Matched (Navy Seals of Little Creek Book 2)

by Paris Wynters

  Hormones. Must be hormones.

  Right?

  I slip out of his grip, under his arm, and back into the bedroom to fill my lungs with air. Already, I want to go back to him, to bask in the heat of his body. The intensity of the need scares the shit out of me, and I stuff my shaky hands in my jean pockets.

  This is bad.

  Hormones or not, I can’t afford to get attached. Not so soon. Tony might have a lot to lose, but as he already told me, our union has an expiration date. I need to go into this next year with my eyes wide open. I’m not my mom. I can’t deal with recurrent heartbreaks. I suffered enough from hers over the years as it is.

  “Inara? Any more rules?”

  I swallow. “We treat each other with respect. Clean up after ourselves, help the other person out when we can, and communicate if there’s a problem. Like a real marriage.”

  “Okay,” he agrees, but the way he licks his lips and his gaze travels down my body tells me he’s just as distracted as I am.

  This won’t do. I need space.

  “I’m hungry.” My voice is too bright, too cheery, and my smile is so fake, I probably look like a painted clown.

  He’s standing in the doorway of the closet, his hands gripping the top of the door frame above his head. The muscles in his forearms bulge and the edge of his Walking Dead T-shirt rises to expose the smooth bit of skin hidden between his navel and the top of his low-hanging sweatpants. Holy shit. That is a lot of man.

  My gaze homes in on the deep V disappearing beneath the band of his boxers, and suddenly I’m not sure if I was talking about burgers and fries. I glance up at Tony, whose small smile adds to the overall effect, and I grit my teeth against the burst of desire. Oh no. I’m not ready to go down that path right now. Even if the path in question is sexy as hell.

  I lick suddenly dry lips and then curse myself. I need to get my mind out of the gutter.

  A faint noise comes from the other room, interrupting me with the distraction I need. Craiger! Mason! I’d almost forgotten they were here. Thank God.

  “I’m hungry . . . for food,” I clarify quickly, though not quickly enough, if the self-satisfied way he folds his arms across his chest and flexes his biceps is anything to go by.

  “Oh yeah?” There’s nothing casual in his tone or that gaze swiping up and down my body, leaving me hot and flushed and needy and breathless.

  I nod toward the door. “But first, I need to take a shower. I also want to get out of my work clothes and find something more comfortable.” I scoff when his eyes go wide. “Not like that. I mean sweats. Or shorts.”

  He grunts and has that look. Like he’s undressing me mentally. And it’s hot as fuck. I’m one short second from throwing him onto my bed and ripping his clothes off. Like I said, it’s been a while. In desperation, I shove him toward the door. If we stay in this room any longer, I can’t promise I won’t do something I’ll regret. Company or not.

  “What about food?”

  “Check the fridge, give Lucas and his son some options, and I’ll make dinner as soon as I’m showered.”

  Jesus, how much time does it take a man with legs that long to leave a room? Finally, he shuts the door behind him and I can breathe. In. Out. Over and over. Eventually, my hormones quiet down to a manageable level. My shower is quick and a bit cooler than usual. I still have visions of naked Tony in my head, but I can pull it together.

  When I step into the living room, Lucas and Mason are sitting on the couch. “Where’s Tony?”

  Lucas points toward the kitchen and for the first time I notice the scent of roasting garlic wafting through the house. Eyes narrowed, I follow my nose to find him standing at the stove, a panful of herbs already sizzling over one of the burners. “What are you doing?”

  He shrugs without turning to look at me, pulls a knife and cutting board out, and sets it on the counter next to the sink. “You’ve been on your feet all day. Figured you could use some help.”

  My heart melts, just a little. The guy can do a one-eighty from being a jerk to a thoughtful partner so fast, that it makes my head spin. He places several strips of raw chicken on the cutting board and when his deft fingers go to work, slicing, chopping, holding the knife like he belongs on an episode of Top Chef, a soft whimper escapes my lips. Then I fake a cough to cover. “I don’t mind cooking.”

  “Then we can do it together.”

  When I don’t respond right away, he glances up. His expression is blank, neutral. We’re together, at least for now. For better or for worse. Companionship is a good start. In time, maybe that can grow into respect. Affection. Eventually, a little midnight magic. I can make this work and show him that this marriage can survive longer, that having a partner like me is worth it. I roll the sleeves of my baggy sweatshirt up to my elbows and hip bump him out of the way. “Move over. You’re doing it wrong.”

  “First of all, there’s no ‘wrong way’ to cut chicken.” Tony shoots me a look but moves over just enough to give me access to the other half of the cutting board. “Second, I’m pretty sure I know what I’m doing.”

  “Oh, really?” I pull a knife from the rack on the counter and begin to dice.

  “I am a fabulous cook.” He finishes with his half of the chicken and uses the point of the knife to steal back some of the pile I’m working on. “Probably better than you. You can cook, can’t you?”

  My mouth drops open and I turn to look up at him. “You’re a cocky son of a bitch.”

  He winks. “Admit it, wifey, you love it.”

  My laughter is breathless because there’s a part of me that does, in fact, love his confidence, his refusal to find even a single fuck to give because he’s too busy doing and saying exactly what he wants, when he wants. It’s the part of his personality that I envy.

  We’re standing almost as close as we’d been in the closet. I swallow hard but don’t turn away from those big brown eyes. Instead, for a sweet, blissful moment, my doubts take a back seat while I play one of the most harmful mental games in existence.

  What if . . . Tony isn’t only in this to keep his job?

  What if . . . we’d met under different, kinder circumstances?

  What if . . . this really is the beginning of a real-life happily ever after?

  “I’m hungry, Uncle Tony, how long before dinner?” Mason’s voice is a bucket of cold water.

  “Give us about thirty minutes, bud.” Tony nudges me with his shoulder.

  I snap back to reality and take a step back, camouflaging the motion by pretending to check the garlic and green onions sizzling on the stove. Mami is right, damn her. I’m a romantic at heart, just like her, and if I’m not careful, Anthony Martinez is gonna end up one heartbreak in a long line of many.

  Chapter Seven

  Tony

  Is it just my imagination or is the couch getting more comfortable? Almost as soon as the question occurs to me, my leg cramps and I roll off the edge of the torture device and onto the floor with a curse. The setback does nothing to diminish my good mood, and I bound to my feet without once insulting the couch’s mother or intelligence.

  And who’s getting credit for my good mood? Inara. My beautiful, multifaceted wife.

  All night, I dreamed of touching her, kissing her, hearing those little whimpers at the back of her throat as I explore every curve and plane of her body. I expected to spend another night struggling to turn my mind off, but sleep had come quickly and the dreams were a bonus.

  And while I’m tempted to stick around and make a nuisance of myself, since Inara doesn’t have to work today, I need some time away before I do something stupid, like get down on my hands and knees and beg for the kiss—or more—she’s been denying me. I head toward the bathroom just as Inara is coming down the hall and we stop short, momentarily blocking one another.

  “Morning.” She’s fresh-faced, in shorts and a tank top, as if she’s going for a run.

  One side step and she brushes past me. I twist to glance over my sho
ulder and it’s a sight that’s going to make the shower ten degrees cooler than I planned. That woman has a walk that could make a priest sigh, and there’s a little purple butterfly tattoo on her left shoulder that I’m dying to kiss.

  Twenty minutes later, I have yet another cold shower under my belt, have folded the blankets and put them away, and I’m now ready for a few hours at the gym. Sweats, a T-shirt, and gym shoes. My mini-break from training has been nice, but I can’t afford to fall out of shape, unless I want my ass handed to me during combat exercises. And I most definitely don’t want to be the weakest link.

  I’m almost to the front door when my mother-in-law, wearing a yellow sundress and a full face of makeup, calls my name while simultaneously knocking. I open the door to find her standing on the porch, cradling two square aluminum baking dishes to her chest. They’re both covered in foil, but the scent wafting my way is still heavenly.

  I bend down and kiss the woman’s cheek, catching the newly risen sun peeking from behind a cloud. “Let me carry those for you.” I reach out to take the containers, which she gratefully pushes toward me. “Inara is in her, um, our room. Do you want to come in?”

  “Gracias. I’m in a rush but wanted to drop these off. One of them is for you, but save some for Inara. I know how hungry you men can get for your sweets.” She shakes a finger in my direction. “The other is for Bennett, and he’ll tell me if they come up short.”

  I bite back a chuckle. Maybe Inara will be just as feisty thirty years from now. The grin melts right off my face a second later. No need to get carried away and envision Inara in thirty years because I won’t be around for that.

  I need a distraction from the weird pang in my chest. “Who’s Bennett?”

  Mrs. Ramirez cocks her head and frowns. “Inara’s father. Her stepfather anyway. She hasn’t told you about him?”

  I grunt and shake my head, wishing my wife and I were as close as her mother assumed. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as the type to bake flan for a man you’re in the middle of divorcing.”

  She laughs again, a more full-bodied sound of amusement. “No, Bennett is number three. We’ve been divorced for years. He’s the only one of the lot I would bake for. He and Inara have always been thick as thieves.” Her brows furrow when her gaze lands on Inara’s tactical boots. “You know, it’s smart the two of you skipped the big expensive wedding and just went for the civil service. My daughter has to be good with her money since she only works at the restaurant so she could run around in the woods.”

  The note of disapproval in Inara’s mom’s voice makes me bristle. “You mean search and rescue? The program where Inara risks her own safety to help people who are lost and potentially in danger? I think that’s a pretty worthwhile reason for giving up some extra salary, don’t you?”

  She sighs. “Sí, of course. It’s just . . . I worry. It’s hard surviving on your own these days.” Mrs. Ramirez rests her hand on my forearm. “But now she has you, so at least she’s not alone.”

  My throat tightens. It’s not my place to mention the program to her mother, or the fact that Inara and I will only be married for a year. Especially when I haven’t told my own family. When my gaze lands on my mother-in-law, my stomach flips once more. Four husbands, four failed marriages. And I would bet Inara was the one picking up the pieces after vacating her ringside seat to the failures. I can’t imagine what it must have been like for her—practical, passionate, Inara—to go through all of that as a kid.

  “Bennett and his church group are rebuilding houses for the some of the families who lost their homes during the last tornado. Whenever Inara gets free time, like today, she likes to head over to the worksite to help out.” She nods to the pan I’m holding. “I like to assist where I can, every now and again. Speaking of, if you’re not busy, why don’t you swing by for a few hours? I’m sure Inara would appreciate the support.”

  Not a bad idea. And it’s not like I have other Sunday plans outside of going to the gym.

  Mrs. Ramirez waves goodbye and drives off only minutes before Inara comes into the hallway. She glances from the pans to me. “Where’d those come from?”

  “Your mom,” I say, then head into the kitchen to place one of the trays into the refrigerator. “She was in a rush, but she told me you were going to help your stepfather today.”

  “Oh.” Inara ducks her head and busies herself putting on her boots.

  Grabbing the second tray of flan, I slide my feet into my own shoes and grab my keys. When Inara looks up, I shoot her a beaming grin. “I’m going with you. I want to help.”

  I could inform her about my background in construction, assure her I probably know more about building houses than a licensed contractor, thanks to the work I did both before and after I joined the military, but instead, I follow Inara to her car and slide into the passenger seat placing the pan of dessert on my lap. She doesn’t try to get rid of me and simply backs the car out of the driveway and heads toward the worksite.

  Thirty minutes later, we are in a neighborhood where trees line the road and rise behind the newly built and skeletal remains of the houses like silent sentries keeping guard over the middle-class families that had laid claim to this place. There’s a school bus stop sign at the end of the road next to a terminal made from an old school bus, complete with bench and rain guards. The tornado must’ve shredded pieces of the shell as a bright-yellow panel stabbed through a wall across the street. A house two away from the bus stop hadn’t been touched, and a woman is watering a grouping of plants as we drive past.

  Such random devastation.

  A team of volunteers is already hard at work when Inara pulls onto the street where the church group is working. A red dumpster the size of a semi-trailer is stationed in the driveway of one house and two men are hauling a piece of furniture to tip over the top. A woman carries a window over and drops it in while I survey the debris field. There are pieces of the roof, both collapsed inside the house and on the lawn. Shingles lie beside a tree that looks about a hundred years old, and a group of workers is sawing away at it with a couple of chainsaws and some smaller handsaws. And still another group is busy assembling a pile of what I presume is salvaged goods from the house next door.

  Inara and I pick our way through the debris of the house with the dumpster to the gaping hole in the wall where the front door should have been. Stud framing and blocking have been blown to smithereens in the center of the wall. Lumber lies everywhere, and the two-by-sixes on the sides that appeared to be spaced at sixteen inches on center are folded in on themselves like dominoes. Thank God the front wall wasn’t load bearing; otherwise, there wouldn’t be a second floor right now. I’m relieved that this can be repaired—even just a little bit. The inside is more organized than the outside, but 10d nails stick out at every which angle, and I adjust my posture and stance so I don’t get poked. All the furniture and personal belongings have been cleared away and volunteers are working to tear out non-load-bearing walls. Above us, another group works on the roof.

  I’m not sure what I expected Bennett to be like, but the nerd Inara introduces me to isn’t it. He’s painfully thin, with thick bifocals and a shock of bright-red hair sticking out, as though he hasn’t yet been introduced to brush or barber. He reminds me of what the love child of Chucky and a mad scientist would look like. And try as I might—which I do—I can’t picture him with my mother-in-law, not until I shake his hand and see the sharp intelligence shining from behind those glasses, hear the easy calm in his voice, and watch the confident way he directs the members of his church. Then things start to make a lot more sense.

  “I didn’t know you were getting married.” There’s no censure in his voice, but Inara looks away, pained and stammering.

  “It . . . I . . . I mean, we . . .” She glances at me and I nod, slinging my arm over her shoulder and tucking her in close to my body.

  I straighten and meet the man’s gaze. “It’s my fault, sir. I didn’t want to take the chance sh
e’d change her mind. Plus, with my trainings and deployments, it’s hard to make any concrete plans.” She shoots me a grateful smile for covering for her and lays her hand over my heart. This, I could get used to.

  Bennett chuckles and nods. “I remember feeling like that. The second I met Dana, I knew she was the one. I just wish it could have stuck.”

  Inara tries to slide away, but I’m a lean, mean, clinging machine. After talking to her mom, all I want to do is reassure her. Which is silly, since I don’t plan on “sticking” around long-term, as Bennett phrased it. Still, I can show her that I’m here for now. I tighten my arm around her and stroke my thumb over her arm until she calms, then I lift the dessert pan Mrs. Ramirez gave me. “Flan?”

  Bennett grins and takes the container before putting Inara and me to work on clearing the backyard. When the storm moved through, the heavy rains flooded this part of town and spawned a tornado that left a path of destruction. There are downed trees, broken fences, and debris in every conceivable corner and cranny. A bike is hanging upside down from a now-dead power line.

  Inara takes a deep breath, absorbs the chaos for a heartbeat, and then dives in. Armed with gloves and plastic bags, we spend the first few hours gathering trash and dragging random shit to the dumpster. The sun climbs steadily and I’m sweaty enough to wring my shirt out. I strip it off and hang it over the porch railing, then glance up and meet Inara’s gaze. Her arms are laden with pots and pans that had been blown from the kitchen into the vegetable garden. I’m about to ask her if she needs some help carrying them to the front, but she isn’t looking at me.

  Not in the eye anyway.

  Instead, she’s studying my body, gaze dragging over my shoulders and across my chest. Dipping lower with such propriety that it’s like a physical touch. Blood surges straight to my cock and my stomach tightens with hunger. I stand still for several agonizing seconds, then she glances up at me from beneath her lashes and drags her teeth across her bottom lip.