Her One Best SEAL (ASSIGNMENT: Caribbean Nights Book 6) (5 page)

Bravo, however, picks up on each individual component. He smells the salty water, the riper, greener scent of the seaweed washed up on the sand, fish, and a dozen other things. Probably can tell you where the seagull shit is too, and where the Friday night drinker tossed his empties. Bombs work the same way for Bravo. He picks up on the individual chemical components, and my job is to teach him which ones are harmless and which ones he should alert his handler to.

When I bring him in, he’s practically quivering with excitement. He knows what’s at stake—ten minutes of sheer, unadulterated, tooth-gnawing, tail-shaking pleasure with his favorite red ball. If he finds my explosives, he gets the ball. For Bravo, it’s the simple pleasures in life that get him going. He trots briskly down the first row, sniffing each can in turn. He’s eager, straining slightly at the leash, but he’s thorough.

When he reaches the third row, he sits, planting his ass on the ground.
Bingo
.

“Who’s a good boy?” I croon. “Who knows where all the boomy-bang-bang things are? Yes, you do. Don’t you?”

Trade secret? Dogs like baby talk. Some guys aren’t willing to put out that way for a dog, but I’ll give mine whatever they want. Bravo’s ears prick forward as he eats up my words. I reward him a handful of Kibble from my pocket too. Stuff’s not half-bad, either—yes, I’ve tried it. Not like I want a bowl full with milk to kick-start my day, but it goes down and stays down.

Thirty minutes later, Bravo’s back to his kennel, and I’m confronting Mount Paperwork in Search and SEALs’ main office. I have no idea where all this paper comes from, but it breeds faster than the cats and bunnies Finn brings home. I’m tempted to toss the lot into a trashcan and torch it, but some of our clients enclose live checks.

“Your girlfriend’s here,” Finn drawls. I don’t even have to look out the window to know it’s Marlee—I can hear the annoying squeak-thunk of her bike coming up our road. The bike’s on its last legs, the gears wheezing down the road like an asthmatic missing an inhaler. Plus, this is the third morning she’s “dropped by,” which makes her being here less “I happened to be in the neighborhood” and more routine. Finn sprawls behind his own desk, pretending to type shit on his laptop. While I scored mailroom duty, Finn won the title of office manager. He’s the lucky bastard who keeps us stocked with toilet paper and other essentials. We call Ro the Emperor, Our Lord and Master, and His Fucking Excellency. Usually to his face.

“Order some more of those coffee pod things,” I tell Finn, ignoring his announcement. He’s in charge of supplies, so when the Keurig runs dry, he gets to fix it. You don’t want to piss him off, though—last time I did, he ordered chocolate raspberry instead of regular coffee. After my fifth cup of the too-sweet crap, I even apologized.

“You forgot to say
Please, master
,” he shoots back. The problem with going into business with long-term friends is that they’re
friends
. Finn, for example, knows all about my past misdeeds. When I accidentally ended up at a Miami BDSM club with Brayden Lucas, a BUD/S instructor, I made the mistake of texting Finn. The pictures weren’t my smartest move, either, but I blame the tequila shots for that one. And it’s not like Finn’s a saint himself. Until he met Ms. Valentina Fuentes and she tamed his bad boy heart, he had more dates than a calendar.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” I say, leaning back in my chair.

Finn’s grin is downright evil. “Is she or is she not a girl?”

I’m happy to say that after rescuing Marlee the other day, I’m one hundred percent certain she’s female. That bikini of hers left nothing to the imagination, and I’ve had every inch of her stretched out beneath me. While more in-depth
exploration
might sound good to my dick, my bigger head (the one that better be doing the thinking) disagrees.

“Girl,” I bite out.

Finn grins like the asshole he is. “And is she or is she not your friend?”

This is where shit gets trickier. There’s no actual rulebook that says men and women can’t be friends. It’s just that by the ripe old age of twenty-six, I’ve learned firsthand that friendship is exponentially harder when one friend is the proud possessor of a vagina while the other is stuck lugging a penis around. It’s like we speak two different versions of English, see the world from different sides of the mountain. Kind of like that book that claims we’re from two different planets with about a million miles of empty, cold space between us. Maybe a meteor belt or two as well.

Finn makes a give it up gesture. “Waiting for an answer,” he says.

Fuck. Him.

I go on the offensive. “Are you friends with Vali?”

Finn doesn’t hesitate. “Fucking A we are.”

Huh. Not the answer I expected, but probably one that’s gonna earn him the gold star with Vali. I think he means it, too. I glance down at the laptop. I’m supposed to be updating our website, but the random keystrokes I’ve inflicted on the keyboard have transformed our home page into a mess of gibberish. That’s not a great way to build business, you say? Yeah. Right there with you.

Marlee stops in front of our office and something audibly falls off her bike. She hops off with a squeal of dismay and crouches down, fiddling with the chain. I make a mental note to take a look at the damage. Surprisingly, I like seeing her. She’s on the short list of people I don’t want to murder after ten minutes—a list that normally includes Ro and Finn, although I’m considering booting Finn off. I shove upright and bound over to the door like the best-trained dog.

“Girlfriend,” Finn croons behind me, cementing his fall from grace. Maybe he’s right. Or maybe Marlee and I can just be friends without having sex. Or thinking about sex. Hell. Even talking about sex right now might kill me. I head out to meet her and leave the
girlfriend
comment alone.

Marlee beams up at me. This has the wonderfully unfortunate position of putting her mouth way too close to my dick, and my jeans are nowhere near barrier enough.

Unaware of my looming erection issue, Marlee launches into speech. “Can I buy you lunch?”

My brain short-circuits, not because her question is so unexpected (which it is, but a guy has to eat, so I should be saying
yes
). Nope. I stop thinking critically because all the blood that should be pumping through my brain rushes south to my dick. I blame it on the dress, although I suspect it’s the woman in the dress. Marlee is downright gorgeous. She dresses the same way she talks—exuberantly, loudly, and yet so colorfully and curvy that the inner caveman I didn’t know I possessed demands I toss her over my shoulder and carry her off. Her dress is a hot pink color with thin straps, a tit-hugging top and six wet dream-inspired buttons that march down her front to her waist. The top two buttons are undone, revealing several inches of mouthwatering cleavage and the edge of a pink-and-white bra. Since I’m standing over her, looking down, I have an awesome view of the lace that edges the cups, forming a landing strip for my tongue. She folds her arms and her tits threaten to escape altogether.

I should be so lucky.

She points to a basket tied onto the back of her bike. “I thought we could picnic?”

She wants to eat. With me. Usually, I avoid most invitations the way other people shirk the dentist or the IRS. I’m about to offer her my standard story—paperwork, incoming dog, too much to do blah fucking blah—but she reaches up and pokes me in the stomach.

And barely misses my dick. Not sure if I should be disappointed or grateful. Robin Hood didn’t fuck Azeem, and she thinks I’m too young.

“Don’t say no,” she orders.

Nothing more awkward than an anti-social former SEAL with no manners trying to fill
that
silence. She doesn’t rush to fill it, either—just outwaits me like a genius field commander. We both know I have two choices—cave or lie my ass off.

I crouch down, slide the chain back on the bike, and nod.

Thirty seconds later, I’m sticking my head back inside the office. “Going to lunch.”

Finn laughs and flips me off. Fuck. I’m gonna hear about this for weeks. Possibly months. I’m usually the guy with a dozen different excuses for not going out—and here I am, having a lunch date.

Since it doesn’t really matter, I bring my truck around. Check Marlee out some more as I load her bike in the back. The dress stops a few crucial inches north of her knees. Her legs are bare and she’s wearing a pair of chunky wooden sandals with pink straps. She definitely passes this SEAL’s inspection, although biking in that outfit seems nothing short of miraculous.

“You got a spot in mind?” she asks as soon as we’re on our way.

“Nope,” I tell her with all honesty. “You’re the commander-in-chief of picnic land. You choose.”

I’m curious where we’ll end up. After we leave Search and SEALs, she directs me straight back to Angel Cay. Marlee owns a shop on Angel Cay’s main—and only—street. It’s got to be the pinkest, sparkliest place I have ever seen. The name
Papelier
is painted over the door in curly gold letters. I’m not even sure that’s a real word, but I’m not stupid enough to say that out loud. When I asked, Marlee claimed it was French. Whatever. It’s definitely one of those places that caters to women—she sells about four hundred million different kinds of papers, ribbons, and bows. Balls practically shrivel and fall off when they cross that threshold.

Just when I think we’re doomed to lunch in Paper Hell, however, she orders me to take a right. We end up at the dock in front of her place. Better yet, she sends me in via a small side lane, so we skip Angel Cay’s main street. Not too many better ways to become a sideshow star than parading your usually date-less and morose self down the busiest street in town. I swear the neighbors all have webcams, just waiting for something juicy to happen.

The wooden dock is nice and quiet, though. It stretches away from the strip of sand in front of her house. Must be a hundred yards, although the only occupants I spot are sea gulls. There’s not a boat—or a tie up—in sight. There’s a little gazebo thing at the end with a rather dilapidated roof that needs re-shingling and a wood table. Marlee bounces out there, adroitly sidestepping more than a few missing boards, and unfolds a bright pink-and-blue checked blanket. Guess we’re getting ambiance with our picnic. While she gets lunch out of the cooler, I take a look around. She needs a handyman. Possibly a half-dozen handymen. The sea wall’s not in great shape and her dock needs immediate redecking.

I’m seriously considering grabbing the tools from the back of my truck, when she pats the seat next to her. “Sit.”

Since Finn’s not around to give me (more) shit, I sit. If nothing else, Marlee’s amusing.

“We have plans to make,” she informs me. “Sieges to lay. Mountains to climb.”

“Sounds exhausting, and I’m retired from superhero duty.”

“I’m fixing you up,” she declares more sternly than a nun at Catholic school.

“Is this part of the Robin Hood plan?”

“Absolutely. So tell me what kind of woman you find attractive.”

You.

“I can find my own girls,” I tell her.

“Which is why you’re alone every Friday night,” she says pointedly.

Interesting that she’s been watching me.

“I’m alone by choice,” I counter. “People suck more often than not.”

She hands me a sandwich in a plastic baggie. Peanut butter and jelly. She’s definitely no Vali, but a free lunch is a free lunch. Not like I’d do better. She’s also packed chips, apples, and a six-pack of diet soda.

“Well eat up, lone soldier,” she says.

“Yes, ma’am.” I flick her a two-fingered salute and dig in. Eating with Marlee is strangely companionable. The ocean hits the dock with a rhythmic thwap-thwap-thwap, the occasional seagull squalls overhead, and I don’t feel pressured to make conversation. We sit. We eat. Nothing more.

See? That right there is my fatal mistake. Marlee’s hot. She’s sexy. She’s also gonna be a pain-in-the-ass.

A wiser man than I would steer clear.

After our lunch date, I fall into the habit of running past Marlee’s place. Obviously, I have to run somewhere, and unless doing four million laps around the training center appeals, there are really only two choices. I can run north to the mainland or I can run south along the Overseas Highway. In theory, that gives me almost a hundred miles of asphalt, but naturally my favorite five miles takes me past Marlee’s.

In fact, that’s where I stop and stretch with more regularity than a factory worker punching the time clock. When I hit the third mile, I can see her porch from the road. Set back a good thirty feet from the road in a yard with more flowers than a greenhouse, Marlee’s porch is just a pit stop. I promise. It’s convenient, and I know she possesses no killer dogs and won’t have me cited for trespassing.

The yard is as exuberant as its owner. Search and SEALs is surrounded by palms and sand—there’s not too much variety in our neck of the woods. Marlee, however, has overloaded on color. She’s got a gazillion pink hibiscus and avocado trees. Thick strands of passion vine tangle with everything, the purple and white flowers poking their heads out of every branch. Coconut palms jut up behind the house and strands of fiery orange honeysuckle wrap around the porch railings. She should really cut the vines back, but I know she won’t. She likes the crazy, mixed up, colorful flowers.