Her One Best SEAL (ASSIGNMENT: Caribbean Nights Book 6) (11 page)

She reaches out and taps me on the leg. “My turn. Beg forgiveness… or ask permission?”

“Forgiveness.” I try to think of something to say… something clever… something that will show her she was right to choose me and that I’m more than a pretty package and a convenient penis. But that one word covers it. I’m not much for rules, to be honest, or orders. I took them in the military, but that was for-the-greater-good shit, and now that I’m on my own, I do things my way.

Eventually, we run out of questions and leave behind the last of the keys. No more palm trees or pines now—just open ocean, the sky, and the odd cloud. From here on out, the Overseas Highway is a tall ribbon of road suspended over the ocean on thick concrete pillars. It’s all concrete, steel, and blue, and while it jams up bad when there’s a hurricane warning, today it’s peaceful.

Although we could be in Miami in four hours, Marlee has fortunately decided we don’t need to go quite that far. In fact, as soon as we hit the mainland, she points us toward the closest drugstore.

“That one,” she says, jabbing a finger when we’re almost past the parking lot entrance and the point of no return. Not that I wouldn’t jump a curb for her, but we’re trying to be low key. This time, when we park, I hotfoot it around the truck and almost make it to the passenger side in time to get the door for Marlee. She kind of opens it into me and gives me a look. Whatever.

As soon as we’re inside, she picks up a hand basket, and I take it from her. She’s got me to carry her crap now. I’m no ovulation kit expert, but the stuff going into the basket looks pretty damned random to me. Nail polish. Chips. A pot scrubber. I raise a brow. I don’t care if she buys the store out, but this isn’t what we came for.

“I can’t just put the box in the basket,” she hisses, reading the question on my face.

I don’t see why not.

“You could have sent me,” I point out.

She closes her eyes. “There are
choices
.”

Sure enough, when we wend our way to the personal care aisle fifteen painful minutes later, the shelves offer a mind-boggling array of boxes with beaming babies. You can pee on strips or sticks, and your ovulation kit can come with a matching set of pregnancy tests. Marlee adds a multipack of pregnancy tests. Apparently she doesn’t trust my super sperm to get the job done on the first attempt.

I pick up a box and turn it over. The instructions on the back are printed in a font smaller than the ones used for legal disclaimers. “How does it work?”

I’m always happy to learn new stuff, and who knows? Maybe this won’t be my only close encounter with a wanna-be pregnant lady. Marlee makes a shushing noise.

“I pee in a cup and then I dip the strip in,” she says finally.

Uh-huh. Still, while she examines the boxes as if they’re going to sprout a
pick me
sign, I read the directions on the manufacturer’s display. I’ve defused simpler bombs. First there’s a complicated math problem to determine the average length of Marlee’s cycle. Depending on how many days she comes up with, she starts testing on a different day. It’s like an airport runway, and she’s the runway and the control tower. Guess that makes me the plane.

At some point, I become aware that Marlee and I are no longer alone in the aisle. We’ve been joined by another customer. She looks way too old to be buying an ovulation kit—but who am I to judge? Maybe seventy-year-old women still want babies. Pretty sure I read something on the Internet about that the other day.

“Talk to me,” she demands, and I actually have to look around.

Yes. She’s speaking to me. Do I have a sign on my chest?
Hate people – please come fucking talk my ear off.
She gestures for me to come over, and honestly I’ve taken orders from lieutenant commanders with less steel in their gaze.

“Pregnant?” she snaps.

“No, ma’am. Not yet.”

She nods. “Took me eighteenth months. Three times a day. You have to be determined.”

I look at Marlee, but her shoulders are shaking and she’s determinedly
not
looking at me. We’re gonna have to discuss the definition of
friends
later, because she’s leaving me out to dry here.

“I’ll do my best,” I assure her with all sincerity. I don’t believe in half-assing anything, and three times a day for eighteen months sounds just about perfect. I do some math and decide that, yes, I can absolutely imagine having sex with Marlee more than fifteen hundred times. Might even get a leap year in there if I’m lucky.

“Are you marrying her?” she barks her next question, and I fight the urge to salute. Marriage is not part of our plans. I am a loaner penis, but that is not the kind of thing you say out loud in the drugstore aisle.

“He’s a friend,” Marlee inserts before I can come up with a socially acceptable answer. She looks vaguely horrified—and like she’s contemplating a mad dash to the end of the aisle.

I slide my arm around her waist and go for gold. “Best friends.”

Our elderly interrogator looks skeptical. “But she’s buying pregnancy tests.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say. Marlee elbows me hard.

“For
your
baby?” A wrinkled finger with three very sparkly rings jabs into my chest hard enough to leave a bruise. Good thing Marlee didn’t pick a CVS closer to home—because the volume control on our new companion is non-existent.

“If I do my part right.” My voice sounds playful. Teasing. And… something else. Something I can’t put my finger on.

My interrogator sniffs. She’s definitely skeptical about my paternal abilities. “Will you be a hands-on dad?

“I—”

“Diapers? Midnight feedings? Flu and puke fests?” The questions come at me like machine gun fire. Pretty sure I’m gaping, and Marlee isn’t much better. No wonder she didn’t want to go shopping close to home.

“Stay-at-home spouse, yay or nay?” The old lady is practically on tiptoe now. Cease-fires are negotiated with less attention to detail.

“Lady’s choice,” I return firmly, glad to know at least one answer.

And ding ding ding, I’ve picked me a winner, because the old girl gives me a reluctant nod of approval. “It’s good to do these things before you get all dried up and need a turkey baster.”

She stares at my crotch for a painfully long moment like she’s measuring the level of “juice.” I reposition the shopping basket over my dick. I’m okay with women sightseeing, but I’m getting the feeling this one is about to offer to take me for a test drive, and only Marlee’s getting her hands on my junk.

She’s not done with me yet, though. “You should buy some KY jelly. Maybe one of those vibrating rings. In case you need help getting it up three times a day.”

And with that parting shot, our fellow shopper leaves us alone in the aisle. Thank fuck.

“Do you think that’s personal experience speaking?” Marlee says in my ear. She’s shaking and the vibrations make her tits bounce against my arm. Then she suddenly stops and tears up. It’s like watching a car going ninety down the highway suddenly flip a bitch and head in the other direction.

“I can’t do this,” she whispers.

Um. What? We’ve shook. I’m here buying a goddamned ovulation kit. “You can.”

“How do you know?”

I steer her toward the front of the store. She looks like she’s about to bolt. “You’ll make an awesome mom.”

The old lady has one of the store clerks cornered and is loudly asking for directions to the feminine care section. I kinda like her, to be honest. She’s the type of person who stands up in a meeting and gives the speaker hell—and who also is the first to sign up to bring cupcakes or a pot roast or some other edible fucking thing. Probably owns a half-dozen crockpots, too. I’d invite her over for a beer if I weren’t forty miles from home.

Marlee points in her direction. “I could end up like her.”

“And I promise to still make babies with you.” I pause, and then add a necessary caveat. “Provided you’re still this side of fifty. Even my super sperm would be challenged by geriatric conditions.”

She gives me a teary smile. For the first time I wonder why she wants a baby so badly right now, and why she hasn’t done something about it before. Why did she pick me? I’m hardly the only single guy in the Florida Keys, and we know some of the same people. This isn’t going to stay simple. I wonder if she thinks—

No.

We’re friends.

I’m convenient.

It’s like getting a case of the midnight munchies—except maybe you’re starving—but everything’s closed and the fridge is empty and the only choices are those endlessly rotating hot dogs at the gas station or a dried up doughnut nobody else wanted. I’m the hot dog in this scenario, in case you couldn’t guess.

At least I think I am. I don’t know shit about women and babies. Periodically, I get emails from my crazy pants family with pictures of the newest O’Reilly attached. I send a check and my congratulations, but that’s been the extent of my reproductive contact. Clearly, I’ve got lots to learn.

I grab her things—
our
things—and make for the counter. The store clerk’s eyes look sympathetic as he scans my purchases.

“Sorry, man,” he mouths when he drops the ovulation kit into the plastic bag. Funny, but I’m not.

Not sorry at all.

By the time we’ve driven back to Angel Cay, I’ve come to a decision. If I’m gonna be Marlee’s turkey baster and sperm donor, I want something for me. When we reach her place, I get out, walk her to the front door—and keep on walking inside.

My first impression is that a zebra mated with a lemon and exploded all over her living room. There’s a whole lot of white—white sofas, white walls, white curtains—but everything is black and white or yellow. She’s got a black-and-white rug. Yellow pillows on the sofa. Black and white chairs. And the pictures on the walls are downright incomprehensible. Maybe she’s got a four-year-old niece somewhere who likes to do her preschool art on fifteen-foot canvases, because there’s no other explanation for the ginormous, colorful
squiggles
decorating her walls.

“Come on in,” she says dryly.

I might go blind, but I continue my forward push until I’m standing in the middle of the room. And if my hand’s riding low on her back, rubbing the soft skin where her tank top’s parted company with her shorts, that’s just an added bonus.

“How exactly does this baby-making business work?”

She leans forward. “I’m not sure how to tell you this, Vann, but it’s all about the birds and the bees.”

“Uh-huh.” I can feel the grin curling my mouth. “You’re the flower and I’m the stinger.”

She swats me. “Sex. Lots of sex. We should be shooting for several times a week. If we use the kit, though, we can narrow it down to the best time.” She waves the plastic bag with the ovulation kit in my general direction. “So I’ll give you a call.”

I. Don’t. Think. So.

I’m not dial-a-dick. I require a little bit more effort before I’m putting out. Not much (I’ll be honest) but
some
small talk. A little foreplay and get-to-know-ya before I drop my pants and get down to business. I pluck the bag out of her hand. Who knew getting pregnant was like planning a road trip during rush hour traffic with better and worse times to rev your motor?

“We should practice,” I say to her and she giggles. I fucking love that sound. “Make sure we get it right. When’s the last time you did it?”

“You have an indeterminate pronoun in your sentence, Mr. O’Reilly.”

“Sex. Belly slapping. Hide the salami. The horizontal hula. Any of those ring a bell?”

She taps her finger against her lower lip. She’s painted her nails peach, and she’s got some kind of sparkly diamond flower stuck on her index finger. Bet she’s hoping for a girl.

“Honestly, it’s been a while for me,” she confesses.

Yeah. No pressure there. I’d already figured that much out from her sex-on-the-high-seas crow.

“So we should definitely practice.”

She laughs. “I have low expectations, Vann. Get it up, get it in, and finish. I’ll be good.”

I shake my head slowly. “Not sure we’re on the same page, then, because I operate on a two-for-one approach.”

She cocks her head and looks at me. “Going to explain that to me?”

I tap the end of her nose. “For every one orgasm I have, you get two.”

“Oh.” She bites her lip but doesn’t look put off.

“Nothing to say?”

She sighs. “I just don’t want to disappoint you.”

I raise a brow and, sure enough, she barrels ahead. I like the way she doesn’t hold back—makes me wonder what she’ll be like in bed. Other than fucking amazing, because I don’t need to have her naked to know
that
.

“The last time I had sex was three years ago.”

“Was that the cruise ship shenanigans?”

She pauses. Thinks. “Okay. Two years ago, but I’m not really counting that because it lasted ten minutes, and then he fell asleep and I left.”

“And before that?”

She shrugs. “Roddy and I had sex on Saturday mornings because neither of us had to work and it was convenient. We did it in the same place, the same way, for pretty much the same amount of time.” She looks at me as if she’s about to impart a state secret that could unseat world leaders. “It was boring.”