated bears wiping their asses badly for so long. So, I slump, my chin touching my chest, and exhale long and hard. “Not sure I can make it through.”

  Craiger reaches across the couch and squeezes my shoulder, his smile fading around the edges. “Don’t really have much of a choice. Besides, I’d rather have your ugly mug watching my back any day of the week, and I don’t think Jim’s blood pressure can handle another new face.”

  I rub a hand over my scalp. “Maybe if there’s a mission and we are gone long, I could do it. But I’m out of my element. I don’t do long-term and I think that may be what Inara wants. Not to mention all the added complications with her being tied to our group. Why couldn’t it have been some stranger?”

  Craiger quirks an eyebrow. “In other words, you care for her and don’t want to hurt her.”

  I frown. Of course I do. She’s one of us. If only Jim or Taya had mentioned Inara was considering the program, things might have been different. Maybe that would’ve been enough to stop me from signing up.

  I glance down at Mason and brush his hair back from his forehead. He started snoring a few minutes ago, and now he’s drooling on my forearm. “How do you and Lisa do it? You two get along so well for being divorced.”

  “We have a common goal, for one.” Craiger nods in Mason’s direction. He finishes off his beer and leans forward to place the empty bottle on the coffee table. “Bit of advice? Stop breaking her shit.”

  The sound of a lock turning and the front door opening reaches my ears and I look over my shoulder as Inara walks inside. She smiles and waves at Craiger, who with careful exaggeration points to Mason and puts his finger against his lips.

  Her eyes widen and she comes into the living room instead of heading back to her bedroom. When she circles the couch and finds Mason curled up between us, her expression softens. Holy shit. That look. Those eyes. I’ve never seen Inara so disarmed. The last time I’d caught even a hint of vulnerability had been at the hospital with Taya.

  The way Inara focuses on Mason, the way the stern lines around her mouth disappear, giving way to a new and unexplored softness around her lips, hits me low and hard in the gut. It isn’t lust, but something softer. Kinder. An affection that rises from the seeds of witnessing someone I care for unfurling in front of me. The image of Inara and I standing together, gazing down in that same adoring way at our little boy tucked into bed flashes in my mind, and my heart turns to mush.

  I freeze, my face dampening with sweat.

  Hold up. Our little boy? What the hell is wrong with me? I can’t be picturing children with Inara. At the end of the year, when the program committee asks if I want an annulment, I’m out. No strings. No complications. No bringing kids into this world who will grow up full of anxiety I won’t come home one day. Or suffer when they bury me because of a mission gone wrong. I won’t be responsible for fathering a child only to have them suffer the way I did when my mom died.

  I swipe the moisture off my forehead. No, definitely no kids. After the year is up, I
plan to walk away as free of responsibilities as I was when I signed up. That’s the best thing for both of us.

  “Are you guys watching the Oprah Network?” Inara snorts slightly and to my surprise, squeezes onto the couch beside me. She could have taken the loveseat or sat next to Craiger. Hell, she could’ve ignored all of us and continued to her room. And while I put up my shields against the warmth of her skin against mine, there’s no shield, no defense whatsoever, that blocks the scent of her.

  “It’s crazy how much he looks like you.” Her voice is soft and alluring. As angelic as I’ve ever heard her.

  The glow from the television casts her face in gentle lines and my fingers extend as images of brushing a loose curl back from her cheek fill my mind. I swallow hard and glance away. Shit. I’ve missed most of the conversation.

  Craiger shakes his head. “Looks more like Lisa. Acts more like her too. Took my time dating her, figuring we’d last. Probably should’ve followed Martinez’s lead.”

  I straighten, and Inara’s head cocks to one side.

  “What do you mean?” Her eyes narrow and she’s staring at him hard. Suspicious.

  Which is the same way I’m looking at him right now. Alarm bells sound off in my brain and my muscles clench. I never told any of the guys what led me to join the program in the first place, mostly because I’m not proud that I let what was essentially a woe-is-me, sleep-deprived panic attack propel me into the impulsive choice to sign up for a wife. But of course, the guys being the guys, well, they’ve come up with their own theories. None of which are going to please said wife. I flick my gaze to Inara’s tense expression and swallow. Mason groans in his sleep and lists more completely into my lap. With no avenue of escape, all I can do is shoot Craiger a look, my face violently contorting in a silent order to shut his fucking mouth.