Sweet For A SEAL - Anne Marsh

I’M THE ASSHOLE. THE PLAYER. THE GUY who gives you a screaming orgasm but not his number or his heart. Never the heart. Hearts are strictly off-limits in my world. I don’t do forevers because my relationships come with shelf lives, and none of them last longer than a day or two. My last date claimed her orgasm lasted longer than our relationship. She wasn’t wrong. None of this explains why I’m

standing outside the zany yellow-andwhite bakery Valentina Fuentes owns in Angel Cay, wondering what she’ll throw at me today. What names she’ll call me. Whether she’ll yell or cry or just slam the fucking door in my face and remind me that I screwed it all up. That from her point of view, she’s the payoff for a bet that should never have been made. Whatever she does, I deserve it because I didn’t walk. I ran like a coward because I was too scared to figure out how hearts worked until I’d broken mine. I want a hell of a lot more from Vali than a Band-Aid, too. I’ve fucked my way through a legion of women since my high school glory

days. Women love a US Navy SEAL, and I loved them right back. Now that I look back, I wasn’t terribly discriminating, but I made sure my partners had a great time. I was Finn Callahan, the Orgasm King. Funny how that’s not enough anymore. I mean, I thought making a woman feel good, making her scream my name because I was that fucking good, making her melt for me, was enough. You see, when I made the woman of my hour forget everything but me, I got to forget too. I didn’t have to think about past battles or shit I’d gotten wrong or how maybe I shouldn’t have been the guy who came home. How there were other, better men

who never left Afghanistan or Iraq or a godforsaken Colombian jungle. I mean, I know how to fight the good fight and give it my all, but if I were God and it came down to picking and choosing, Finn Callahan name wouldn’t be on the top of the Save List. I’d be dead last. So I need to open the door. Stop lingering on the sidewalk like the worst kind of pussy. It’s just that I don’t know what to say when I step through that door. Because when I’m around Vali, I’m not Mr. Sex-on-a-Stick SEAL. She sees through the bullshit and she sees me. And I’m certain I can never be

enough for her. I need to man up. I need to open that door and step through it… pin all my hopes and dreams on the one-in-a-million lottery ticket that maybe it’s not too late. Maybe Valentina Fuentes hasn’t come to her senses, and maybe she’s still sweet for this SEAL.

Six weeks earlier FINN

JESUS. I LOVE MY FUCKING JOB. The dog-training program I run with two former SEALs—and which we christened Search and SEALs—has just trained two new search dogs for the Alaskan Coast Guard. A number of nonprofits train search and rescue dogs,

but we’ve been tapped to add to their numbers, and I’ve flown their newest dog out to them. We may train the dogs in the Florida Keys, but they can handle any terrain, as I plan to demonstrate tonight. Toby and I are working with the local search and rescue team so his new handler can become familiar with his commands and Toby can show off his skills. Toby’s one of the most talented dogs we’ve trained. I may not be active duty military anymore, but I don’t have to let my standards slide. My brothers and sisters are out there fighting for our country, and I owe it to them to do my part at home. I train dogs that save lives,

and I’ve witnessed firsthand what a well-trained dog can do. My dog didn’t save my life every night we were out in the field—but I lost count of the number of missions where he did. I’d be dead without him, and that’s a debt I recognize. Right before we shipped back stateside, we were clearing a village. Place was a maze of small rooms, half of which seemed to be hollowed out of the hillside. The angle of those doorways was such that you couldn’t see inside—which meant the first guys in ran the risk of hitting a tripwire or getting cut down by a hostile with an AK-47. The dogs prevented that. One good sniff,

and Max knew if there were explosives on the other side of that threshold—or humans. If he smelled a threat, he’d park his ass on the ground, ears canted forward as he alerted, his entire being focused on the telltale scent. That night, he’d discovered a tripwire that we couldn’t have seen until we hit it. Fifty pounds of ammonium nitrate would have triggered, and I’d have been dead or missing my favorite body parts. Tonight’s search and rescue is a guy who lives off-grid in the Alaskan mountains near Fairbanks. He’s getting on in years, and the daughter suspects he might be in the early stages of Alzheimer’s. She’d come up to try and

convince him to move closer to town and found him gone. Our job is to find him before he fucking freezes to death or has an accident. I’m not into sightseeing, but my new “office” is spectacular. The boreal forest stretches from the Kenai Peninsula almost to Fairbanks in a ten-hour drive, and everywhere I look, I see trees. Spruce, aspen, and paper birch fill every inch of available space, so dense in places that I doubt anything— let alone a full-grown adult male—could penetrate. Somewhere not too far away, there’s water rushing heavily, and I hope to God the man didn’t fall in and drown. Retrieving a corpse is a bitch. Toby’s itching to work—he wants the

reward he gets when he hits pay dirt. Toby’s particular brand of crack is a bright pink rubber ball. I flash him the ball, and he whines low in his throat, a needy, covetous sound like the way I respond to a great pair of tits. As soon as I give the command to search, Toby works the yard like an out-of-control ping-pong ball. He bounces from house to tree to outhouse, trying to pick up our target’s trail. The scent is everywhere because this is where the guy lives and spends most of his time, but we’re looking for the freshest scent cone. Toby’s onto something now. His head comes up, his nose working as he turns toward the woods. His tail gets

straighter, his muzzle pointing the way to the source of the scent. The closer he gets, the more excited he’ll be. We already know the guy’s not in, on, or under the cabin, because we’ve all but torn the place apart. I learned quickly in Iraq that even the biggest guys could hide in small places if they’re sufficiently motivated, and our target tonight is apparently missing a few cards from his deck. Not his fault and not something to be ashamed of, but we’re gonna take care of him and make sure he’s safe and sound. That’s our job. Toby lopes along steadily, alternating between smelling the ground and the air. The other searchers yell for the victim,

in case he’s conscious and able to respond. The noise also helps with the bears, or so my companion assures me. It’s summer, which is good, because in the winter months they do more avalanche work up here and the clock ticks fast on that. You don’t have much time to dig a guy out when he’s got two tons of snow choking the air out of his lungs. On the plus side, the temperature is still pushing eighty and the sun’s up almost twenty-four/seven. The mosquitos, however, go in the negative column—they’re voracious as fuck. The terrain’s rough as hell—I could walk right by the guy and never know it. We follow faint game trails, picking our

way through the dense vegetation. The trees are close-set, the forest floor covered with scratchy, thick clumps of rose hips. Forty-five minutes into the search, Toby barks, a high-pitched alert. He thinks he’s located our guy. He runs back to me and jumps up, setting his paws briefly on my shoulders as he licks my face. That’s our found signal—every dog is different. “Figures you fucking taught the dog to French kiss,” the guy by my side mutters. He’s former Coast Guard and he’s still learning to be a handler, so he doesn’t know yet what I know about dogs. About how they can save your fucking life and deserve all the love and respect you’ve

got. I’m a big fan of keeping arms, legs, and dick attached to my body, and my dogs have been the key to realizing that dream. “Jealous? Because he’s all yours.” I blow a kiss toward my companion. I’m the pretty one, the eye candy who sweet talks the cops, the marketing firm, the breeders, and the women who come by looking to adopt a dog. My face is simply another tool I use to get the job done. Rohan, one of my two co-partners in Search and SEALs, isn’t pretty. At all, as I like to tease him. He’s a big, dark bastard thanks to a Cajun daddy and a Black Irish mother. Once upon a time, he was the leader of my SEAL team. I

respect the hell out of him and I’d die for him, but he doesn’t get to bust my balls any more, and I think he’s finally good with that. I suggested coming up with an “M” word so that our initials could be S&M, but I was overruled. I suggested Search Me SEALs too. Guess what happened to that suggestion? Yeah. Nixed. Vann, my other partner (both in business and in crime), laughed his ass off at that. Vann doesn’t usually say much, although it’s more a matter of choice for him. He certainly doesn’t waste words. He’d like Alaska, too. The people up here are barebones and more than a little rough around the edges, but

they’re not afraid of silence or hard work. He’d fit right in. My search companion punches me in the arm with a grunt—lightly enough that I figure the blow’s more punctuation than protest—but I don’t see how he responds because suddenly I’m hyperfocused on Toby. Toby charges through the trees, coming to a halt in front of some bushes. The greenery’s probably got a name, but as far as I’m concerned, that mass of sticks and leaves just spells trouble. Our rescue must be on the other side, but I don’t know what we’ll find. Could be a ravine, a hunting trap, what’s left of a bear’s sushi snack… or maybe the old guy’s simply taking a siesta on

the ground. I won’t know until I look. Toby’s trained to find living subjects— and cadavers. And since he doesn’t speak English, I don’t know which he’s found tonight. Two minutes later, I’m peering down into a short, steep gully, and there’s our guy, lying at the bottom. He doesn’t look dead or bear-chewed, which is a good sign. I descend double-time and crouch down beside him. Another plus? He’s not entirely unconscious. “Hostile or friendly?” he growls, fisting my T-shirt when I lean over him. I’m suddenly glad the gun I spot next to him has the safety on. And that he didn’t

think to point it in my direction. He’s also not entirely lucid, either, but I’ll take it. “Friendly. Sir.” I snap out a salute. I don’t know what his rank is, but if he’s served, he deserves my fucking respect. “Rescue mission, sir.” He nods, and his death grip on my shirt eases up. “Good to go.” He will be. I silently make that promise to myself while I assess his injuries and the rest of the search party makes its noisy way down the ravine. They sound like a herd of fucking elephants but, if elephants keep the bears away, sign me up to do some stomping too. Surprising a bear isn’t on my bucket

list. “We had dogs in ‘Nam,” my rescue says, reaching out a hand toward Toby. Toby’s not a fan of strangers, but he lets the guy fondle his ears. “We were told to euthanize ‘em because they were surplus.” I don’t leave my guys behind—and I don’t leave my dogs, either. I tell him this, while the search and rescue team springs into action, splinting and loading the guy onto a stretcher. In my professional opinion, he’s dehydrated, more than a little confused, and he’s sporting a busted ankle, but he’ll be fine long-term. We head back to the cabin, and the

return trip is quicker because this time we go in a straight line. Toby carries his ball like it’s the world’s biggest trophy, and I tell him how awesome he is the whole way back. I’ve worked with dogs for five years now, and they like to hear you praise them. Dogs don’t bullshit you, either. They like to hunt, they like to bite, and don’t ever get in the way of the bouncing rubber ball. They also won’t steal the last beer out of your fridge or bitch that you didn’t call them back or demand you talk them up for anything but a job well done. You don’t have to prove to me that dogs are smart as fuck. When we reach the cabin, a woman

bolts off the porch, running full out toward us. Since the terrain around the cabin isn’t precisely smooth, this isn’t smart. I move forward to intercept her before we’re arranging two medevacs. Naturally, she trips halfway to our happy hunting party, but it’s okay. I’m right there to catch her. Did I mention how much I love my job? Because she’s curvy in all the right places, and she’s dressed for summer. Her thin plaid shirt stretches across her boobs, threatening to pop buttons and spill her tank topcovered goodies into my palms. I take another second to appreciate the washworn jeans that hug her hips and butt, and then I set her on her feet.

I’m totally capable of being a gentleman. “Did you find him?” She latches onto my forearms with a death grip, staring up into my face with fevered determination. Honestly? She could go look. She can see that we’ve got someone on a stretcher, and that someone has to be her dad, unless there are random Caucasian males aged seventy to eighty traipsing around the guy’s back forty. What she’s really asking is if he’s dead or dying, because that’s not something she wants to see, and by asking me, she can postpone any bad news for a few more seconds. “We’ve got him,” I tell her. “He’s a

little banged up, and I bet he’s busted his ankle, but otherwise he’s fine.” Not that I’m a doctor or anything, but I have basic medical field training, and even I know I’m not supposed to list all the other things that can go wrong when you’ve got a seventy-five-year-old man who’s spent seven hours lying on the ground with a busted ankle. “Thank God,” she whispers and sort of folds in on herself. The adrenaline rush is catching up with her, the cocktail of nerves and fears and wishful thinking taking out her knees. Since I’m a gentleman (did you doubt it?), I catch her and tuck my own arms around her. Then I walk her over to meet the search party

so she can see for herself. While we cover the twenty feet to her dad, she babbles. She’s grateful, what would she do without me, and my personal favorite… what can she do to me? Okay. She actually says for me, but it’s the same thing. After we take care of her dad, I’ll get her number and offer her a little professional one-on-one time. Which explains why, even though I’m not active duty anymore and I’m in more danger from grizzly bears than IEDs, I’m never giving this up. I love what I do. The blonde in my arms snuggles closer, and I’m happy to help because I live to serve. Love to serve? Either or both, baby.

Karma? She’s a bitch, though, and she’s clever. I never saw her revenge coming.

T- 2 8 d a y s a n d c o u n t i n g FINN

SEARCH AND SEALS IS BASED OUT OF Angel Cay, one of the approximately gazillion islands that make up the Florida Keys. Rohan argued the island’s name would make a great marketing gimmick. Put a bunch of former SEALs and guard dogs-in-training on a teeny-

tiny tropical island with a cutesy name and business had to roll in. The puppies are cute and business is good. The rest of us? We’re neither cute nor good. We’ve got more of a don’t fuck with us unless by fuck you mean sex reputation. Our part of the island isn’t big, and we own every single square inch thanks to Uncle Sam’s signing bonuses. We’ve each got a cottage of our own, too, because living onsite is easier with the dogs. Almost as soon as I get back from my Alaskan field trip, Rohan calls an all-hands team meeting at Search and SEALs. We’re a pretty laidback crew, but when Ro uses his I’m-the-lieutenantcommander voice, we jump to. Plus, it’s

not like my commute to work takes long —I roll out of bed, grab my pants, and open my front door. Search and SEAL’s command center is forty steps away. I can almost piss that far, although when Vann dared me to prove it, Ro shot him down. Ro’s the dad in this operation— Vann and I are the problem children. Two steps outside my front door, I spot the car pulled up in our driveway. Somehow, I don’t think it’s our usual client—the kind of people who shop for guard dogs, cadaver dogs, bomb dogs… they don’t drive limited edition Astons in fuck-me red. Or maybe we’re expanding and they do. Maybe Ro needs me to make nice; I’m good at charming

our visitors, and he’s not. While I prefer the field training and working hands on with our dogs, I don’t mind handling the client meet-andgreets. You have to woo them, seduce them, make them believe they can’t possibly live without the service you’re offering. It can be even better than sex, but instead of an orgasm, I get money, and that money lets me keep on living out here in the Florida Keys. It’s a winwin situation. When I stroll through our wide-open front door, however, I flip off the charm. Ro’s not entertaining a client, and we’re not scoring new business. I know, I know. You’ve just nominated me for

manwhore of the year, but it’s not like that. Most of our clients are private sector. They find us because they’ve got security problems and because whatever they’re protecting means the world to them. They’re pissed, they’re worried, they’re looking for a four-legged action plan and a safety guarantee they can take to the bank. These men don’t sit back and wait for trouble to shit on them— they take action. They hit, they fight, they blow shit up on a regular basis—and the guy lounging on our office couch is the best or the worst of the breed. Xander Reeves is some kind of fucking billionaire who races yachts when he’s not ruling in the boardroom.

He’s an adrenaline junkie, a treasure hunter, and the best kind of bastard. He’s also a former SEAL with whom I’ve closed down more than one bar, and on the surface he’s a nice guy. Underneath? Pure fucking shark. You don’t mess with him. He doesn’t give warnings. Ever. If you believe the crap the media prints about him, he takes out his competitors with lethal force, like aiming a surfaceto-air missile at a tea party. Boom. Game over. I point a finger at him, and yes it’s the middle one. “Somebody finally decided to kill you.” Xander just grins at me. “Every day of the week.”

Color me shocked. Not. “Why are you here?” This isn’t a bar or a boardroom, and I don’t see his big-ass fancy boat parked offshore when I swing my gaze out over the ocean. If the size of your yacht corresponds to the size of your dick, Xander’s packing a monster peen. It’s an amusing thought, but I don’t feel threatened (Mother Nature having been generous with me herself) and I have zero interest in measuring firsthand. “I bought an island in the South Pacific,” he says, like other guys announce they’ve picked up a six-pack of beer. “I’m setting up security.” “Probably a good idea,” I allow.

“Given your rabid fan club and all.” He bares his teeth. “You should talk.” I drop into a nearby chair. So many counter-accusations, so little time. Ro’s busy drafting something at the computer —probably our new business agreement —so it’s playtime for me. “How about that blonde in Miami? She tried to kill you after you dumped her.” Xander grins. “You know my rule. One night and no more. She wanted to renegotiate the terms of our relationship.” Semantics. The blonde’s renegotiation was all over a gazillion celebrity gossip websites because she went after Xander with a hunting knife

when he was on his way to some big charity dinner. She yanked that sucker out of a teeny-tiny cocktail dress— which made for awesome photos that I enjoyed—and just went for him. Xander defended himself. He didn’t hurt her, but he disarmed her in about three seconds flat, proving you can take the SEAL out of the Navy, but you can’t take the SEAL out of the man. Then he handed her over to the hotel’s security detail and went to dinner. The media loved it. “Twenty-four hours isn’t a relationship,” I point out, because heckling Xander is one of my favorite amusements. He does that annoying eyebrow raise

thing that I’ve never been able to do. “And you’re an expert on long-term relationships?” “I’ve seen them.” From a distance. Ro and Xander snort in tandem and I flip them both off. There’s no law that says SEALs can’t be married. It’s just that most of us aren’t. Part of the reason is the job— when you’re out fighting in the sandbox, you’re not home. Six months or more between stateside pit stops makes it hard to keep any kind of relationship going. Somehow, though, B.B. managed it. He married Stacey and became our family guy, your best bud who shows you four million crappy pictures on his

phone and then is surprised when you don’t want to see one more. We gave him shit for it, but secretly we envied him. He was a lucky bastard, having Stacey on his side and in his life, and we all knew it. I fought for every man in my unit, but losing B.B. hurt even more because when I lost him, I lost his family. After everything happened, the higher ups asked me if I wanted to talk to Stacey about B.B.’s death. I had no idea what the fuck I was supposed to say to her. She couldn’t possibly want the details of watching my friend and teammate bleed out slowly from a gut wound while we waited for the

insurgents to figure out exactly where we were. After I’d pulled what was left of him out from underneath the fucking Hummer, I’d hauled ass into a nearby culvert. We were the only two left alive, and I’d planned to keep us that way. The bastards who’d set the IEDs hadn’t even bothered to conceal their approach. They skidded down the side of the canal, boots scrabbling for purchase on the slick concrete sides, and the need to gun them down was a howl in my head, an ache in my gut. But B.B. couldn’t run, couldn’t fight. Hiding didn’t feel right, but I’d have done anything I could to buy him time for the medevac to reach us and whisk him

away to a hospital where there’d be doctors to patch up what was left. Wasn’t quite sure how B.B. would feel about leaving most of his lower legs behind in the desert, but I knew one thing. His wife would take any piece of him she could get, so I dragged him deeper into the culvert, and I shut the fuck up. For her. One noise and we’d all have been dead. Not before I’d squeezed off a few rounds of my own, but there was nowhere the bullets couldn’t reach us. We’d go out in a blaze of glory, but it would be the period on our fucking sentence right there. It’s why B.B. asked me to take care of business for him. I

thought about it too. I should have done it. Because the man had been running down the final few seconds on his clock, and he’d wanted to make them count. I was too pussy to do it because I was still hoping. Hope isn’t a strategy. I fucking learned that that day. So I sat and I waited it out and I kept a hand over B.B.’s mouth, holding in whatever else it was he’d wanted to say. I didn’t have last words for his widow because I was too busy trying not to die to hear them. When Vann and Ro broke through the firefight and came for us, it was too late. I sat there in the culvert, holding onto B.B. while the explosions rocked the desert around us and B.B.’s

blood stained the metal. It’s hard to forget shit like that, but talking about it isn’t any easier. It’s just not. “Passive observation doesn’t count,” Xander says way too fucking cheerfully, and his comment drags my head out of my ass and my past. Giving him shit is much better than remembering how I failed B.B. “You don’t do relationships either,” he continues. “But I could.” I like to think I can do anything, other than keep my best guy from dying. I bet you think that’s arrogant, but I’m stubborn and I don’t quit. If I really wanted to go steady with

a girl, I could. I’m sure I could. “Uh-huh.” Xander’s grin gets wider, the fucker. He’s really enjoying whatever memories are playing through his head. Bet his mental tape has something to do with those red-headed twins we hooked up with in Miami, because those are some pretty spectacular… memories. Okay. Maybe he’s right. “So you’re saying you could be faithful to one woman.” “Ménage is actually not a weekly occurrence in my life.” I say dryly. Xander snorts. “I’m not talking about a two-for-one special. I mean a special girl, the kind who’s more than a bang

buddy.” It amazes me that Xander’s own dating life is so rich and varied, given the shit that comes out of his mouth. “You think I don’t like the women I sleep with?” Not that my own conversation is so much better than Xander’s—hello pot calling the fucking kettle black—but I’ve never had sex with a woman I hated. Xander eyes me like I’m a particularly cash-rich company he’s just targeted for his next hostile takeover. “Have you ever waited to have sex? Like not put out on the first date?” “Far be it from me to disappoint my lady,” I say virtuously and he rolls his

eyes. Honestly? Why am I even discussing my sex life with Xander? “I can wait.” The rude noise that escapes Xander’s mouth is one-hundred-percent denial. The fucker definitely doesn’t believe me. “If you met a girl who wanted to wait a while before she jumped into bed with you, you’d be able to handle that?” “I can live without sex,” I protest, and it’s true. It’s just that sex is right up there with oxygen, sleep, and red meat in Finn’s Universe. It makes my world go round, and it’s about the only way I get to sleep some nights because B.B. hangs out in my head way too much.

“Prove it.” Xander leans toward me. Shit. That’s his boardroom stare, the hard-eyed gaze of a man who smells money and opportunity. I’m not a multimillion dollar company, so why is he after my ass? Has yacht-racing gotten that boring? “Thirty days. No sex. I dare you.” Uh-oh. The first four words are the bait in the trap—but those last three? Those are the surface-to-air missile that just exploded my safety position. “I bet you a million bucks you can’t go thirty days without having sex.” Fall back. “I don’t have a million bucks.” Shit. I sound prim as a church lady or a debutante.

“You have a share in Search and SEALs,” he drawls. “You bet your share. I bet a million bucks that you can’t go thirty days without sex, Mr. Orgasm King.” “Could too.” Shit. I didn’t realize that name had gone public. Xander doesn’t blink. See? Fucking shark right there. “Not.” What are we, five? No, because then we wouldn’t be arguing about my sex life. “Prove it,” Xander croons. “No one night stands, no seduction missions, no covert ops in anyone’s panties. Do that and you’re a million dollars richer.” Ro chokes. He’s Mr. Conservative—

he doesn’t even buy those scratch-off lottery tickets, claiming that it’s a better long-term investment to put the five bucks in an IRA. It’s nice to know that when he’s ninety, he’ll have beer money, but my plan is to cadge my cold one from him. On the other hand… one million bucks. It’s exactly the kind of crazy-ass stunt Xander would pull. And it’s easy money. How hard can it be to stay celibate for a month? “Bet you can’t do it,” Xander repeats. I know what he’s doing. He’s pushing my buttons, getting me to do what he wants—which is probably only because he’s bored.

I can’t make this too easy for him. The man’s about to part with an impressive chunk of change. “What if I fall in love?” Xander looks unconcerned. “That’s not happening.” “But it could,” I say, just to be stubborn. “You gonna make the love of my life be celibate too?” Xander shakes his head. “You can have sex if you’re in a committed relationship.” Ro makes another one of those choked-up sounds, kinda like he’s got a hairball of righteousness stuck in his throat. Xander grins at me, his trademark, let’s-set-this-place-on-fire

smile… the one I usually see right before we do something completely crazy that gets us kicked out of whatever bar, club, or private party we’ve crashed. “You’re on,” I say to Xander.

T- 1 4 d a y s a n d c o u n t i n g FINN

MY GIRLFRIEND HAD A PREGNANCY SCARE in high school, and after that I suited up. I’ll be the first to admit it. I was a selfish bastard. I could describe the Saturday date night that led to my holding a girl’s hand while we waited for the one-lineor-two to appear on a stick, but you can

fill in the blanks. She’d agreed to let me go bareback, I’d decided that would feel even better than sliding inside her covered with latex (true), and I’d gone for it. Stupid, selfish, self-centered… pick an adjective. They all applied, but I’d learned. Making your girl and yourself feel good counted for shit if you knocked her up by accident. Suit up or man up—my old man made it clear those were the only two choices. I agreed, but I was still damned glad when that stick came back with one line and the girl showed me the door. I wasn’t ready to be anyone’s daddy. It’s a big commitment, and I get that. I’d always had a decent relationship

with my old man, and he’d been there for me. Stuck by my side no matter what shit I pulled. He was a good guy, and I miss him. He went out with no fanfare—just a massive heart attack that dropped him one day with no warning. His death left a hole that I don’t like to think about, although my mom must have felt the same way. A few years after he passed, Mom went on one of those singles cruises. You’d think a bunch of middle-aged singles would be tamer, but the pictures she emailed me were truly horrifying. She did things I’d never even dreamed of—and now I have the images burned into my brain.

Somewhere between Rome and Monte Carlo, she met a retired dentist. Insta-lust, she texted me… and she must have really wanted to tell me because do you know what international texting costs? I see her and her new old man twice a year, but we’re not close. My mother lived for the happily-ever-after, and she was good with a wedding ring. I like to think that being with my dad was so good that she couldn’t imagine spending the rest of her life alone. The dentist was the second-string who got an unexpected chance to play in the big game. Me? I’ve spent a lifetime playing the field (or blowing it up because, hello,

SEALs get the best explosives). I’m a charmer, and I make no bones about it. In high school, when I wasn’t getting in panties, I played football and earned decent grades, but I wasn’t getting drafted and college was a long shot. Then I discovered Uncle Sam. Uncle Sam taught me discipline. Routine. I learned to stick. My other relationships may not last longer than a night or three, but I’ve got my brothers’ backs and they’ve got mine. I don’t need any more relationship than that. Betting Xander that I could stay celibate for a month was risky. I have limitations. My balls are already blue, and they don’t care that a million bucks and Search and SEALs is

at stake. I try to lose myself in work, but two weeks after taking Xander’s bet, I’m slowly going crazy. It doesn’t help that the bastard has taken to texting me pictures of his current arm candy. The girls rotate in and out of Xander’s bed, but he’s definitely not living in the orgasm-free zone. Today’s picture? Yeah, it’s pretty awesome. He’s got one hand on the wheel of a monster yacht (at least I think it’s a yacht—it’s no fucking rowboat) and the other hand curls around the waist of a redhead who’s rocking an itty-bitty red-white-and-blue spangled bikini. Red’s nipples are standing at attention, and she stares

adoringly at Xander. Okay. That part’s disgusting. I wander over to our office, staring at Red. I’m pathetic. And horny. Vann looks up when I come in. “Stay strong,” he advises. Uh-huh. I hand him my cell phone silently, and he whistles. “Xander knows how to pick them.” We observe a moment of appreciative silence for Red’s spectacular tits, and then he looks up at me. “You can’t let him win.” “Not a chance in hell,” I say, way more confidently than I’m feeling. Vann grunts, but I’m not sure he agrees with me. I let it go. Today’s shaping up to be

busy, however, with several active duty BUD/S trainers and SEAL team members stopping by. In addition to training new dogs, we make sure old dogs have comfortable homes to live out the rest of their lives when they finish their service to our country. No one wants to see the dog that saved his life kicked to the curb or dropped at a shelter—and these dogs need a particular kind of home. They have a lot in common with us two-legged vets, if I’m being honest. Bandit’s a good-looking boy. His coat of short, wiry fur is a deep caramel color, and he’s got black ears, a black muzzle, and a touch of dark fur on his

chest. His powerful build advertises exactly what he’s capable of, too. He leans against Ryder’s leg, panting happily. Ryder’s just finished giving the dog a workout with the rubber ball—that fucker’s never bounced so high or so far, and Bandit’s in doggie heaven. Ryder looks pretty damned pleased himself. Ryder plans on leaving his SEAL team as soon as the paperwork processes. Knowing Uncle Sam, that could be two weeks, two months, or two years—it just depends on whether there’s “one last job” for a retiring SEAL or not. He’s an experienced handler, and Bandit was his until recently. At thirty-six, though, Ryder

claims he’s ready to dial it back and try something different. We offered him a job with Search and SEALs. “Think about it,” Ro urges, when Ryder finally gets ready to leave. Ryder nods, his hand running over Bandit’s head. Bandit perks up, as if another game of fetch might be in the offering. “Take care of him for me,” Ryder says finally after a long stretch of silence when we alternate between staring at the dog and examining the beach. It’s kind of nice to know no hostiles will open fire on our asses and that we don’t have to lug fifty pounds of scuba gear up the sandy incline. This beach is simply pretty—it’s not a target. Ordinarily, I

save pretty for girls, but today the word fits. I sense that Ryder will be back for more than the dog, but he turns the conversation to what’s been happening with the SEAL teams. Since we’re no longer active duty, there’s only so much he can tell us about the missions (which is a big, fat nada), but the guys on the team are fair game. Ryder tells us all about the usual shit that happens when one guy gets drunk and leaves his door open and the best of the practical jokes. Cheese Whiz in helmets, steak juice on gear (because nothing’s better than watching all the dogs love on the guy), you name it, they’ve done it and hearing

about it secondhand is almost as good as being there. Hilarity ensues for all, if you know what I mean. In other words? We fucking gossip. Not that we’d admit it, but we’ve got plenty in common with the old biddies down at the retirement home. They keep an eagle eye on Angel Cay—and they call you on your shit. I’m not arguing that I haven’t earned my reputation as a bad boy and then some, but Angel Cay’s old guard has blamed me for misdeeds that never crossed my mind. After Ryder leaves and we’ve consoled Bandit, we head down to the bar. None of us are big drinkers—got that out of our systems early. Now it’s

more about the ritual and feeling normal. We have a beer, stare at the TV, and compete to see who can eat the most free peanuts. Pretty sure the bartender would cut us off if she weren’t hot for Vann. Stupid bastard doesn’t even seem to notice. When the game heads into a commercial, I turn to Ro. “You think I really gotta go a whole month without sex?” Xander and I shook on our bet, which means while I can’t cheat, I can look for a loophole. It’s not like I’d really take a million bucks off him if—when—he loses but, I think he might take my share of Search and SEALs. Business is the

one thing Xander doesn’t fuck with—and not because business doesn’t have a vagina. “Fourteen more days,” Vann adds, as if he’s Mr. Helpful. At least he picked the shortest possible definition of a month—four weeks. Twenty-eight days. Six hundred and seventy-two hours. And yeah… I could give you seconds, too. “Chastity’s not a death sentence,” he points out. Fortunately, Xander failed to include masturbation in his list of verboten activities. My palm time is the only thing keeping me sane. That and my ten-mile run. And that’s not so much about sanity as it is about collapsing into a stupor on

my bed. While sex is great and orgasms are a hell of a lot of fun, they’re also my only guarantee that I sleep through the night. Memories from Iraq visit me like they’re the three ghosts of Christmas and I’m Scrooge. “He didn’t say no sex,” Ro counters, and my dick perks up, which is just wrong. Nothing Ro says should be such a turn on. “He said no sex outside a committed relationship.” Huh. I run the word committed through my memory banks, but the word doesn’t compute. “You could find a long-term honey,” Ro explains, and I doubt the images that pop into my head at the word honey are

what he has in mind. “Have a relationship?” Nope. I can’t quite keep the horror out of my voice. If variety is the spice of life, my sexual spice cabinet overfloweth. Ro arches a brow. “Or wait fourteen more days to get laid.” “Committed relationships take time,” Vann points out. The man was probably a Buddhist monk or an ascetic in a previous life, because he doesn’t seem bothered by the idea of a four-week sex embargo. Of course, he’s also not the one who has to not put out. That’s a key difference. Ro nods, and I have a new target. “How would you know?”

This is apparently exactly the right question to ask, because Ro flushes. This is the man who stormed a hostile beach in his skivvies once because we were under fire, and he had time to grab clothes—or his gun. He went for the firepower, and the rest is history. He never blinked, and he flushed the enemy off that beach in record time. He’s swum through shark-infested waters in the near dark, and he might have knifed one or two of the bastards. So what could possibly make him uncomfortable? “I was married once,” he says gruffly. “Past tense?” I haven’t heard this story. Ever.

Ro winces. “I’m divorced. I think.” I’m pretty certain that you’re supposed to know your precise marital status, but Ro doesn’t look like he wants to discuss it. I consider giving him shit about his secret but decide against it. It’s gonna be real hard to run Search and SEALs if I’m in traction or dead—and Ro isn’t looking friendly at the moment. “Define committed relationship,” I suggest, just in case we’re operating with different mission parameters. Hope isn’t a strategy, but I’m desperate—and horny. “You spend lots of time together. When you go to the store, you’ve got more crap for her in your cart than you

do for yourself. She has a key to your place—and you have a key to hers.” Ro starts ticking his points off on his fingers while Vann nods along like a bobblehead. This key business, for example? Not so difficult. I knew how to pick locks by the time I was fifteen. Now I know how to blow a door open, kick it down, or otherwise get it open courtesy of my military training. I don’t need a key. “You buy big things together,” he continues. “Like a car or a house.” “A boat,” Vann interjects. “Boats count, too.” “You take vacations together,” Ro adds. “The good kind, like the ones

Costco advertises in those brochures they pass out by the exit.” I’m fairly certain he means the expensive kind that feature overwater huts in Tahiti and romantic flower leis and beach dinners. While the sex after that is probably spectacular, it’s also not happening tonight or tomorrow for me. Even if I invited the next female I saw to fly off to Bora Bora with me, it would still take us twenty-four hours to get there—and then I’d bet she’d want a nap. Alone. Jet lag is a killer. “You talk about your bodies,” Vann adds. “Not the good parts—the broken parts. The shit that doesn’t work right, doesn’t feel right, or that you saw the

doctor for.” “None of us hit up the doctor,” I protest. “Ever.” We’re more into duct tape—if you cut your leg off, sever an artery, blah blah blah… you just throw some duct tape at it and problem solved. We’re the MacGyvers of the medical world—we should have our own fucking reality TV show for some of the shit we’ve fixed in the field. “We should,” Ro growls, and he’s not wrong—even if it’s still not happening. “If you don’t see yourself sharing a future with her that’s more than a couple of days away, you’re not in a committed relationship.”

I eye the bartender. She’s nice, and mentally undressing her is loads of fun. And I know it makes me sound like an asshole (which I am—I can own it), but spending weeks or months… let alone years with her? I’m not ready for that. My imagination is way too stunted to entertain the possibility. “How?” I ask him. He shrugs. “You meet the right woman, and it just seems right.” Right. I don’t think so. Not unless she’s Superwoman and a porn star rolled into one. I enjoy that mental fantasy for a few seconds until Ro punches me in the arm. He’s the one who’s divorced, so I’m not sure why I’m the relationship

screw up here. When I tell him that, though, he just shakes his head. “I’m a screw up, but you’re the virgin,” he says. “Not last time I checked,” I counter smugly. In fact, I’m pretty sure there’s photographic evidence to the contrary. “A relationship virgin,” he growls and slaps me on the back. Not sure what that’s for, but I rock forward in my seat and almost spill the beer I’m not really drinking. “You need to pop that cherry,” Vann says way too cheerfully, and I glare at him. “Have you had a committed relationship?”

He shrugs, which I interpret as a no. “I’m not the one desperate to get laid.” “I’ll think about it,” I mutter, and then I hightail it out of there. When the waitress passes me her number on my way out the door, I have to throw it away. I’m hurting her feelings, and it’s all Xander’s fault. This is shaping up to be the longest month of my life.

T- 1 2 d a y s a n d c o u n t i n g VA LI

TREES GROW IN DIRT—THEY DON’T SPROUT out of a perfectly good highway. This palm didn’t get the memo, however, because it encroached on the side of the road… and that’s before it dropped a load of dead fronds. Right in front of me. Any other time, I’d chalk it up to plant

kingdom weirdness, but this particular sighting absolutely goes in my oh chica, no category. Because I’m feet from pile. And still traveling fifty miles an hour. Damn it. Palms whip by my window as I jam my flip-flop onto the brake. The bright blue water that put the Florida Keys on the map winks at me through the trees, calm and tranquil. All adjectives that I’m most definitely not, because my cell phone flies in one direction, my coffee cup heads in another, and I start praying to every known saint. Too little, too late. My VW Bug avoids the tree trunk by inches, sideswipes the pile of loose fronds, and

then I’m flying left, left, left, nose-down into the ditch. Stagnant water sprays up, the car bottoms out with an expensivesounding thud, and my hair flies over my face. Not being able to see isn’t a bad thing—I’ve landed in shit enough times to know I’m in deep this time. I can fix the damage. It’s only a car, right? If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the last eighteen months, it’s what can and can’t be fixed. My phone buzzes with an incoming text. Automatically, I reach for it. Of course it’s Mami. Are you okay? Do you need a doctor?

Mom Radar never breaks. Of course, she also sends me texts like this one almost hourly, which means she’s bound to hit me when things aren’t ideal. It’s sweet. Most of the time. And if occasionally I wish she’d just assume I’m fine and ask about something other than my health or my feelings? Oye, I mentally tell her, I’ve got this. The green ditch water seeping in the crack of the door contradicts my attempts to stay positive. Houston, we have a problem. Drowning in a ditch seems difficult, even for me, but it’s not like I want to chance it. My vision board for this year did not include freakish death by drowning in three inches of

stagnant liquid. Shoving my phone in my back pocket, I pop the seat belt and roll down the window. Climbing out seems more prudent than throwing open the door and sticking my almost-naked feet into the (very) dirty ditch water. It’s alligator season, and ditches in the Florida Keys frequently double as critter nurseries. I suspect my toes would make the perfect gator snack. It takes a few seconds to figure out how to balance myself on the edge of the window because I’m not the world’s most coordinated person, and it turns out I’ve got the shakes—just a little —from my airborne-hitting-a-ditch routine. The window bites into my butt,

reminding me that I probably shouldn’t taste test every dessert that I make. Restraint isn’t one of my virtues. A sharp bark from somewhere above me drags my attention away from my balancing act. An enormous dog bounds toward me, lips peeled back from an impressive set of canines. Dios. I hope that wasn’t the dog’s favorite tree I hit.

FINN WHEN THE PINK VOLKSWAGEN BUG DRIFTS left the first time, I debate honking. The second time it crosses the divider line

and the crazy-leaning palm tree pops into my field of vision, I know it’s too late. I have that all too familiar moment of clarity when time slows down and I can catalog the individual seconds. My memories start speeding up to fill in the wait, images of my last accident flickering through my head. The Abrams in my mental playlist shoots off the Iraqi highway, five-thousand pounds headed for a canal at sixty miles an hour in my least favorite director’s cut of that particular day. As if reading my mind, the pink car hits an enormous pile of dead palm fronds and then speeds up, bumper aimed for ocean and palms instead of asphalt.

Keep it together. Now’s not the time to get lost in my head. The fuckwit driver of the Bug needs an assist, not a former soldier with a bad case of the PTSDs. The Bug disappears into the canal. Mentally, I calculate its trajectory. Four feet down and then another four or five feet of muddy water. The local kids like to jump in using the drainage pipe as a launch pad. When the afternoon temps hit triple digits and keep on rising, I want to shuck the commando gear and join them. No. Wrong canal. That canal’s a lifetime and a continent away in Iraq. The Bug. Keep it together, Callahan. People drown if they don’t get out in

time. I need to reach the canal, need to get my boys out this time. I pull in, throw the Jeep into park, and swing onto the ground. Good thing I took the doors off. It makes exiting that much quicker. Rex One barks longingly from the front seat, and I gesture for him to join me. We’re training him for search and rescue, and he can use the practice. The palm trees rustle as I sprint across the road, scanning for hostiles. Wait. I’m not in Iraq. I’m in the fucking Florida Keys, dumbass. Rex One nudges my thigh, pointing me in the right direction. He’s got his mind on our search-and-rescue job.

“Seek,” I order, and Rex One lunges into action. Unlike me, he doesn’t fucking hesitate. He knows what his job is, and he’s doing it. Pussy. That’s what I am. I force my legs to start moving. I won’t step on a landmine. I won’t find B.B., his legs crushed and his eyes begging for a rescue I can’t provide because I’m a SEAL and not Jesus or fucking Superman. This is a ditch. It’s only five feet deep, and maybe six inches of brackish water floats around the bottom. No dying today. I scan for gators, not insurgents. See? Nothing. I’m okay. The Bug’s driver is already half out

of her car, and she’s also okay. Really, really okay. She’s got gorgeous sunkissed skin, generous curves, and dark hair currently headed in a half-dozen directions from her airborne seconds. She assesses the ditch water like she expects sharks or killer piranhas to launch out of the green ooze to eat her, huffing out a breath as she picks an entry point. Rescue her, I tell myself. Rescues are always good for gratitude—and gratitude can easily lead to sex. A guy can dream, and I’m pretty fucking good at making my own dreams come true. Plus, when I’m having sex? My mental playlist stars porno fantasies about the woman in my arms (or on top of me, in

front of me, or sitting on my face, because I’ve got lots of favorite positions) and not Humvee crash landings. My maiden in distress exhales and intones one of those weird yoga mantras women love, a husky ommmmm that also makes me think of sex. Of course, pretty much every action leads to sexy times inside my head because when my brain’s focused on getting some, it doesn’t have the bandwidth to remember what happened to B.B. in Iraq. Orgasms trump nightmares anytime, and right now I’d really, really like to get my ommmmm on with the woman half out of the Bug. Her mouth is purple, or maybe violet, the

slick color sparkling in the sunlight. My dick immediately volunteers a few really dirty fantasies of what we can do with that mouth. To that gorgeous mouth. Vow of celibacy, I remind myself. One million dollars. Twelve days until fun time. She swings her legs over the edge of the window, teetering as she eyes the dry spot on my side of the ditch. Focus, soldier. She doesn’t have to jump in. I’ve got her. “You want a hand?” I call. Please say yes. And then list your top ten favorite places to be touched.

VA LI THE GUY WHO FOLLOWS THE DOG DOWN THE embankment is something else. I’m honestly not sure what that something else is, but my girl parts immediately volunteer to brainstorm a list. A long list, topped by one word. Spectacular. Any other adjective would be an understatement. My dating life has starred cupcake men—sweet but more icing than cake and nothing that could keep my mouth busy for more than a few minutes. This man? He’s cake. A five-layer, lusciously frosted gateau. He’s big and built, with a muscled body that screams I work with my hands. I can think of a few tasks for

his mighty fine hands. In fact, I practically drool, my brain shutting down and my hormones rampaging gleefully. This guy makes the men my Mami picks out for me look boring. He’s the ultimate baby daddy, even if I’m almost certain he’d deposit his super swimmers and then swan right out of my life. He’s too gorgeous to be a keeper— but he could be a whole lot of fun for a night or two. He keeps right on coming for me after he crests the top of the ditch. Long, muscled legs in faded blue jeans eat up the distance, bringing me closer and closer to a pair of motorcycle boots and a faded T-shirt stretched across a truly

spectacular chest. Frankly, I’m almost scared to check out his face, because how could it possibly be better? But it turns out that his face is the cherry on top of a fabulous man cake. His skin’s bronzed from time spent outdoors, and his hair tumbles about his face in unrepentant waves. That mane of his reminds me of caramel with its streaks of honey and gold threaded through the brown. Or maybe that’s just because I want to lick him from head to toe. He’s the kind of man who makes a girl rethink her anti-one-night-stand stance, and that’s before I get the chance to admire the strong line of his jaw roughened with stubble and the dimple.

It’s not like I haven’t seen gorgeous men before, but there’s something extraspecial about this one. I’d impulsepurchase him in a nanosecond. He doesn’t hesitate when he hits the bottom of the ditch, splashing through the shallow water toward me. He signals, and the dog skids to a halt. Wow. He knows how to give orders, too. I should probably wipe the drool off my chin. He looks right at me. “Are you okay?” Funny how the question sounds so much better when it comes from Mystery Man. His voice is low and rough, with an unexpected but really sweet note of urgency. For all his bad boy good looks,

he seems genuinely concerned. Maybe his insides are as sweet as his outsides. Maybe today actually is my lucky day. But probably not. “Today requires a do-over,” I admit. “Let’s get you out of here,” he says. He wraps his hands around my waist, plucking me effortlessly from my car. While I’m not tall, I’m not precisely small, either, so my girl parts immediately cast a second vote in favor of our rescuer. It’s probably some cavewoman throwback in me, wanting to pick the biggest, strongest, most virile hunter of them all. He scoops me up against his chest and slogs up toward the road. Going for

broke, I link my arms around his neck. It’s that or tuck them awkwardly between us, and I’m selfish. I want to touch him. His skin is warm and shockingly soft where my fingertips brush his neck. He’s wearing a silver chain that disappears inside his T-shirt, and I wonder what kind of necklace a man like this would choose. Cross? Shark’s tooth? Dog tags because he’s actually a Secret Ops soldier on a covert mission to protect the Florida Keys from dangerous enemies? I’ve never been the kind of girl who likes to be carried. I’ve checked the independent female box in every relationship I’ve had. Apparently, I’ve

missed out. Being carried by a big, built guy has to be the sexiest thing I’ve done in months. Years. Of course, given how long my dating life has been on hold, I’m definitely ready for a slice of this guy’s cake. “You’re not a cop, are you?” I’ve learned to double-check my assumptions, and I need to make sure I don’t incriminate myself on the textingand-driving front. He grins and shakes his head. “I was voted most likely to get arrested. No one’s trusting me with a badge.” He takes the ditch easily, even carrying me. There’s a battered, muddy Jeep parked on the highway. The vehicle

has been stripped down to the bare essentials and screams military surplus. This is apparently the white horse that my rescuer rode in on, so now I’m betting shark’s tooth or dog tags for the win. “Muddy,” I observe, because apparently I’ve left my ability to seduce a man with my brilliant banter somewhere back there in the ditch. But honestly? I don’t even know where you find mud in the Florida Keys. This guy’s an overachiever in the off-roading department. “Camouflage,” he tells me. Is he serious? I sneak another look at his face, and

he winks at me. We probably have more national holidays than he does serious moments. Not that it matters, because he takes me straight to the Jeep, effortlessly holding me with one arm while he sweeps a pile of leather bits off the front seat. If I’m lucky, this is a kidnapping attempt, and he’s about to carry me off to his castle for really hot sex. Maybe the leather is his kinky gear, although I suspect it belongs to the dog trotting along next to us. I’d like to pretend that I hit my head, that I’m lusting after this perfectly lovely, gentlemanly guy because I’m temporarily non compos mentis, but this is just me. Even before I had the surgery,

I preferred to jump into the pool of life with both feet. Afterwards, when I was recovering, I just stopped coming up with excuses. Life is short, and I intend to live a lot just in case my time on this earth turns out to be even shorter than expected. So I enjoy the feeling of muscled arms holding me close. It’s not personal (although I might have plans to change that), but it feels good. It also gives me a straight view into the Jeep’s backseat. My rescuer has a box of kittens. The kittens mew and tumble around their cardboard palace, clearly unconcerned by their temporary pit stop. And… there’s a seagull perched on the steering

wheel. Dog, bird, multiple felines. It’s like being rescued by Dr. Doolittle. I check the hot soldier fantasy and wonder if I can get equally excited by a veterinarian. Or a crazy man. “You have a menagerie.” That’s me. Queen of the Obvious. “Bane of my existence.” He sighs dramatically. “You want a kitten?” He doesn’t wait for my answer. Thank God. I might be up for a hot fling, but a kitten is a longer-term commitment than I’m ready for. “Gonna set you down now,” he warns and slides me carefully into the passenger seat. The Jeep may be filthy on the outside, but it’s downright pristine

inside. Even the bird seems to be behaving. “Did you lose consciousness at all?” “Are we playing doctor?” Because been there, done that, and got the souvenir scars. He’s got a gorgeous smile. It short circuits my brain and makes me stupid, which are two good reasons to move away from him. I stay put. “Work with me.” He sets two fingers on the inside of my wrist in a familiar motion. “I’m good.” Mostly. My traitorous pulse kicks up a beat or two because, hello, Mr. Tall, Handsome, and RescueMe is fondling my wrist. Okay. He’s

really checking my pulse, but I already know I’m not dead. I’ve worked really, really hard to stay alive, and a small crash landing in a ditch simply isn’t allowed to write the end to my story. “Shhh,” he says. “I’m counting.” Right. I fight the urge to roll my eyes. He gives me a look that’s part calculating, part playful. Whoever he is, I’m not his first rescue. When he lets go of my wrist, he plants both arms on either side of the door, assessing me. “Any pain?” He picks up my left wrist and turns it carefully. His gentleness is downright cute. I can handle so much more. “The seatbelt did its job.”

“Sore ribs?” He asks and then, holy moly, he runs his big hands over my rib cage. I’m ticklish, and I squeal. Embarrassing, sure, but there’s no other word for it. “On a scale of one to ten, how painful?” Compared to asking the doctors to cut off my boobs for a preventative mastectomy, the mild discomfort in my ribs is nothing. And after watching my sister and Tía Mina die from breast cancer, losing my boobs is also nothing. There are so many worse things that could have happened to me. I could have breast cancer too, for instance. I could be dead right now. Dead’s the crappiest, worst thing

ever, and so far I’ve avoided it, which makes me a total winner. Maybe Mr. Rescue Man can be my prize… He’s staring at me, patiently waiting for an answer. Right. “Do you accept negative numbers?” “That sounds promising.” He grins again, and he’s got the kind of killer smile that knocks me straight on my ass. He’s so alive, his eyes dancing as he checks me out. He knows what he’s doing, too. “Are you a doctor?” “Are you questioning my credentials?” He gently palpates my wrist, but I’m fine. I really, really am. “I was in the Navy. I had basic medic

training.” Dog tags for the win! He proceeds to check me out for broken bones—and I let him play doctor a little longer than I should. I’m fine, but it’s like when someone on the train gets up and gives you his seat because he’s decided you’re pregnant and he wants to help, while you know you’re wearing your fat shirt and ate way too many cupcakes. It would be awkward to tell my sailor that I’m perfectly fine when he’s getting his gentleman on. He’d just feel bad. “Since you’ve fondled my ribs, how about you tell me your name?” “Finn Callahan.” He winks at me and goes back to checking out my lower

extremities. Sadly, he does this in a manner that’s both competent and professional. “Valentina Fuentes. I’m officially a menace.” He looks up at me. “How’d you manage to go off the road?” Confession is supposed to be good for the soul, but I hesitate. As if Mami has sensed that I (or my virtue and her future grandbabies with her preselected choices) am in danger, my phone buzzes with yet another incoming text message. It’s a good thing she has an unlimited texting plan. I scramble awkwardly for my phone, but my rescuer turns out to have far better reflexes than me. He

reaches around me and plucks my phone from my back pocket. “Nice,” he says. I can’t tell if he’s admiring my screen saver (a tenthousand-dollar a night underwater hotel room somewhere in the Indian Ocean because dream big is the new mantra I picked out to go with my new, surgeongiven replacement boobs) or he’s figured out that I sideswiped the tree because I had my eyes on my phone and not the road. I stare at Finn, but there’s only one way to fix this. Confession. Followed by excuses. “I know better. I shouldn’t have been texting and driving, but the road is sand and palms.”

And ditches. I make big manga I’m-sorry eyes at him, and the corner of his mouth curls up. “Honey, you need to learn to aim for the middle of the road better.” The grin stretching his sinful mouth gets wider. I take my phone back and look down. My Mami has texted—again—with a new baby daddy selection for my consideration. Her text includes brief bios and pictures of Bachelor A and Bachelor B, followed by a shameless offer of one or both to me as my future spouse. Polyandry is apparently now acceptable thanks to her hopes of acquiring grandkids and making sure

nothing bad ever happens to me again. While Bachelor B is admittedly smoking, I’m not interested in a longterm relationship. My Mami doesn’t want to hear that. Plus, when she’s not pandering eligible bachelors, she’s asking me when I’m coming home. Home to where there are doctors and family and helping hands. Just in case something bad happens. Just in case I didn’t dodge a genetic bullet with my mastectomy. I love my family, but I need to live my life by myself. I’m thirty, but I’ll always be the baby she bubble-wraps. Most days, I love that she cares so much, but today’s a bad day. That’s when I lean around my white

knight and catch my first good view of my car. Oh. My. God. My poor Bug. There’s a dent approximately the size of the Grand Canyon in the side. How can palm tree branches cause that much damage? My lungs shrink at least two sizes, and I hear myself start to wheeze. I can’t afford to fix that. And as much as I want to pretend I can master the finer points of automotive repair from watching YouTube videos on my phone, the damage is far, far beyond my limited skills. And auto body shops cost more than an illegal kidney transplant. I’ll get a ticket. Or arrested. Sentenced to hard

labor until I’ve earned my freedom. Maybe all three. “Hey.” Finn surges to his feet. He’s really close. “What if my insurance isn’t current? What if my car is totaled and I never, ever get it out of the ditch?” He leans against the Jeep’s frame, his body forming a big, comforting wall. “You’re okay.” Those two words sound like a promise. But I’m actually not entirely sure my insurance is current—or that my car will run when it has all four tires back on terra firma. Like I told him, I’m a menace. A mess. Ever since I lost my

sister and my auntie, I’ve been holding myself together by threads, and that’s made me scatterbrained. Unfocused. I lean back and realize that my tank top is closer to a wardrobe malfunction than I’d realized. The front dips perilously low, exposing a good portion of my favorite bra. After the surgery, I bought all new things for my new start in life. My tank top may be white, but my bra is black satin and pushes my girls up into the sweetest mounds. The commemorative flower-and-vines tattoo I inked on my left boob is also prominently on display, no longer discreetly covered by my clothing. Finn looks. Clears his throat. Looks again.

And honestly? I don’t mind. I like looking at my boobs, too. They’re gorgeous, and they make me feel both safe and sexy, which is a win-win. They’re also completely, totally fake, a masterpiece of implants and silicon over which the surgeon shaped my own skin. I bought these boobs. I own them. They’ll never betray me because the C-word won’t take anything else from me. These boobs are pretty, perfect, and deserve sexy lingerie because they’re my own personal celebration of being in control. Of making the right decisions for my own life. You know what? Finn’s right. I am okay.

T- 1 2 d a y s a n d h o l d i n g … FINN

I NEED TO STOP STARING. Because I’ll be the first to admit that admiring Vali’s gorgeous tits two seconds after I’ve just checked her out for broken bones puts me in pervert territory and closer to losing my bet with Xander than I care to be. She’s got

amazing curves, and she’s sporting ink, some kind of feminine flower thing that’s like a road map for my tongue. I feel like a fucking creeper. Fortunately, she’s still shaken by her near-ditch encounter and doesn’t seem to notice. Doesn’t excuse me, but at least I haven’t freaked her out. “I’m okay,” she repeats, sucking in a breath. That little move just pushes her tits up further. Her bra’s like a shelf or a platter, practically begging for my devoted attention. And I’d be happy to give her bra the respect it demands. Shove the silky fabric down and tongue her nipples. Bet they’d be hard little berries. Bet I could make her like it.

Make her scream. This isn’t helping. I fall back. One of the first things I learned serving under Uncle Sam was that you actually can’t win every battle. Sometimes, retreat and regroup is the only feasible option. This is definitely one of those times. I yank my hands off her and grab the tow hooks I keep in the back of the Jeep. I may also mentally curse Xander and weigh the pros and cons of sacrificing my part-ownership of Search and SEALS. Damn it. Xander’s ruined sex for all of me. Temporarily. Vali eyes the straps in my hand like I’m trying to charm a cobra. “I can call AAA.”

“I’m here.” I fix the tow hooks to the hitch in the back of the Jeep and then head back down into the ditch. Don’t get me started on the car she’s driving, because VW Bugs are definitely not made for off-roading. The back bumper isn’t my first choice, but since she went in headfirst, it’s my easiest choice. I’ll give it a shot and see what happens. I attach the tow strap to her bumper and then climb back out. “Take these.” I set the box of kittens in her arms and point down the road fifteen feet or so. “Stand there.” She hesitates but does it. I send Rex One after her—Señor Seabird has a mind of his own and definitely doesn’t

take orders from me—and then slowly inch the Jeep in the other direction. I’ve popped Hummers out of ditches and rescued tanks from canals. This is nothing. Five minutes later, her Bug is back on the road. Mission accomplished. I kill my engine, get out, and start the process of unhooking the Jeep—and not hooking up with Vali. Stupid bet. She watches me work for a few minutes and then strolls closer. “What’s with all the animals?” “We train dogs for the US Navy SEALs, search and rescue, and various civilian groups.” She points to the bird. “That doesn’t look like a dog.”

“He self-recruited.” And then when she eyes the kittens, I add, “And people think that because I train dogs, I run an animal shelter.” It’s even harder to make the cut as a canine than it as a Frogman. Less than one percent of the working dogs we meet have what it takes. Doesn’t make the other dogs any less, but it doesn’t make them a SEAL, either. “If it walks like a duck…” she says, and I bite back a laugh. “No one’s brought by any ducks,” I tell her. “Although I did have a crate of baby chicks two months ago.” Those fuckers were a bitch to rehome to someone who didn’t plan on

deep-frying their asses, too. She blinks and clearly decides to leave my wildlife issues alone. Smart and beautiful. This is definitely my lucky day. “Were you a SEAL?” “SEAL and a K9 handler.” I’ve fastroped out of a Blackhawk with my K9 strapped to my back. Me and him stepping out of the bay, dropping into the dark, wind tearing up my hearing as I made our way down the line to the ground. “So you’re not a rescue service.” She’s chewing on her lower lip. That makes me think all sorts of dirty thoughts. “I do run a rescue service,” I point

out virtuously. “For dogs. And not on purpose.” Details. I’m more than qualified to haul her cute, distracted ass out of this ditch. I flick my fingers subtly in the sign for guard, and Rex One makes a beeline for her and sits down on her feet with an audible thump. We’re still training him, and he’s got plenty to learn. By the time he leaves us, he’ll have perfected his ninja skills. With Vali covered, I concentrate on checking out her car. There’s some minor cosmetic damage to the front end since cars generally object to being dropkicked into a ditch and a huge dent in the side. Other than that, though, she

looks good to go. Naturally, the keys are still in the ignition. A quick flick of my fingers, and the engine roars to life. Definitely good to go. “Is this where I swear undying gratitude?” She flashes me a downright wicked smile, but she’s playing with the wrong SEAL. “Thank me with a kiss,” I tease, because God she’s gorgeous. “You got it,” she says. Wait. What? She puts her hands on my shoulders and somehow launches herself upward. Honestly, I’m not sure how the physics of it work, but she’s suddenly coming at me, and I’m reaching for her, and her

gorgeous, bouncy tits are flying at me, and I could die a happy man. Who needs a million bucks? Vali wraps her glorious, wonderful, completely off-limits body around my arm and my leg (okay, so maybe I spent more than a few seconds enjoying a fantasy in which she strips off her clothes and thanks me for rescuing her from the big, bad ditch). She smells like vanilla and cinnamon—and chocolate. I have a sweet tooth, and licking her absolutely everywhere shoots to the top of my to do list. She smells fucking perfect.

T- 1 2 d a y s a n d h o l d i n g … VA LI

IT DOESN’T TAKE LONG TO REALIZE THAT Finn may be Mr. Strong—but he’s not Mr. Strong and Silent. Once he starts talking, he doesn’t shut up. It’s not like I’m all that quiet myself, but it’s hard to get a word in edgewise once he starts. Somehow, I thought SEALs were more

the big, dark, silent type. Emphasis on silent—to go with all the covert op stuff they do. Presumably, Finn must possess the ability to shut up when the stakes are high, but he’s certainly not exercising it now. He’s charming, he’s loud, and he’s apparently more than willing to be mine. Imagine that. Instead of wrapping my legs around his waist, maybe I should try his mouth. I weigh my options while Finn discusses my car, his Jeep, the kittens, the dog and —I think—the weather. He keeps cursing someone called Xander too, but there are way too many details for me to keep track of. Putting my legs around his face would be more fun. Fun, but

obscene. I’ve never been a prude, but I’ve also considered certain acts off limits, particularly when I’m in public. Maybe I’m rethinking that position, however, because I rock—just a little—against Finn’s hard midsection, and his belt buckle presses against me in some very naughty places. I’m also quite certain that my rescuer appreciates my position because parts of him are standing to obvious attention. I wriggle, exploring Finn’s… options. He breaks off his monologue. “Ignore that,” he whispers roughly. “He’s on hiatus.” Honestly, it’s kind of hard to ignore

something that big. Also? My sexual dry spell has become more of an apocalyptic drought, and Finn’s the water in my desert. Provided he’s single—and it sounds like he’s currently entanglementfree—he might just be perfect. I can have fun and an orgasm. This is a winwin scenario for me, so I tighten my legs around his waist and settle in for the duration. If I’m lucky, Finn has a very, very long duration. Finn cups my butt with his hands, and he doesn’t seem to mind my weight. I’ve never been tiny, but after my mastectomy, I decided there was zero point in dieting. I ate for three—myself, Tía Mina, and

Bella. That’s a whole lot of calories to enjoy, and enjoy I have. Behind us, I hear another car coming up the highway. Damn it. “You should let me down now.” Finn’s eyes darken. He’s got gorgeous eyes, warm and full of laughter. And heat. Sweet baby Jesus, but the man’s on fire, and not just the part of him that’s pressed against a particularly interested part of me. “You sure?” He phrases his question as if maybe there’s even the remotest possibility that we bang right here by the side of the road. Since public sex is on neither my bucket list nor my vision board, I wriggle. And hello. My ex-

SEAL’s very impressive erection can indeed get better. “Yes,” I say regretfully, because my sexual drought really isn’t an excuse to bounce up and down on a stranger’s penis. “But you don’t want to be,” he whispers against my mouth before I can answer. “And I’m feeling optimistic.” “Me, too.” Dios, those two words sound more like a sigh than an emphatic declaration of intent. Finn Callahan makes me weak at the knees. “But I don’t know you.” The car gets closer and I wriggle. “You probably should get down now.” He doesn’t sound as if he minds

my climbing him like a tree, though. “I’m not really a nice guy.” “You pulled me out of the ditch,” I point out. “That definitely earns you points in the nice column.” In fact, I’d be happy to give him a gold star for his efforts—right on the tip of that mighty fine erection he’s teasing me with. “That was training,” he counters. “I was a SEAL. I rescued people for a living. Like I said, I train rescue dogs. You were a teaching moment for Rex One here.” This would sound so much more credible if I wasn’t treating his penis as my own personal joystick. I lift up and

nip his bottom lip. “Okay. You’re not nice.” I can be agreeable for a good cause. “I’m a serial dater,” he informs me next, his fingers flexing on my hips. His body’s talking a whole different language than his mouth, and I like it. I like him, even though I’ve known him for approximately thirty minutes. He’s sexy, he’s funny, and he’s forthright. “I get it. You’ve let half the Florida Keys take you for a test drive. You’re the island’s loaner car, and you’ve got some mileage on you. I could use a ride.” A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “My God, you’re filthy.” “Life’s short,” I say cheerfully. “I go

after what I want.” He nods vigorously. “I like that.” Goody. Then he’ll like me. I don’t need more than that. Honestly? I can’t handle more right now. My mother’s shoveling eligible bachelors in my direction like there’s no tomorrow, like this is my one and only chance to get married and procreate. Or procreate and then get married. She’s not picky, as long as I get on with the business. She wants grandbabies, and our family’s lost too much for her to be willing to wait. Someday, I’d be happy to give birth to a Mini Me, but right now my priority is remembering that I’m alive. Not dead. I’m the survivor, the one who made it,

and too many mornings that fact seems surreal. My mother’s procreation mandate aside, banging on the side of the road in broad daylight is too much even for me. Plus, I like my creature comforts. Creative sex is fun, but it’s usually uncomfortable (although in the best possible way). Reluctantly, I unwrap myself from my rescuer’s waist. Finn steadies me. “Done with me?” I wink. “Do you really want me to lick you all over right here?” The bemused look on his face is cute. “But I’m happy to buy you a drink first.” I cut him off before he can answer my question, and then I lean up and kiss

his mouth, quick and hard, because I just can’t resist. He’s like a cake with chocolate frosting—I have to steal a taste. “When you’re ready to go the distance, come find me.” He nods, but whatever he says is drowned as the car whips past us and disappears up the highway.

FINN Vali hops down and gets back in her car. My gut twists as she drives off with a wave of her fingers. She’s a force of nature, but she could have died. Even

though the ditch isn’t that deep and drowning is almost impossible unless she’d ended up face down in the water, no accident is risk-free. I know that better than anyone. Since sex by the roadside is out of the question thanks to my celibacy bet, I follow her down the road, making a note of where she turns. She lives on the main part of Angel Cay. When I pull up, Rohan strolls out to meet me. “You’re late.” He’s not wrong, but today’s excuse is ironclad. Hello. I had a damsel in distress to rescue. I look him straight in the eye. “I had to make a Mr. Fix-It pit stop.”

Rohan arches a brow. I swear he practices the move in the mirror because he effortlessly conveys incredulity, control, and an annoying degree of arrogance with the gesture. I’d like to ignore him, but he’s not moving. He crosses his arms over his chest. “Tell me you weren’t banging some chick you just met. I don’t want Xander to be my new partner.” Frigging saint. I know how to win my bet, and he doesn’t get to ride my ass about my personal life—and Vali and I weren’t banging. Just because her pussy made contact with my dick—through three layers of clothes because I go commando and she doesn’t—doesn’t

make us lovers. Not yet. Per my bet with Xander, I’m taking this slow—or at least slower. I’m getting to know Vali, and I’m keeping myself open to a relationship. Honestly? It’s a little weird. So I shrug and give Rohan part of the truth. “I pulled a lady out of a ditch.” My sex life is legendary. Rohan nods. “Then you’re ready to talk business now?” “To be fair,” I point out, “rescuing people is our business.” Rohan gives me a look that says he doesn’t appreciate my distinction. He likes to be in charge. He was our SEAL team leader, and he’s good at giving

orders. Fair, practical, good at sizing up the big picture in seconds and making life and death decisions. He’s had a hard time adjusting to the more democratic aspect of running a business with Vann and I. He uses the words anarchic, chaotic, and fucking free-for-all more often than not. I figure I’ll train him the same way I would a recalcitrant dog. Ro looks down at my dog. “He’s tired,” he says. Rex One lolls happily by my feet. “I told you. He got some practice in today.” I reach in the backseat of the Jeep and snag the box of kittens. It’s not my problem if Ro insists on maintaining his skepticism about my morning

activities. Since I don’t have to torture Ro, however, I follow him inside the bungalow that serves as the front office for Search and SEALs. The front side is all glass doors, and Ro has them folded open so the ocean breeze runs straight through the room. The salt air’s probably hell on our hardware, but the sea smells good. This bungalow is where we ink our deals. We’ve got three desks, a bunch of over-the-top floral chairs from Pier One that Ro’s sister shipped us the last time she redecorated, and a Keurig. Vann insisted on upgrading from a standard Mr. Coffee, and those pods are crack.

I’ve barely stowed my box of kittens on the nearest desk when Vann wanders in. His gold-brown hair stands on end like he’s run his fingers through it—or, more likely, gone for a swim and not bothered with a comb. After we parted ways with Uncle Sam, he let his hair grow. Not my business. He’s got scruff on his face, too. One of my ladies described him as a Viking warrior. Personally, I think he’s more Neanderthal, but whatever. He grunts a hello as he paces inside, then halts besides my box of kittens. “Jesus,” he announces, and he’s not talking about the Second Coming or offering up prayers.

“Found ‘em,” I tell him. “In the back seat of my Jeep.” I’d gone out to the cay where a pretty female voice had called in the box of abandoned animals. She had my number, implying I’d given it to her at some point in the past. And… I’m desperate. I’d figured that if she was single, I might consider extending my dating shelf life. Since Karma wasn’t done torturing me, I’d found no one, female or otherwise, when I’d reached the address the caller had left. While I’d been answering nature’s call, however, someone (probably my female someone) had slipped the box into the Jeep. Since Rex One was okay with it, I probably know

her, too. “Thought you usually found panties,” Ro grunts. He doesn’t look surprised, though. Not really. Apparently the other residents of the neighboring cays have decided that “canine trainer” is a synonym for “animal rescue.” We’ve inherited every unwanted, abandoned animal in a fifteen-mile radius. It never fails to amaze me how many people are dicks when it comes to the animals that depend on them. Rohan groans. “Those things multiply like bunny rabbits.” He’s not wrong. “We’ll re-home them.” Women like kittens. Women like me.

You can do the math, right? I leave, the kitten stays, and we all live happily fucking after. Vann heads for the Keurig and pops a fresh pod in. “Tell us about the bonus rescue.” “Car went off the road in front of me. I stopped and pulled the driver out of the ditch. It’s called common courtesy.” I have to try, right? My boys will give me endless shit otherwise. Rohan smacks me on the back. “Now give up the part you’re not telling us.” “You’re ganging up on me?” I explain my thoughts on that with my middle finger. Vann responds in kind before adding

his two cents. “You’re the one holding out. If you put out, we’d shut up.” “She went off the road in front of me. Reminded me of B.B. No big deal.” Vann looks over at Rohan, and the two of them share some kind of unspoken communication bullshit that doesn’t give them the right to get in my face about things. I’d rather focus on work. We train rescue dogs. We track down lost hikers, missing beach bums, and AWOL toddlers—and that stuff matters. The Technicolor replay in my head doesn’t. “Flashbacks.” Vann is so not shocked by my disclosure. “You should see someone.”

Not a chance in hell. “Keep the save for someone who cares.” Vann deflects for me. “Who’d you rescue?” “Valentina Fuentes. You know her?” Casual. That’s me. The Florida Keys cover a significant amount of territory. Between the cruise ship visitors, the regular vacationers, and the seasonals, there are plenty of faces I don’t recognize, but there’s no way I’d forget someone like Vali. Vann shrugs. “Do I look like the Welcome Wagon? Is she hot?” Very. “Does it matter?” “You pulled her car out of the ditch. You’re asking about her.” Rohan ticks

the items off on his fingers. “I’m thinking the answer is yes.” “I’d have stopped and helped anyone.” “That’s a yes,” Vann says to Rohan. “I know who she is,” Rohan says slowly. “She has a candy shop.” That’s a new one. Rohan tosses a flyer in my direction. Bee Sweete is located on Gabriel Street and sells homemade candies, taffies, and petit fours (whatever the fuck that is, but it has to be edible, right?). There’s also a thirty percent off discount coupon. Nice. Ro smirks. “Feel free to go shopping, but you might want to try the shrink first,

though.” Vann snorts. “We both know the only person dumbass here is interested in seeing is Vali.” I flick them a two-fingered salute and stand up. There’s nothing any doctor could do for my screwed up head. The memories are something I need to work through on my own or learn to live with. “Anyone feed Captain Benny today?” The old vet had come with the property. He’d been squatting, sleeping in an old toolshed behind the kennels when it rained. Otherwise, he slept on the beach. Walls and Benny are apparently incompatible. It’s sure not my place to judge, but he isn’t going hungry

on my watch either. The three of us worked that out with Benny after we figured out why our coffee kept disappearing between the hours of four and six a.m. Ro eyes the Keurig. “He had coffee.” Which is great—I’d never deny a fellow veteran his hit of caffeine—but Benny needs protein. I grab the sandwich, chips, and soda I picked up earlier. Benny’s a problem I can fix. Feed him, and he’s happy.

T- 11 d a y s VA LI

THE GIRLFIENDS AND I HAVE A STANDING yoga date on a tiny sliver of beach in Angel Cay. The first time I texted Mami about the girlfiends, she called me out on my spelling. The name’s not a typo. It’s the truth. I love Marlee and Ava, but they’re no angels. Witness the fact that

they’ve got me doing yoga. I’m reasonably fit, but God did not gift me with a body that bends easily, and the pretzel positions required by our sessions make me think fondly of a medieval torture rack. The idea was originally an alcohol-fueled New Year’s inspiration—where alcohol replaced reason—although now it’s a weekly tradition. Our beach is a skinny strip of creamcolored sand. If we overextend, our feet get wet, but we’ve got the entire Gulf of Mexico to stare at and forty minutes to work the day’s kinks out of our bodies and swap stories. “I heard you got rescued by a SEAL.”

Ava drops her yoga mat onto the sand. She tops me by a good six inches. With her sleek physique and high cheekbones, she could have been a model, but she’s a lawyer instead. A really good, really expensive one. She works remotely four days a week and drives into the mainland the fifth. She’s classy and expensive, but she’s also always good for a raunchy joke. To go with her auburn hair, she has a smattering of freckles she covers up religiously. Freckles are cute, she says, and there’s nothing cute about the way she practices law. She’s got a point. Marlee frowns. “I heard she smashed up her car.”

Marlee tried to call me last night repeatedly, but I’d already retreated to my bathtub with a book in the hopes of drowning out the day’s sorrows. Or fantasizing about Finn Callahan. I shamelessly ducked my friend’s calls (she’s determined when she’s worried) in favor of some personal time alone with my newest book boyfriend and a little drooling over Finn. Frankly, when my doorbell rang last night, I’d expected to find Marlee standing there. Instead, I’d found kittens. Two kittens, an enormous box of kitten supplies, and what looked suspiciously like a lipstick kiss on a gas station receipt. The “note” simply said Finn,

and nothing more. The guys my Mami picks out carry flowers—Finn brought fur, rang my doorbell, and ran. It’s cute and irritating at the same time. They both look at me expectantly, and I blow out a sigh. “A little from Column A, a little from Column B.” Marlee and Ava exchange glances. Marlee’s the mother hen in our group, hence her multiple calls last night. She’s got curls that won’t quit and that she’s chopped off at shoulder-length—and brown eyes and the biggest smile ever. You look at her and you want to smile back—she’s like happy on legs. Marlee gives me the once-over. “She looks okay.”

“Because I am.” I lower myself onto my mat. Maybe I should take up swimming. The pro is that it involves less talking—but the con is that it requires the regular wearing of a swimsuit. “Because if you weren’t,” Ava adds, “and you didn’t call us, we’d have to kill you.” “Duly noted.” I plant my phone in the sand, cue up Yoga Bitch, and tap play. Her way-too-cheerful-and-serene voice floats out of the little speaker, instructing us to center ourselves and assume the first position. “He kitten-bombed me,” I share eventually.

“Do tell.” Ava contorts into an extended triangle. Her arms line up in perfect symmetry, her legs planted deep into the sand. My triangle looks more like a mutant eggplant, but I award myself points for trying. “He rang my bell and dropped a box of kittens on my doorstep.” My left knee shakes violently, unhappy with its current position. “Unconventional,” Marlee says happily. I make a mental note to find Finn and tell him Marlee’s up for adopting the rest of the box. Personally, I’m totally unprepared for parenthood, even if I’ve become a cat momma to two stripey orange tiger kittens instead of a

baby. After we’ve moved through a few more poses, Ava smacks me on the butt. “I’m still waiting for the man candy details.” “The talking points are simple. I sideswiped a tree, did my best Evil Knievel impression into a ditch, and then got winched out of said ditch by a sexy former SEAL. One Finn Callahan.” “She took time to appreciate the landscape,” Ava stage whispers to Marlee. “It’s hard to overlook someone that big,” I protest. And honestly? Finn is really fucking glorious, although he does have at least one serious character flaw

since he’s a sneak kitten donor. “He’s single,” Marlee announces. “Never married and not currently dating anyone. He’s a serial dater, however, so his relationships almost always end at the twenty-four-hour mark. He doesn’t go back for seconds.” She sounds apologetic, but I think Finn actually sounds kind of perfect. He sounds like fun, fun enough that I’m willing to rethink my position on quickie hookups. “So unless you used up your Finn quota already, you should be in for a good time.” Ava looks thrilled for me as she contorts her body into yet another pretzel shape I’ve never managed to

assume. Parts of me are really inflexible. “It was embarrassing.” Or it should have been, but I’ve given up on being embarrassed. Life’s too short to obsess over my mistakes. “Give examples,” Marlee says. “Okay.” I push up into a downward dog. We’re supposed to be getting in touch with our inner zen or some such, not talking, but Marlee’s flexible on the rules. So I admit the truth. “I flashed him my bra.” “A good one?” Marlee looks hopeful. “Black satin. It shoves my girls up to here.” I gesture with my hands. “He was definitely looking, but my new boobs are

spectacular, and that bra serves them up like cookies on a plate.” Both Marlee and Ava know about my preventative mastectomy and how I’d opted to have my boobs surgically removed rather than run the risk of developing breast cancer like my auntie and my sister. When I’d told them over margaritas, Ava had nodded and said it was like taking back two personal-size watermelons to the Piggly Wiggly because the fruit was rotten—and walking out with full-size replacements. I’ve got mastectomy scars underneath my boobs, but the scars fade more with each month, as does the fear that I’ll get The Call from my doctor saying that despite

the radical measures I took, it’s my turn to face down cancer. I’m happier having done something to stop it. “Did he touch? Drool? Salivate?” Ava asks. She believes one hundred percent in the replacement boobs— which makes the truth even sadder. Finn one hundred percent did not touch my boobs. “He got the tow hooks out of his Jeep and fished my car out of the ditch.” Ava huffs in disbelief, and we switch to another impossible position. I can feel the burn starting in my calves and my butt. “At least he’s practical?” Even Marlee sounds doubtful, though.

“While he gets my car out of the ditch, I admire his kittens, and then we talk about his job. Then one thing leads to another—” both Marlee and Ava snort, which is a feat considering our upside down positions—“and I scale him like a tree.” “I’ve seen Finn,” Ava observes. “I don’t blame you. He’s gorgeous.” He is, which is why I come clean with the truth. “It’s been a while since I dated. Like, longer than before I moved to Angel Cay.” Marlee turns her head. She’s got to be the only person I know who’s coordinated enough to do yoga with head gestures. “Define dated.”

“Or is that code for had an orgasm?” Now Ava looks interested. I hate discussing my sex life—I’d much rather be having sex. I hate breast cancer. I hate being unsure of my new body. I hate guys who are clearly into boobs and will know the difference between a real pair and my fakes. None of which matters, because Finn hasn’t actually asked me out. He helped me out of a jam, which I appreciate. “I’ve been flying solo since B.C.,” I say. B.C., or Before Cancer. That’s the event horizon dividing my life, the marker. If life is a beach, cancer is the place where I drew a line in the sand and dared the waves to erase it. And

when the waves did, I re-drew it. I’m not quitting now. “Is this a lack of opportunity thing,” Ava asks, “or is it an I don’t feel like riding the horse thing?” Ava doesn’t judge, and I’ve never appreciated that more. If I announced plans to take vows and move to a nunnery, she’d help me sell my stuff to raise funds for the poor and then she’d drive me to the front door herself. Likewise? If I needed help staging an orgy, she’d volunteer as my right-hand gal. She’s all about what her friends need. I had a perfectly normal sex life before breast cancer decided my family

should earn frequent flyer miles with the doctor’s office. Afterwards, I was tired. I was sore. I didn’t feel sexy, and I had a million good reasons to avoid jumping into bed with some random guy. It’s frustrating because this shouldn’t be so hard. It’s healthy to want to have sex. It’s been months. I’m supposed to be normal now. I’m supposed to be living my life, grateful for my second chance to be alive. And yet I still can’t let go of the past. I’m tired of pretending that everything’s fine, that nothing’s changed about me but my cup size. That I’m not missing people and their absence hasn’t emptied me out inside. I’m alive, but

some days it only feels like I’m half here, no matter how hard I try. We move through the next sequence. Planks are vicious. For long, wonderful, muscle-burning seconds all I can do is concentrate on the painful quiver in my arms and the ache in my midsection. I count and hold and that’s all. “But you’re fine,” Marlee says quietly when we collapse onto the sand. Yoga always looks so serene and peaceful, yet I always end up with shaky legs and sweating. At least it counteracts some of the two million calories I ingest at work. Ava lies back on the sand, squinting up at a palm tree. “Go out on a date. You

don’t have to have sex or wild monkey sex. Just a meal and some drinks with a penis-owning member of the human race. Can you do that?” She makes it sound simple. I flick sand at her. “Of course. And just for the record? I’ve got nothing against wild monkey sex. If your penisowning member of the human race is hot, I’m down with it.” It’s like eating dessert first, before you eat your vegetables. I’m not ready for a long-term relationship, but I’d like something sweet. “Lack of opportunity,” Marlee muses. I can practically hear her flipping through a mental Rolodex of men.

“You need a starter man,” Ava announces. I have no idea what that means. She looks at my blank face and grins. “An easy guy,” she explains. “Someone who isn’t complicated. Someone fun and undemanding who will put out if you want him to. Good in bed is a must.” “You want her to call an escort service?” Marlee reaches for her phone, probably ready to research and produce a rental man for me ASAP. Ava’s own dating life is screwed up beyond belief, but she’s fixing mine whether I want it fixed or not. “She’s already got a guy on the hook. Use Finn,” she says, winking at me.

The thing is? Finn fits the bill. He’s gorgeous, he’s funny, and I’d bet every dollar I own that he’s good in bed. Phenomenal. The kind of guy you reminisce about for years and who sets the orgasm bar impossibly high for everyone else. Granted, he doesn’t seem to possess a filter and he says whatever comes into his head, but I just want to borrow his penis. And possibly several other parts of his mighty fine anatomy. “Dating him would be one way to get my Mami to back off.” The words come out part laugh, part serious, but the truth is… she would stop sending me dating possibilities if I had someone of my own.

“Hot hook up sex,” Marlee encourages. “Just to make sure everything’s still in working order. Think of it as practice for later. You wouldn’t run a marathon without doing a few sprints or three-milers, right?” “Mami wants me to get married,” I admit. “So?” Ava is ever practical. “You’re the one who has to say ‘I do.’ She can want, but it’s your call.” She’s not wrong. It’s just that Mami’s lost even more than I have—a sister, a friend, a daughter. It’s not so much a question of replacing them—that’s impossible—as it is of filling in the holes created by their absence. Of giving

herself something and someone else to live for. I don’t blame her for wanting to see me married. Wanting to see me happy. I brace myself for the feedback. “If I agree with you, are you going to be my procureress?” Marlee laughs and flips me the bird. “You’ll find your own guy. I’m just saying that maybe someday you will want to get married or have a long-term relationship—and you don’t go into that cold. Practice makes perfect, and you can practice on Finn.” “What if he’s not interested?” Shoot. I can hear myself caving. Ava eyes my new tatas. “Boyfriend’s

got eyes.”

SOMETIMES I LIKE TO TAKE A MOMENT TO just breathe. In and out, sinking into the familiar rhythm I took for granted right up until the day the doctors called it all into question. Letting Tía Mina and Bella go was like that, a long moment of watching for the next breath that never came. It seemed so simple, and yet it was the hardest thing I’d ever done because there was nothing I could do to hold my sister to me. So now I breathe for her, letting the rich scents of chocolate and vanilla fill my lungs.

Bella would have loved Bee Sweete. The building reminds me of gingerbread, the outside a delicious gold color with white curlicue trim. There are two stories, which means I have an apartment above my shop and a balcony from which I have a ringside seat of the nothing that happens in Angel Cay. It’s fabulous, and the slow pace is fine since I do most of my business online. I also stock my candies in the Key West shops that the cruise ship guests visit when they’re in port, which is a win-win situation. Bee Sweete has a small commercial kitchen tucked behind its even tinier storefront. I keep a pair of elaborate

wrought iron tables and chairs on the sand outside the door beneath my very own palm tree. If you tilt your head and squint, you can even see a slice of the Gulf of Mexico through the buildings while you eat. In addition to the candies, I sell teeny pots of sweet puddings and flans made from pureed fruits and topped with golden caramel and mint leaves. There are trays of custards flavored with vanilla scraped from beans, egg yolks, and sugar. When it gets hot out (which is almost always in the Florida Keys), I sell fruit ices and sorbets, mango and ginger with the tart bite of lime. And anything that isn’t frozen goes into the

stack of pretty pink boxes and ribbons I keep by the counter. Look good, taste good. That’s my motto. The bell on the door tinkles, and I step out of the kitchen to greet my first customer of the day. Captain Benny comes in every morning. He looks older than he probably is. He’s as grizzled as Methuselah and walks with a noticeable lurch in his step. Part of that is because he got shot in ‘Nam—and part of that is because he’s three quarters of the way to drunk, even though it’s not yet noon. He’s willing to admit to the first reason, but the second is apparently a state secret. Or so he told me, and I pretended to believe him. His eyes are even older

than his face, but he’s always got a smile for me, and a girl can’t have too many smiles in her life, even if the smiler makes zero sense most of the time. I pull out a box and grin right back at him. “What’ll it be today, Captain?” He’s just picked out his treats when the door opens again and my shop shrinks. Finn is standing on my doorstep. The captain leans in to greet the new arrival, and I’ve got to hand it to Finn. He doesn’t flinch. The captain is none too sweet smelling, and that’s before he drank himself halfway to silly this morning. He’s a good man, but he has his issues, like we all do. “Good morning, Captain,” Finn says,

saluting. The captain salutes right back. “Vets get free candy,” he stage whispers loud enough to be heard at the other end of Angel Cay. In case Finn needs proof, he points to the handlettered sign I constructed with a Sharpie and printer paper when it became clear the captain owned nothing but his pride. VETS EAT FREE. “Good to know.” Finn prowls toward the counter as I box the candies and then holds the door for the Captain, who shuffles out with his loot. The sound of a delivery truck backfiring on the street makes me jump. I’ve lived too long in Miami, because the sharp crack immediately makes me wonder who’s

shooting. The sound is gun-loud, entirely out of place on peaceful Angel Cay, and I’m embarrassed to admit that it startles me. Oye. I’m not the only one who notices. Finn freezes. His fingers tighten on the door, the bell vibrating like mad as some inner tension communicates itself from Finn’s white-knuckled grasp. When he doesn’t let go, I start to worry. “Finn?” I ask. He doesn’t move. “Are you okay?” I hate being asked that question myself, swore I’d never do it to anyone else, but… he doesn’t look okay. I lift up the counter and step toward him. Bee Sweete is small.

Downright tiny, in fact. It takes me precisely two steps to reach Finn and touch his arm. I can’t quite keep myself from admiring his arm—he’s rock hard and warm. Wherever his head is, his body’s right here. Ava’s words pick this moment to replay through my head. Practice on Finn. And I totally would, but he seems to have checked out. His eyes are open though, looking around the store. “Finn?” He sucks in a deep breath. “Yeah?” His voice comes out rough and low. “You’re okay,” I tell him and then— stupidly—I pat his arm. “You got a place where I can wash

my hands?” He still sounds hoarse—and a million miles away. I’m not going to ask him where he is in his head. Sometimes, when shit’s gone wrong or gotten broken, you just don’t want to talk about it. Instead, I curl my fingers around his and tug him into the back. He lets me. Silently, I point him toward the sink, and he runs the water, meticulously washing his hands. Front, back, and then each knuckle one by one. Then he does it again. While he does that, I get him a glass of cold water. I don’t usually make small talk. I love a good conversation and have plenty to say, but I don’t need to fill in the silence with an endless stream of babble. And

Finn can usually outtalk the both of us, but he’s still trying to pull himself together. It’s awkward and weirdly intimate, which explains why I throw myself into the conversational breech. “How do you know the captain?” There’s a long pause, and then Finn shuts off the water. “He lives in a shed on our property.” The ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “But only when it rains. He’s more of an outdoor man. He doesn’t like walls.” The captain is a vet. An old guy. And he’s homeless. I mean, I’d kind of figured that out for myself, but now I’ve got confirmation. I open my mouth because there has to be something I can

say, but Finn tears off a piece of paper towel, dries his hands, and starts talking again. “He’s happiest that way. Some guys never come home all the way, and he won’t go without. We’ve got his back.” Something tells me that Finn knows what he’s talking about. “If I can help, tell me.” He nods. “Does he come here often?” I feel my mouth curve in a smile. “Every morning, like clockwork. The captain has a sweet tooth.” “Did you make that sign just for him?” I haven’t known too many people who’ve served in the military, but that

doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate what they’ve done. “You think he doesn’t deserve something sweet after serving our country?” Finn winks at me, clearly feeling better. “He deserves everything,” he says, and his voice rings with heartfelt sincerity. “So you didn’t come here for the free chocolate?” He smiles. Slowly. He’s definitely got his groove back now. It’s like despite whatever happened out there in my shop, wherever he went, he’s back in charge of himself. “I came to ask you out on a date,” he says.

My hormones cheer, and I shoot them a much-needed reminder. Just a date. He’s not inviting you to get naked right here, right now. Which would be a massive health code violation, not to mention uncomfortable because my kitchen floor is made out of this very hard slate tile. And since my job requires a kitchen, I really can’t afford to have sex right here. “No answer?” He prowls toward me, all lazy grace and that loose-hipped, confident male swagger makes me melt. He’s effortlessly sexy and in control again. How does he know how to move like that? “You said, when you’re ready to go the distance, come find me. Here I

am.” Exit lines always sound so much better when they’re said at the end of an encounter. “I’m ready and willing,” he announces. And so am I. It’s just… it’s been a while. We’re in the kitchen. Frankly, I was imagining something a little more romantic. Possibly flowers. Definitely alcohol. “What did you have in mind?” Shoot. I asked that louder than was strictly necessary. My voice bounces off all the stainless steel in my kitchen. His grin grows wider. God, he’s cocky. And I like it.

“Because I’ve got a great imagination.” Health code violations, I remind myself. Hot SEAL, my libido counters. Yeah. We know who’s winning this debate. I reach over and dip my finger in the bowl of dulce de leche sitting on the counter. “Vali…” He croons my name. He definitely needs to learn who’s in charge here. The caramel is sweet and thick; it clings to my lips as I push my finger into my mouth. Slowly. His eyes darken, following my finger’s movement. “Tell me that’s a yes,” he groans. I should take pity on him, right? “Come here.” I crook my finger, and

he moves silently, swiftly across my kitchen floor until his thighs press against mine. He places his hands on either side of me, caging me between hard, tattooed arms. Dios. Now I’m the one who’s speechless. He lowers his head until his mouth brushes mine. “Close enough?” Silently, I reach up and run my dulce de leche-covered finger over his bottom lip. He’s so hard on the outside, but his skin here is soft. His lips part beneath my touch, and that’s all the invitation I need. I push in, exploring the tender skin. Today Finn’s what I make him. Today he’s sweet. “Vali,” he groans around my finger,

and then he sucks me in deep. The sensation is so good. It’s like my finger becomes a substitute for every other part of my body, sensation rushing to where he licks and pulls. I’m just getting into it, sinking into the rich, warm feeling when all hell breaks loose, and not in a good way. It sounds like some joker’s taken every pot I own and clanged them together. Repeatedly. “Holy. Fuck.” Finn shoves away from me, tensing, his eyes surveying the room as he pushes me behind him. “Phone.” I point to my cell doing the Macarena on the stainless steel countertop. He hands it to me with another muttered curse. If I started a

swear jar, he’d have my retirement funded in weeks. Sounds like a great plan. I look down at the phone in my hand and clear my throat. “It’s my mother.” “Good to know.” Finn looks relieved. He went someplace in his head thanks to that noise, and I’m betting it wasn’t his happy place. It’s rude to read my text when he’s standing right there, but Dios. “She wants to hook me up with a lovely orthodontist. His mother goes to the same mass as Mami, and Jason loves kids.” Finn blinks. He still doesn’t understand how fast my mother works.

After all, she’s already lost one daughter —she’s learned to value time and skip the filler crap. “Jason?” he asks. “The orthodontist.” The poor guy should probably go pick out a ring and save himself some time. My mother’s skipped the first date. Actually, she’s skipped the next fifty dates, the proposal, and the wedding. She’s already standing by my bedside in the labor and delivery ward of South Miami Hospital’s Center for Women and Infants. “I love her, and I want her to be happy,” I say, and I mean it. My Mami is amazing—I just wish she hadn’t made

my future her own personal mission. I wish I could make her happy without producing a fiancé. “But I wish she would stop trying to set me up.” Finn nods, and it’s not a flirtatious tell-me-more nod or a I’m-listening-toyou-because-I’m-polite nod. It’s a heartfelt dip of his head, like he’s totally been where I am. I wonder briefly which loved one has given him grief about his dating life, but asking seems way too personal. So I go for the truth. “I don’t need a date—I need a fiancé.” The words fly out of my mouth. Crap.

T- 11 d a y s a n d s c r a m b l i n g FINN

I FREEZE. IT’S EMBARRASSING AS FUCK, BUT there’s no other word for it. I can’t even blame the PTSD I’m pretending I don’t have, because nothing, ever, in my experience has prepared me for being proposed to in the middle of a goddamned candy shop. Part of me

wants to look around, to see if Ro and Vann are lurking behind the counter, trying to punk me. Marriage. Me. Those are two words that have never shared sentence-space before. Sure, I’m looking for a relationship with training wheels, a chance to try out this committed crap that means so much to my winning Xander’s bet, but Vali’s relationship timeline makes a space shuttle launch look slow. “You don’t think we should date first?” It’s not like I’m actually averse to marriage in theory. It’s just that it’s not

something I’ve really put much thought into. Marriage is one of those things that goes in the maybe column—years in the future. Vali and I have just met. I pulled her out of a ditch. She may or may not have ridden my dick through my jeans. That’s not a bad start, but I was thinking date and then, yeah, sex. Lots and lots of sex. Marriage? Not so much. Even if it would win my bet with Xander and get me back on the sex train. Perhaps we can elope to Vegas? “A fake fiancé,” Vali says, the words coming out in a rush, and my panic level sinks. I can do fake. That’s an F-word I excel at. I’m also fun. Fabulous. A favorite because I’m fucking fantastic in

bed. And of course, there’s the best Fword of them all. Fucked up. I’m that too, unfortunately. “Explain it to me.” I prop my hip against her candy counter and give her my undivided attention. She looks hot. She’s wearing a T-shirt with Bee Sweete embroidered over her tits, and she’s got some kind of frilly apron thing tied around her waist. It’s not a French maid’s outfit, but I’ve always been flexible when it comes to my fantasies. She turns away to toss her phone into her bag, which gives me a great view of her curvy ass in jean shorts. “My mom wants me to get married.”

I’d kinda figured that out for myself. The man candy text on her phone was clue number one. “Uh-huh. My mom makes those kinds of noises, too.” Her eyes widen, as if she’s surprised I have a mom. “She wants grandbabies,” I continue, because it’s the truth. “I’m not ready for that. I’m still practicing.” I wink, and Vali grins. Jesus, the woman is trouble. “You don’t think you’ve got it right yet?” I consider her question for all of two seconds. “I’m a perfectionist, honey.” The smile that stretches her face is breathtaking. She looks so goddamned

happy and pleased with herself. “You’re a legend.” “I’ve got friends who would agree with you,” I say, thinking of Xander. I shove off her pretty countertop. The best thing about Bee Sweete is that the place is small. Downright tiny, in fact. It takes me less than five seconds to pin her in place. “Has someone been telling you stories? Because if they have, I think I should get a chance to confirm or deny. It’s only fair.” She gives me a curious look. “Is your reputation that bad?” Honestly? It’s worse. There’s no way I’m answering her question, because women never like to hear about their

predecessors. I don’t blame them. It’s not like I want to hear about the other guys you’ve slept with, even if you’re telling me I’m a ten to their zero. Plus, there’s that bet with Xander—there’s no good way to spin that. I need a distraction. “What’s in it for me?” She gapes. Apparently, today her mind (instead of her car) is in the gutter. I’m pretty sure I’ve never traded sexual favors for… other favors. Not that I’d be adverse if she was offering, but it’s just not necessary. “Forget it,” she says, clearly embarrassed. “I was kidding.” As if.

Now that she’s planted those images in my head, my brain is running a nonstop fantasy loop. Engaged is even better than dating, right? As soon as I’ve mentally popped the ring on her finger, I move on to thoughts of kissing her. Okay. I take it about a thousand steps further, and in my head we end up in bed together. She’s naked (and spectacular), her legs wrapped around my hips as I pound into her. Shit. Am I drooling? It turns out not to matter, because my audience of one turns and flounces away into the back room. I vault over the counter and follow. She’s got a problem. I’ve got a solution. One committed relationship coming

up. “Marry me,” I say.

FINN “YOU PROPOSED?” I TURN AROUND TO FIND Ro dogging my ass. Apparently, he thinks the closer he gets, the more likely it is I’ll confess. Or hell, maybe the guy just enjoys the smell of Vali’s bakery, which clings to my skin. I can’t blame him. Bee Sweete smells almost as good as its owner. She should totally bottle that shit. “She did,” I counter, because I’m

feeling contrary. “Seriously, man. You’re getting married? Isn’t that taking the whole no orgasm unless in a committed relationship bet a bit far? I don’t think that’s what Xander had in mind.” Ro sounds beyond dubious, which isn’t surprising. I haven’t known Vali for all that long, and measuring our acquaintance in minutes and seconds makes her typical date night material for me when she’s anything but typical. “I fake-proposed,” I counter as I step inside the dog run. “But it’s good practice. Think of it as a mission dry run. Plus, Xander should have been more specific.”

“You’re a dedicated man,” Ro says dryly as the dogs start barking a happy hello. It’s playtime and they know it. “You planning on telling Vali about your bet with Xander?” That’s a tricky one. I have a feeling a guy in a committed relationship would absolutely come clean about a bet like that and the potential million bucks. I mean, it’s not like I’d really take Xander’s money, but I definitely plan on torturing him. Or making him donate to some embarrassing charity like erectile dysfunction research. He’s rolling in money, so he’d hardly miss it. I shrug. “If it comes up.” Ro mutters something that sounds

downright uncomplimentary and slams the dog run shut behind me. Although our cay is almost entirely cut off from the rest of the world by water, we generally don’t let the dogs run wild. They’re pack animals, and they’ll fight for dominance. Or maybe some idiot gets off the highway that connects our land to the rest of the Florida Keys, and the dogs chew on the stupid bastard because he’s in the territory and he tries to pet them or some shit. Some dogs like to be touched, while others will threaten to chew your hand off. Big Ben is a German Shepherd. Usually when a stranger gets too close to Big Ben, for example, he starts with a

low, throaty growl. Back the fuck off. Despite what you’re thinking, he’s a great dog. He has one of the best noses I’ve ever encountered. Our dogs patrol bases, take down suspects, and detect explosives. They save lives. Before we send them overseas, we train their noses on local explosives and ordnances—shit smells different in Afghanistan or Iraq or Florida. Likewise, PE4, the Russianmade equivalent of C4 plastic explosive, smells different than TNT or dynamite. Big Ben may be able to sniff out C4 no matter how small or how well hidden, but he’s also got the energy of roughly an entire high school football team. Playtime is an integral part of his

training, plus without it he’d find his own amusements. Big Ben and I have plenty in common. When he spots the red chew toy I’m holding, he whines low in his throat, his eyes following my hand. “Who’s a good boy?” I croon and make the signal for come. Big Ben explodes out of his kennel, running for me. Or the fucking chew toy. A dog’s got to have his priorities. While the two of us wrestle on the ground, Ro leans against the chain link, watching. “It’s not you,” Ro says, as if my status on Santa’s naughty or nice list has ever been in question. If there were such a thing as Saint Nick, I’d have enough coal for my own personal coal mine by

now. “What. The. Fuck.” Vann materializes out of seemingly nowhere to make his pithy contribution to Ro’s review of my love life. The man could have a second career as a ninja. “Is this like a marriage of convenience? Does she need a green card or something?” Ro turns to look at Vann, who shrugs. He’s never been one for conversation. “He’s riding to the rescue again.” “She’s hot,” I counter. “And therefore you’ve offered her a lifetime of you?” Ro shakes his head like I’m the sorriest fuck of them all. “She’s gonna want to rethink that one.”

“Fake,” I emphasize, rolling around with Big Ben. “Her mom’s on her back about settling down and getting married.” “Which is what the two of you are not doing?” Ro asks drily. He’s got a point. “Her mom is determined.” Not that Vali isn’t. I think about the expression she gets on her face when she talks about her Mami, a mixture of love and frustration. She wants the older woman happy, and I can help. Plus, I’m bored. I haven’t blown anything up in eighteen months, and this is the closest I’m getting to fireworks. Although… the Florida Keys do Fourth

of July in a big, big way. Maybe I can volunteer to shoot off the shit at our next celebration. I fucking love fireworks, from the burnt-paper smell of a used charge to the high-pitched whistle of a Girandola as it wheels up into the air and explodes. Ro elbows me. “Earth to Finn. We’re waiting for your closing argument. For any argument.” I go with the truth. “She’s hot. She needs help. I need a relationship. Case closed.” Vann rumbles something that I ignore. After I pulled Vali’s car out of the ditch, she made a convincing case for seeing her again. Or just seeing more of her. I’m

easy, and I’ll take what I can get. For Vali I’d make an exception to my onetime-and-done rule. It’s honestly more of a guideline anyhow. Plus, I’m no Boy Scout and loopholes are totally legal. It’s not like I can’t see a girl more than once. It’s just that it’s simpler not to. When you see people on a regular basis, you get to know them. And then the feelings start. I’ve lost one too many of my teammates to want to run the risk of adding to the number of people I care about. But Vali just wants to have fun with me, and I can work with that. I’m the champion fun-maker. I’ve also got a plan.

Part of a plan. “I’ve got an errand to run,” I announce to my peanut gallery. Ro and Vann follow me toward my Jeep. It’s like having two bonus dogs, but without the leash. They’ll fuck with me if they think they can get away with it, although they also know that I’ll get even at some point. We’ve been friends for years, and that’s how it works. Sure enough, they pile into my Jeep. Rex One barks happily because that dog adores fieldtrips. “Seriously?” I stare at my audience. Ro buckles up and leans back in the front seat. “Where we going?” The Piggly Wiggly sports a row of

quarter machines outside the front door. The contents of those machines are today’s mission objective. Since that’s need-to-know intel, I just drive faster and turn the radio on. Driving to AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck” isn’t slowing things down, either. Good thing there’s no cop around to bust me. Ro either shuts up until we pull up in front of the store, or my off-key singing drowns him out. “You don’t have to get engaged to have a date,” he announces. Right. “And you know this because you’ve got an active social life?” Ro himself hasn’t gotten laid since the Ice Age. Possibly the Pleistocene

Epoch. I saw a documentary about that once, and it seemed downright chilly. Ro punches me in the shoulder harder than is strictly necessary. “I can date if I want to.” Vann grunts. “Uh-huh.” Ro’s potentially married, and it’s not like Vann’s burning up the dating world, either. As we pile out of the Jeep, I can practically feel the local eyeballs boring into us. We’re hard to overlook, possibly because we look ready to roll at a moment’s notice. I’m almost certain neither Ro nor Vann are packing heat, but we all have blades. You never know when a knife will come in handy. I lay in a path for the quarter machines.

“That’s our target?” Vann rumbles, falling in behind me. Ro is right beside me. “Vegas would be more fun.” He isn’t wrong, but I’m operating on a strict timeline here. Plus, the three of us would have followed each other into hell, so the Piggly Wiggly is practically a vacation destination. “Give me your quarters.” I hold out my hand, knowing my boys will hook me up. With my other hand, I shake down my pocket for loose change. This isn’t a Visa or an Amex Black Card moment. Ro produces change immediately, because the guy is more organized than a Rolodex. His change is neatly

quarantined in his wallet, and I’d bet he’d organize the coins by size if he could. Vann, on the other hand, packs a hell of a lot of crap in his BDUs. If the guy fell into the ocean, he’d sink from the weight. He’s also got gears, springs, and bits of mechanical innards that look suspiciously detonate-able. Whatever. Every man needs a hobby. I assess the weapons at my disposal. Four dollars and seventy-five cents. Nineteen chances to win. It’ll have to be enough. I plug in the first quarter. “You bored?” Ro leans against the wall, watching. Vann has my back. It feels like old times, except we’re not clearing a street in some godforsaken

desert town, and I don’t have to watch the road for IEDs on the way back to base. Nobody’s looking to blow us up today. I shoot Ro a grin. He’s a man who appreciates a plan. “My new girl deserves a ring.” Ro shuts up at that, his brow crinkling as he assesses the machine. It’s full of cheap-ass plastic gimcracks in little plastic bubbles. In short order, I acquire a lifetime supply of superballs, a rainbow tattoo, and a selection of mutated princess dolls that are approximately an inch tall. The sheriff’s badge is kind of cool, though. Vann must think so, too, because he promptly

swipes it and pins it to the front of his shirt. “I’ve got a screwdriver,” he volunteers. “I could get you inside in thirty seconds.” Vann’s our resident MacGyver. If you dropped him on a desert island naked, he’d have figured out how to build an entire textile factory to manufacture three-piece suits out of coconuts by the time you came back for him in a week. I appreciate the offer (and honestly? A rock would accomplish the same thing, albeit with more property damage), but it feels right to leave this to chance. I hit the mother lode two dollars in. I turn the silver wheel, and the clear

plastic bubble that comes shooting out holds a ring. Yes—I’m doing my ring shopping at the Piggly Wiggly because I’m a class act. Vali’s new ring has an egg-shaped “diamond” on an adjustable gold band. It probably costs less than a penny to pop this bad boy out in China, which means the Piggly Wiggly makes a killing on the mark up. Huh. I consider popping the bubble open and then decide against it. I should let Vali unwrap it. Girls like that shit. “Hey,” Ro protests when I shove the ring and the unused quarters into my pocket. “Don’t I get my change back?” I flash him the bird. Sometimes, the guy requires pictures. “Finders,

keepers.” “There was zero finding involved,” Ro mutters. “And you’re the guy in line for a million bucks.” The hand that snakes into my pocket is lightning quick. Ro’s getting faster in his old age. “You think she’ll wear that?” He turns the ring over in his hand. “She might prefer Tiffany’s.” I slap his hand away when he attempts to make a return trip into my pocket and snatch the ring back. “Watch the family jewels.” Vali’s welcome to fondle my dick. Ro, however, can keep his hands to himself. “And yeah. Her mom’s gonna wonder if her ring finger stays bare. How the fuck

do you know what Tiffany’s is, anyhow?” Ro lifts a shoulder. “You know what it is.” Mr. Logic strikes again. “Blue box. Big price tag with matching expectations,” Vann adds helpfully, just in case I haven’t figured it out. “No pressure.” Honestly, Vali deserves the biggest, sparkliest, most goddamned expensive ring in the universe. I haven’t known her for long, but I already know that much. Since she’s decided to borrow me for her drama, however, she gets plastic and… I squint at the ring. “What the hell do you think they make this thing out of?”

I’m pretty sure I could drive the Jeep over the “diamond” without cracking the surface. “Plastic?” Vann deadpans. So. Not. Helpful. Ro, Vann, and I have traded shit for years. Usually, it’s a fun game of give and take. And usually, I’m doing more giving than taking. I’m probably a candidate for canonization. Forget porn pictures or booze when you’re stuck in a foxhole or deep undercover in some mosquito-infested, sweat-inducing South American jungle. That’s when a good joke and a good friend is a lifesaver. So ordinarily, I don’t mind taking one for the team. It’s practically in my job description, and

it’s easier to laugh off the shit hands that life sometimes deals us. It’s just that this is Vali’s ring. All three dollars worth. And I kinda suspect she deserves something more.

T- 1 0 d a y s FINN

I HAVE NO PROBLEM WITH MAKING A spectacle out of myself. I wasn’t always so laid-back about shit, but you live and you learn. When I was a wet-behind-theears Navy man, fresh out of high school, I was way more uptight. I had to be bigger, stronger, and badder than the

sailor next to me, no matter what. I hadn’t learned to laugh at myself yet, although I had a hell of a time laughing at others when they did something stupid. Dumb fuck that I was, I hadn’t figured out yet we all screw up eventually. Even God probably has days when He asks Himself what the fuck He was thinking, creating people. I was the center of attention in those days, and not for the right reasons. I ran faster, harder, and longer than any other guy at my high school, but I was also the fucking epicenter for trouble. Fast cars, broken laws, empty beer bottles, pretty girls, and a punk-ass attitude—I was to blame for it all.

Uncle Sam knocked me on my ass, which I didn’t see coming. I was young, ripped, and stupid as fuck. I thought I had BUD/S licked. We kicked off our mornings in Coronado with PT at an hour so early most guys were still stumbling home from the bar. We’d hit the sand at a dead sprint followed by working the ropes on the O-course like fucking monkeys on crank. They’d march us into the ocean, arms linked, and leave us submerged on our backs for fifteen minutes at a time. If you didn’t have hypothermia after that, you passed and got to do it again. I learned to find my zone even if I had my ass planted in the ice-cold Pacific. There was no excuse

for failing. That’s when I met Vann and Ro. Ro was on my left and Vann on my right, and none of us planned on ringing out or freezing our nuts off. I learned a lot about myself. I learned I hated being cold, that sand could and would rub your nuts raw, and that I could tough out anything. The only person to blame for my quitting would be me—so I stuck it out. I flipped my COs the bird (mentally, because even I wasn’t that stupid), and I learned the value of having teammates who’d kick my ass and smack me on the back when I got it together. Got through it together. It’s the day after I acquired a ring, and I decide to run to Bee Sweete. I may

not be active duty Navy anymore, but I keep that control. Play hard, train harder. That’s my motto, and that’s sometimes all that gets me through the days. The Navy’s good at training you to put one foot in front of the other, even when your body is screaming that lying down and quitting might be preferable. They’re not so good with the head stuff, though, but if I run hard enough, far enough, there’s no room for anything else. The Florida Keys are way prettier than Fallujah, that’s for sure. Instead of a desert, where it’s a hundred degrees in the dead of night and pushing one thirty by noon, I’ve got ocean to my left and right. I’m not one to admire the scenery

unless it has tits and comes in a string bikini, but the road is goddamned pretty. The ocean is a see-through blue with dark patches of coral around the highway that connects our key to the rest of the world. I pound down the shoulder. This probably isn’t my best idea, but there’s no point in waiting. The highway is elevated above the ocean, so I could pretend to be a fucking bird if I wanted. I’m happy with who I am, though. This is good. Florida may not be Fallujah, but it’s warm as hell. Or heaven. There’s no way this handful of islands is anything like the sandbox where I fought for my

country. I yank my shirt over my head and soak in the sunshine. It’s goddamned peaceful, nothing but the surf, the sound of my boots pounding asphalt, and Rex One. Angel Cay is two miles long and a mile wide. We’ve basically got one small island all to ourselves and then the ribbon of highway connecting us to two cays on either side. It’s not a long run, so I set a fast pace. Yeah. I still run in steeltoes. Gotta keep my hand in, and the pain is something familiar. The dog running beside me likes it fast and hard, too. I keep an eye on him, but Rex One was born to be a SEAL. He lopes by my side, although he could go

faster. He’s a pro at jumping from ten thousand feet, and our enemies won’t know what hit them. When I come down off the highway, hitting Angel Cay’s main street, I smell Bee Sweete before I see it. The whole town smells good, like fruit and flowers. It’s nothing like the fetid alleyways of Fallujah. I slow to a halt and consider my options. Front door. Back door. I’m sure there’s a dirty joke in there, but Rex One doesn’t need to hear it. I’ll save it for Vali. I go around back where she’s propped the side door open and the fan hums overhead, trying to clear the heat and humidity out of her kitchen. It’s a

losing battle. Vali is in the kitchen, humming at the top of her lungs as she rolls little balls of chocolate in cocoa powder. Scoop, roll, and then she sets them onto a tray in soldierly rows. Tops them with these ridiculous little white flowers that I’ll bet are edible, but not as edible as her. She bends over the table, reaching for something, and she’s such a tease. Her hair’s all twisted up on top of her head, little runaway curls trailing down her neck, and I’ve got to appreciate those long, toned legs of hers. She’s bare from two delicious inches short of her ass. Maybe she’s hiding a teeny pair of

panties under her shorts, but I don’t mind if she’s skipped the undies today. I’m already making plans to strip her out of her T-shirt, although I might leave the frilly yellow apron that hits her knees. I’d like to see her in just the apron—try out a few French maid fantasies of mine. God. She’s gorgeous. I lean against the doorway, enjoying the view. Coulda watched all day, too, but Rex One needs water, and he barks happily to let Vali know we’ve just shown up on her doorstep. She lets out a little shriek, and one of the chocolate thingies rolls away from her. I shove off the doorway and catch it. Then, yeah, I eat it. A little dirt never killed a SEAL,

plus whatever it is she’s baking tastes awesome. Her eyes narrow. “You owe me three dollars.” Really? She plans to charge me for the crap that I ate off her floor? She’s picky when she’s pissed. And goddamn, but she can cook. Or candy-make. Whatever what she does is called. The sweet taste of chocolate floods my mouth, and it’s way better than anything I’ve had before, or maybe that’s just because it’s stolen. “You’re a genius,” I tell her when I’ve swallowed. “And worth way more than three bucks.” She’s got a smudge of cocoa on her

cheek and more streaks on the front of her apron. There’s sugar or something in her hair and a dusting of something white on her chin. Somehow, I’d always imagined that cooks were pristine. Super neat. Vali is wonderfully, fabulously messy. It’s like she’s been dipped in sweet just for me. I can’t wait to lick her clean. Ignoring me—and I’m not making that easy for her—she rolls more balls in cocoa, and I weigh the odds of my snagging seconds. Probably should hold back, I decide. I don’t want her evicting me. “I brought presents,” I croon. She tilts her head and grins, running

her gaze down my body. She’s welcome to look all she wants. “Must be a mighty small present.” Yeah. An answering smile lights up my own face, and I know it’s sappy, but she makes me happy. She’s distracting me from my mission, though, so I shove my hand in my pocket and pull out the ring. Then, because I might as well do this the right way, I drop to one knee on the kitchen floor. Shoulda brought knee pads, because her floor is hard. As is another part of me. “Marry me.” I wrap her fingers in mine, pressing the ring into her palm. She blinks, examining me like I’m some weird specimen that crawled up

out of the ocean and into her kitchen. “You bought me a ring?” “Nothing but the best.” I decide that’s a yes and surge to my feet. Honestly? The longer I’m down there, the dirtier my thoughts get, and Vali hasn’t said yes to that. Not yet. But she will. And while I’m making a mental to do list for her, I add screaming my name and a couple of kitchen table fantasies. A guy’s gotta dream big. She pops the top on the plastic bubble holding the ring. “We probably should work on your definition of the best.” “I know,” I deadpan. “I’ll spoil you for other men.”

In bed? Sure. That’s my new mission in life. While she thinks about that, I scoop the ring out and slide it onto her ring finger. Since the band’s adjustable —God bless made in China—it’s the perfect fit. I’m a genius. Vali admires her finger for a moment, turning her hand this way and that. She’s got long, graceful fingers, the nails trimmed short and painted with some kind of glossy polish. “I need a picture,” she announces and heads for the world’s biggest bag. Red and white and containing a mountain of girl crap that overflows the bag’s top, it’s propped up on a desk on the opposite side of the kitchen. Apparently,

Bee Sweete doesn’t have a separate office, because the desk is almost invisible beneath a mound of paper, miscellaneous office supplies, and candy boxes. In keeping with the fucking adorable bee motif, the boxes are yellow and white. Vali rummages in the bag, and I wonder if I’m going to have to stage a rescue mission to pull her out. I wander closer. Just in case. Plus, the way she’s bent over the desk is downright hot. Okay, so everything about Vali is hot. It might be quicker to dump the bag out and pillage the contents. I’m about to make this suggestion when she makes a gleeful sound and produces a bright pink

iPhone decorated with little ribbon stickers. Let the photo documentation commence. Vali snaps a couple of awkward onehanded pictures. I’m fairly certain that she has no future as a professional photographer because she’s cut her hand off in at least half of the shots. Whatever. I’m not the one who needs proof of this moment. I amuse myself by examining the contents of her desk. There’s a ginormous poster board propped up against the wall that looks like a toddler’s arts and crafts project. Vann has several nieces and nephews, and he receives monthly envelopes that he uses to decorate our break room. This makes

me an expert, and whoever glued those pictures to that board needs remedial kindergarten. Vali makes a noise. “A little help?” I turn and see Vali trying to snap a selfie with both her head and her hand in the shot. Coordination is not her strong point. “I gotcha,” I answer and pluck the phone out of her hand. I take a couple of pictures, then sling an arm around her shoulder and pull her in close for the group selfie. Then I go for gold. “Pucker up.” Before she can react, I go in for the quick kiss. Press my lips against hers, breathing her in while I snap our picture.

“I want a copy of this one, and you can feel free to send me pics of any other favorite body parts you might have.” I grin at her. Not like I can keep my hands off her for real for much longer. “Enough!” She grabs the phone from me, laughing. I actually consider playing keep away because when she lunges, her fingers closing over the plastic case in my hand, the ginormous fake bauble on her hand scratching my palm, her breasts brush against my arm. It’s pretty fucking perfect. “So.” I crouch down and eye the poster board. “Are you an artist in your spare time?” Yeah. I’m laying it on thick, but she’s

my (faux) fiancée, so I’m supposed to be nice. And… I like her. She looks up from her phone where she’s apparently just sent all two million pictures to her mother. I hope they both have good data plans. It’s been a long time since a woman I dated blushed. I mean, there’s kinky stuff that works up some pink and there’s seeing mad red, but Vali turns a color I haven’t seen since Ro threatened to paint our center something called Pink Passion Flower if Vann and I didn’t start ponying up our opinions on his interior decorating scheme. Pink looks way better on Vali than on our walls.

“It’s a dream board. Things I want to do in the future,” she says, and then she looks anxious, like maybe I’ll denounce her as some kind of freak because she actually has a vision for her future. Rewind. Is that like one of those summer camp projects you hang from the rear view mirror of your car? I take a closer look, and boy am I wrong. The poster board is crammed full of inspirational quotes in curly letters, plus about a million pictures of crap that make no sense. I fantasize about sex. Vali apparently fantasizes about her happy place (I could work with that), “living in the moment” (again, not a bad plan), being fit and sexy (nailed it), and

creating the life she was born to live. I have no idea what that last one means. Reincarnation? Pottery? Her dream board doesn’t have footnotes. She taps a picture that looks suspiciously like a HALO jump without oxygen. “These are things I’m doing this year.” Jesus. Does she want to live—or does she have a death wish? “You got a lot of stuff on here.” I inventory her arts and crafts project and decide it would take at least five years to work through the shit she’s glued to the board. She’s got pictures from at least three continents. “I’m dreaming for three people,” she

tells me. “I lost my tía and my sister to breast cancer two years ago. These are things we wanted to do together.” I tug the board closer. “You wanted to do all these things together?” I know all about living for the team members who didn’t make it home. I’ve got B.B. riding shotgun on my shoulder. Bet he’d totally love some of this shit. Maybe not the parasailing—we’ve inserted into hostile territory from fifteen thousand feet after all—but treasure hunting? Hell, yeah. I’d bet he’d be into the airboat racing thing. Diving with sharks is iffy—we had an unfortunate encounter with sharks in the Red Sea— but swimming naked in the moonlight is

another hooyah. B.B. was the craziest bastard ever. We all swore he’d been a stuntman in another life and merely reincarnated as a SEAL. He took the most insane chances. Not going there. I nudge Vali’s thumb out of the way, and her blush deepens. And yes, that last picture is of two people having some very creative sex on the beach. It’s clear why Vali moved to the Florida Keys— and I’m just the man to help her with that last item. “The three of you wanted to make out on the beach together?” She elbows me. “Not together.” Good to know incest hasn’t made her fantasy list.

She sighs. “You think it’s stupid, right?” I commit the board to memory. “Not at all.” “Really?” Now she sounds hopeful. I’ve never understood why people are embarrassed by the fantasies they have. “Really,” I say firmly, holding her gaze. Guess she doesn’t know how you train a dog, because I’m establishing a connection between us—and my next move is to make sure she knows I’m the alpha. “You just gotta tell me where you want to start. If you need a suggestion, I’ve got a blanket and know all the best beaches.” Turns out, Vali’s blush can get

deeper. So. Goddamned. Cute.

T- 9 d a y s FINN

NATURALLY, VALI DOESN’T PICK SEX ON A beach. I’m holding out hope for our date, though, since we’re now officially in a committed relationship. Her mom’s been informed, the ring’s been bought, and I’m just waiting for the yes. But parasailing it is today.

Because I’m polishing my gentlemanly skills, I pick her up in the Jeep. Bee Sweete is just as yellow and ridiculous-looking today as it was yesterday. Thank God I’m not the one who has to wear that T-shirt. “Come on up,” she bellows down the stairs when I get out of the Jeep. She’s got a healthy set of lungs. I take the stairs two at a time because, yeah, I’m eager to see her. She’s easy on the eyes, and Vann promised she’ll hang on tight the minute her feet leave the boat this afternoon. Sounds like a plan to me, so I’m grinning when I knock on her screen door. Even more so when I step inside, because she’s rummaging underneath her couch,

ass in the air. “You know how to greet a guy right,” I tell her when she jumps and curses. Since I learned all of my Spanish in port bars in Rota, Spain, I also know exactly what she just said. She’s definitely got a potty mouth. “I’m looking for your kittens,” she emphasizes before I can call her on the cursing, and then she dives back under the couch. Little buggers must have gotten up inside her upholstery. I drop down beside to offer moral support or a hand if she needs it, but when she starts inching her way out backwards, I lose my train of thought. “Bob and Bobette aren’t cats,” she

accuses. I look at the two kittens cradled in her hands. Two ears, four legs, a tail, and plenty of attitude. That’s quintessential cat for you. “They’re demon spawn,” she continues. “They don’t sleep. They poop all the time. They like to hold lengthy conversations at two a.m.” “You named them.” I wink at her. “That means you like them.” Fortunately for me, I hadn’t had time to name them before I dropped them off. Ro teases me mercilessly about my menagerie, but fuck him. Animals are decent. They don’t expect much, and they give you everything back. He’s just bitter

because Señor Seagull pooped on his shirt the day they met. And pretty much every other day after that, but who’s counting? Not me. At least it isn’t personal when a bird shits on you. The only reason is lack of a sphincter muscle. “What am I supposed to do with them?” “Keep them temporarily?” I give her my best smile. She groans. “As in temporarily for the rest of their natural born lives?” She sounds grumpy, but the finger she strokes across the tabby’s head is soft. I pluck the kittens out of her hands. Their

fur smells like Vali’s body lotion— strawberries and something citrus. Goddamn, but I like the way she smells. Since getting a boner in her living room isn’t actually part of my plan for the day, I need to get us out of here. “Don’t forget your bikini.” She rolls her eyes. “I wasn’t planning on parasailing naked.” So much for my good intentions. The boner in my pants does its best to jump out at her. Real subtle. I squeeze her shoulder. “Don’t pass up on that opportunity on my account.” She’s close enough that I can feel her laughter, her body shaking as she tries to hold it back. “You want something to eat

while I grab my things?” I can cook the basics and know how to order take out, but I’m not stupid enough to pass up a free meal. If Vali cooks anything like she bakes, I should marry her for real. When I nod, she heads for the kitchen, and I follow her. Vali’s kitchen smells like heaven. A thick, meaty aroma fills the room. Thank God she’s not a vegetarian. “Ajiaco,” she says and nods toward a nearby shelf. She’s got bowls and plates stacked on open shelves where you can grab them. Her kitchen is an invitation to eat. I grab a bowl and let her load me up. The ajiaco is a colorful beef stew

with chunks of sweet potatoes and other things I don’t recognize. Doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy the fuck out of it. There are slices of corn on the cob, squash, and what looks like banana. She nudges a bowl of cut-up limes toward me. “Squeeze that,” she says, “over the top. And try the salsa.” The salsa is a hot pepper sauce that singes my tongue, but the limes are a revelation. I could marry her just to have salsa rights. She leaves me sitting at her table devouring my weight in beef while she disappears into the bedroom to grab her things. When my inner carnivore is finally sated—and that only happens when Vali eventually emerges and

promises to send me home with the leftovers—we get going. The parasailing operation is owned by friends who run an excursion company catering to the tourist trade. They do parasailing, snorkeling, the usual fun stuff. We placed a dog with them, which means they check out as decent people and probably feel some sort of undying gratitude. Charlie St. Croix emerges from the shop when he hears the Jeep. He immediately starts complaining about the pair of rabbits I’d unloaded on him. He’s got a sometimes-girlfriend with a threeyear-old daughter, so I did him a favor really. Little girls (and big ones) adore

that shit, and bunnies need homes too. It’s not their fault some idiot bought a bunch of rabbits for Easter without thinking things through. Vali looks at me, pursing her lips. I’m pretty sure she’s trying not to laugh. “You’re a hazard. Is there anyone you haven’t re-homed an animal with?” I avoid the assholes, but she doesn’t need to hear that right now. She’s enjoying being mad at me too much. “Possibly.” I tug her toward the dock. “But you’re gonna love me anyhow.” “I’m checking my car whenever you’re around,” she warns me. “You should check your place,” I counter.

She narrows her eyes. “You wouldn’t.” The way I look at it, no, I wouldn’t. You can’t just put animals in any home. I can kind of feel when it’s right though, and I’ve got rescues coming out my ears so I don’t show pity. Ro complains I’m a fucking animal matchmaker, but he’s just jealous. I haven’t found him furry love yet, after all. Give me enough time and I will. I’m a giver. While Vali makes sympathetic faces at Mr. I-Don’t-Want-To-Own-A-Bunny, I kneel down and slide her sandals off her feet. Shoes and boats don’t mix unless you’re wearing steel toes. When she

looks down to check on what I’m doing, I explain. “Better to go barefoot.” It’s a good thing I work out, because when I grab her bag, it’s heavy. I’ve hefted go bags packed with weaponry that weighed less. “We’re only going out for about an hour,” I remind her. I could not tease her, but where’s the fun in that? She makes a face, but she doesn’t offer to leave the bag behind. “I like to be prepared.” She and Ro would make a good pair, except that where his preparation takes the form of numbered lists, labeled crates of supplies, and a ten-step plan, Vali seems to be going with a more is

better approach—and she’s crammed it all into one bag. Personally, once I’m ass-deep in a situation, I can usually find or make what I need. Everything else is just baggage. I’m betting Charlie would agree with me. Our captain for today is a former SEAL platoon commander, and he’s used to rolling on a moment’s notice. Used to going in hot and getting the job done. I have no idea how he’s ended up in the Caribbean taking cruise ship passengers out on the water for fun, but his reasons are his own. Today I just plan to enjoy the ride. And the water’s incredible, that kind of blue that looks like it belongs in a crayon box. As Charlie and his second

mate, Evan Silva, take us away from the dock and out into the gulf, I do enjoy myself. Too much. Vali whips off her shirt, pulls out a tube of sunscreen from her suitcase-bag, and starts applying lotion. Me, I’m okay with skin cancer because I’m pretty sure my jaw is somewhere on the deck of the boat. I mean, she’s still got clothing on. It’s not like she’s completely naked. Two strings hold her teeny-tiny red bikini top together over a kickass tattoo of a flower-covered vine. Two. Strings. It’s all I can do to resist the temptation to give her a good tug. She rubs lotion over the top of her tits, the generous curves

not covered by the swimsuit, and I bite back a groan. We’re supposed to be dating here, and even I know that doesn’t mean “have sex in public on a moving boat.” I’ll bet neither of the former SEALs would complain though. Since I have to do something, have to move or I’ll go completely crazy, I pull off my own T-shirt. Vali’s setting such a good example that I have to follow, right? I’m nowhere near as pretty as Vali. I’ve got scars to go with my dog tags, souvenirs of near misses, bullets I failed to dodge, and a memorable encounter with a drunk and a knife in San Salvador on an undercover op. Vali doesn’t seem to mind, but maybe that’s

because she has scars of her own. A faded red line streaks beneath the edge of her tits, and there’s another on the sweet curve of her belly. I’m kinda lost in the tattoo, though. Red and pink flowers, big, bold, bell-like flowers on a green vine, scroll over her boob. They start beneath her tit and above her rib cage, and then if I’m a lucky man and I’ve guessed right, they wrap around her nipple and stop just inches short of her shoulder. There are names inked into the plant life, dark slashes of ink that cut through the color. She doesn’t mind me looking, and she has to know I’m doing it. Christ, there’s nothing subtle about the boner I’m

popping, but it’s the wrong reaction. I brush my fingers over the first name. Bella. “My sister,” she says, and I know she means the one who died from breast cancer. “Gotcha.” Her ink is gorgeous, but it’s like she’s a walking, talking tombstone. No. I think about that for a moment and realize she’s the memorial. She’s holding onto memories for three (or more, because there are a dozen names inked into tiny leaves on her skin), and I’ll bet she only keeps the happy thoughts for them. “Now what?” She eyes the sky nervously. Not sure how she expects this

to work, but she’s the one who cut the picture out of the magazine. I’m used to working from the top down—drop my ass out of a plane or a Blackhawk, and I can handle a fifteen-thousand-foot plummet. I pat her shoulder. “I’m a parasailing virgin, too.” Charlie snorts loud enough to be heard over the motor’s rumble. “There’s a first.” It’s the right thing to say, though, because Vali’s smile gets easier. Probably because she’s trying not to laugh her ass off, but that’s okay. Charlie hands the wheel to Evan, who has being a strong silent type down to a science,

and motions us to the back of the boat. “You take off and land from the back of the boat. Nice and easy.” Vali nods. Slowly. I half expect her to take notes. “Do we get wet?” Charlie flashes her a grin, and I mentally promote him to Captain Dick because he’s definitely thinking what I’m thinking. “Highly recommended but optional.” “Okay,” she says and follows up by shimmying out of those little denim shorts. Jesus. All I can think about now is getting her wet, and I don’t mean in the ocean. She’s curvy in all my favorite places, and I really, really want to touch her. Everywhere. Except she’s staring at

the mountain of harness and chute like she’s Alice facing down the Jabberwocky. “Assume the position,” I tell her, earning myself another look. That’s okay. It’s cute, and now she’s not looking like she might blow chunks over the side of the boat. I’ve had to push more than one SEAL out of the chopper bay because some guys aren’t built for heights. We stand on the back of the boat facing Captain Dick, and it’s time to harness up. I take my gear seriously. Your gear and your boys—that and mother-fucking luck and training—are all that stand between you and going splat on the side of some godforsaken

mountain full of hostiles. I’m not expecting trouble from the Gulf of Mexico, but it never hurts to be prepared, so I double- and triple-check the buckles on my harness and Vali’s. When I’m satisfied I understand exactly how everything fits together and where the safeties are, I nod. “Paranoid much?” she whispers to me, but I won’t apologize for making her safety my priority. “I wear a condom too,” I whisper right back, my mouth against her ear. “I’m the king of safety, darling.” We slowly lift off the back of the boat, the chute snapping into the air above us. The whole process is

definitely way more serene than HALO jumping, or maybe it’s just the lack of bullets and enemy hostiles. Charlie smirks at me and flashes a two-finger salute. Parasailing is like feeding the animals at the zoo with that dried up, kibble-looking crap you buy for a quarter a handful from a machine. It gets the job done, you see a few things you don’t see walking down the street, but it’s not like you’re on safari in Africa or seeing a polar bear in his natural habitat. After freefalling twenty-five thousand feet from a C-160 sucking oxygen because otherwise you’d pass out after about thirty seconds, this is nothing. It’s

like swimming in the kiddie pool when the last time you hit the water, you were shooting a class six rapid. Honestly? It’s not bad. In fact, it’s kinda nice. I lean back and get comfortable. Maybe this is the SEAL version of massage, letting someone else do all the heavy lifting? The view is real nice. Although the tandem harness is designed to give us each our own, separate space, Vali manages to press up against me, and I wrap an arm around her shoulders. I’m no hero, but I’m happy to pretend to be one for her.

VA LI THE DECK OF THE BOAT IS A LONG, LONG WAY below us. I squeeze my eyes shut, because denial is my friend. Captain Charlie mentioned he’d run us up the maximum. I’m pretty sure I heard the words five hundred feet bandied about. Right now, that’s about four hundred and ninety feet too many. Maybe four hundred and ninety-eight. If I fall two feet, I maybe sprain an ankle or skin a knee. From up here? I’m pretty sure I’m looking death in the face, and I’ve already cheated the bitch once. It’s just that Tía Mina always talked about wanting to fly, and this seemed

like the best way to go about it short of taking pilot lessons. Maybe I should have put that on the dream board. Maybe having a few tons of steel around me would make this feet-not-on-ground thing better. Or not. “The view’s better if you open your eyes, sweetheart,” Finn drawls beside me. He drapes an arm around my shoulder, and it’s funny how warm he feels—and how much like an anchor. He shucked his shirt while we were still on the boat, and I open my eyes because, if nothing else, he’s worth looking at. I’m sidetracked, however, by the ocean beneath us. We seem to rise

endlessly, the chute snapping and creaking cheerfully above us as it fills with air. The cable connecting us to the motorboat appears smaller than I’m comfortable with, but a quick look at Finn’s face is reassuring. If the man were any more relaxed, he’d be asleep. Possibly snoring. The boat is tiny now, chewing through the water and leaving a trail of foamy, white wake behind it. I spot darker patches of reef in the turquoise water, and there’s a creamy stretch of sand hugging our right. Dry land isn’t too far away, not that I want to crash land into a palm tree. From up here, the ocean seems almost rounded, reminding me

that the earth isn’t flat, no matter how much it seems like it is when I’ve got my feet on the ground. I never imagined it would be like this. No wonder Tía Mina wanted to fly. What else did she know that I don’t? For a minute my heart aches, because wherever she is, she’s not here. The ocean and the beach get a little blurry, but I push that aside. Crying isn’t living. I learned that months ago. So instead, I focus on the ocean and the way the air feels so impossibly clean. It’s nothing like Miami. Finn’s thumb strokes over my shoulder, drawing small circles. “You doing okay?”

There are so many different ways to answer that question. I don’t take my eyes off the spectacular, glorious, scaryas-shit view when I answer him, although I can practically hear my sister cackling that I shouldn’t waste my time on the ocean when I’ve got former SEAL badass man candy sitting next to me. I’ll get to Finn next, I promise her silently. “I’m good,” I say, the wind halfwhipping my words away. Because up here there’s wind in my face and ears. Guess the parachute wouldn’t work otherwise, but it’s both prettier and, well, noisier than I expected. The thing I’ve already learned about Finn? The man has an excellent bullshit

meter and no filter. He squeezes my shoulder. “I’ve got ghost riders.” The unspoken too hangs in the air between us for a moment before the wind drags it playfully away. “Ghost riders?” “Yeah. Some of the guys in my unit didn’t make it back, but I’ve brought them with me, riding on my shoulder. Kinda looking on, watching me.” He doesn’t look at me so much as through me. His head’s somewhere else, and it’s not some place in the Florida Keys. I’m pretty certain it’s not on this planet even. He’s got memories, and he’s lost people. His voice softens, the rough burr easing as he remembers his dead. It didn’t

occur to me when I met him that we’d have this in common. So I give him the truth. “That’s it exactly. I’ve got Bella and my Tía with me.” “Ride-alongs,” he says. He taps his shoulder and then reaches over and runs the back of his big fingers over the spot between my breasts. “Right here.” I like it. His SEALs are part of him, just like my aunt and my sister are part of me. Of course, I also like the sensation of his callused fingers brushing my skin. Can he tell my girls are fakes? My doctor was good—the best—so I’m betting he can’t. At the very least, he just thinks I wanted bigger,

better boobs and Dr. Cosmetic Surgery delivered. He tugs on the string holding my skimpy top in place. There’s a little too much of me above and below for a bikini, but it’s comfortable and makes me feel sexy. His knuckle slips under the fabric, and my breath catches. I haven’t had sex since B.C. Before Cancer. “You’re gorgeous,” he growls in a rough voice that makes me wish we weren’t floating through the air. My mother brought a word with her from Cuba for amusing untruths—not the lies that hurt, but the facile compliments people give each other to charm and amuse. Those are guavas, sweet and

purple like the fruit. Finn serves them up to me, and I devour them. For him, I’d like to be the most beautiful, the sexiest woman. “Do I get a reward for being good?” His voice is rough and low and sexy as hell. And then somehow before I can even answer him, we’re kissing. Or almost kissing. He cradles my face in those big palms, tugging me closer. He fascinates me, and not just because he’s big, built, and mostly naked. I absolutely enjoy that —parasailing has unexpected benefits— but it’s the way he’s so confident in his skin, relaxed and sure even though we’re five hundred feet above the water—and

he makes me feel safe and confident, too. I lean into his touch, meeting him halfway. Possibly I get there first because I’m that eager to put my mouth on his, to find out if he can possibly taste as good as he looks. And because he fascinates me, I keep my eyes open. I want to see as well as touch, as much as possible, so I squeeze closer. “I do get a reward,” he says huskily. He’s so close now that I can smell the mint of his toothpaste. I inhale, and his grin gets wider. “Yes?” He almost purrs the word. He knows what he does to me. And that’s okay, because he wants me, too. I can see the evidence of that when I look down at his lap, and it’s

impressive. “Hurry up,” I say because I have to say something, and I might as well be honest. His mouth closes over mine, and now there’s no space, no distance, no great big empty hole in me. Oye. Finn isn’t in any rush. He kisses me slowly, gently, like he’s learning me with his lips and he has all the time in the world. And even though I know that’s not true—people die, people leave, and no parachute can keep us aloft forever—it’s the sweetest lie. I link my hands around the back of his neck, pulling him closer. He’s all I can see, and my eyes drift shut despite my

best intentions. Finn. Best thing I ever did was land in a ditch. Funny how sometimes accidents turn out to be the right thing after all. He feels right. Present in the moment with me. Like he’s as desperate to lose himself in our kiss as I am. I can’t get close enough, deep enough, and that’s not just because we’re high in the sky and some things are just flat out impossible. I’d feel the same way kissing Finn if we were horizontal. He wraps his arms around me, holding me tighter as he angles his mouth on mine. Yes. He can get deeper. I open up, take him all the way. He fucks my mouth with his tongue, licking,

exploring, making me feel good in a way I’ve forgotten I can. Finn is so addictive. I kiss him and kiss him, and he returns each touch with interest. It’s so good that I don’t even notice our altitude change. My feet hit the water, and we bounce apart. Descend lower still. Warm ocean water washes over our knees, and my butt skims the surface. I’m grinning like a loon when Captain Charlie and his silent companion reel us back into his boat. Best. Day. Ever.

T- 7 d a y s VA LI

THE GIRLFIENDS COME OVER EVERY Saturday morning, and we make candy. Ava and Marlee are more demon than innocent, and they love trouble, mischief-making, and a strong margarita. They also love my pastelitos, which means I can expect them to appear in my

doorway sometime in the next thirty minutes because I make them every Friday night and they don’t keep. Just to help me out, they bring coffee and booze every Saturday morning, and we gorge ourselves on sugar. Saturday is my fun day, the day I say fuck off to all the responsibilities, the to do lists, and the mature adult activities that are supposed to fill up my week and instead make it overflow. I sleep in. I eat a zillion calories (and none of them come from the fruits and vegetable family). I basically lie around like a happy, sunbathing sloth, alternating between binge reading my favorite authors and online shopping. Mainlining

pastelitos with friends fits right in with my plans. Hey—at least I’m honest with myself. Bob and Bobette are totally onboard with my plan, too. The kittens Finn gifted me with scamper over my back and butt, exploring the afghan I’m wrapped in, chewing on my hair, and trying to bat anything that’s not tied down. They’re actually kind of cute. I’m lying on my stomach, wondering if my Mami will accept fur babies instead of people babies, when Marlee, aka Fiend One, bounds up the stairs to my apartment. She sees the kitten and pauses. “Still keeping those kittens?”

Bobette sticks her fuzzy head out from underneath my hair. She’s decided that my shoulder is the best bed and routinely uses my ear as a pillow. It’s possible I’ll go deaf from the purring. “For now,” I grumble, and Marlee grins. “Softie,” she mouths. “You told me to take the SEAL for a test drive,” I counter and gently shake off the kittens, so I can get up and follow Marlee into my kitchen. Ava is waiting for us, sitting on my counter and swinging her legs. The two bottles of Bailey’s poking out of her tote bag promise good times. “Finn Callahan is dangerous, ladies.”

I haven’t even let him in my panties yet, and I know that. “You hit a tree and land in a ditch. He pulls you out, you grope him, and now you’re dating him.” Ava flashes me a thumbs up. “I applaud your speed and commitment to the cause.” “I’m not sure a quick tow counts as a date,” Marlee says doubtfully. She’s wonderfully literal. If you tell her you’ll be just a second, you’d better mean it because she’ll time you. “We went parasailing,” I point out. “And we’ve seen each other a couple of times.” I should really focus all of my attention on brewing that coffee. Surely

alcohol will make this friendly inquisition easier. “Details,” Ava announces, “We need details. All the best, juiciest, naughtiest details.” Ava’s middle name is indefatigable, even if she claims her birth certificate stuck her with “Jane.” “Absolutely.” Marlee smacks Ava’s hand when she reaches for a pastelito. “You’re supposed to wait for the coffee.” Which is really just an excuse to drink booze at ten in the morning. I nudge the plate toward Ava. I cook when I’m stressed or worried, so I’ve made two different kinds of puff pastry. The

guava ones happened at midnight, while I talked myself out of calling Finn in the middle of the night. An hour later, when I realized I didn’t actually have his phone number and therefore couldn’t call him, I made the mango ones, the ripe chunks of fruit cooked in sugar until they formed a rich marmalade. Just looking at the mounds of rich triangles makes my hips grow wider. As soon as we’re coffeed up and everyone has a mini pastry mountain on her plate, Ava makes a give it up gesture. “Details,” she says firmly. Marlee dunks a pastry in her coffee. “Have you kissed him?” “Define kiss.” I’m in the mood to

tease, and technically Finn and I have locked lips three times. Once after he pulled my car out of the ditch and once for the “engagement” selfie I sent my Mami. And then there was the other day… when he kissed me senseless on our parasailing date. “Tongue,” Ava says decisively. “Anywhere,” Marlee adds. She grins impishly. “No one said he had to kiss you on the mouth.” “Yes.” I’m keeping the details to myself, though. Neither Marlee nor Ava need to know just how good my borrowed SEAL is at kissing. “On a scale of one to ten?” Ava’s not giving up.

I don’t have to think twice. “Triple digits.” Ava whistles. “So he’s the kind of guy you’d let eat cookies in the bed.” “I don’t want to eat with him,” I protest. Ava shrugs. “Figure of speech. Is he good enough to forgive the usual manly sins?” Very possibly. Finn kisses better than any man I’ve ever had the pleasure of sampling. I don’t usually have quickie affairs. Normally, I like to get to know a guy before I play tonsil hockey—or any other game—with him. I’d want to date, to take my time. I’d want to get to know

him because you never know when you might run into Mr. Right, even in a bar you’ve visited week after week. Strangely enough, however, I want more of my Mr. Right Now. “You agreed you’d go for it,” Ava announces, the it here clearly being Finn’s penis and an end to my celibacy. Marlee’s not far behind with her agreement, either. “Practice guy. Absolutely.” If the girlfiends have their way, Finn will be pants off and mine by the end of the week. It’s really not a bad idea. Although… while I’m having fun discussing Finn with my girls, the truth is that I’m not really the type to kiss and

tell. The way he made me feel and how he did it? That’s between me and him. It’ll be our little secret. I want a new man, new boobs, and a new life. And if I can’t have all three, I’ll take one. The replacement boobs are looking fine, and that’s the first baby step on the way to the new life and new man part of my destiny. I’m tired of living scared—so now I’m just going to live. Finn Callahan can help me with that.

T- 6 d a y s FINN

WOMEN HAVE ALL SORTS OF RULES FOR THE dating game, but my only rule? Rules are made to be broken. Instead of calling Vali, I go looking for her in Angel Cay three days after our parasailing date. See, she’s had enough time to miss me. And I’ve had enough time to fantasize

about having sex with her about a million different ways. My dick will be raw from the self-attention if I don’t go after her soon. Xander’s also way too close to winning our bet for my comfort. Intel (also known as the Captain’s inside scoop) places her at the beach, so that’s where I go. I hear her before I see her. Her laughter teases me through the palm trees, the kind of full body laugh that shakes her gorgeous tits and lights up her face. Vali doesn’t hold back—she goes for everything flat-out. One hundred percent. I’m hoping she’s like that in bed, too. I get out of the Jeep and reconnoiter. We’re about a mile from Bee Sweete,

and I don’t see the VW Bug, so she must have walked—or paddled. A splash echoes through the trees, followed by more laughter punctuated by curses. I haven’t heard that many swear words strung together quite so creatively since Uncle Sam parked my ass in Colombia on a covert op. You try keeping it clean when you’re fending off vampire mosquitos and wet boots. Those two weeks in a South American jungle were the longest of my life. As soon as I step onto the beach, however, I understand what my folks tried to teach me about patience being its own reward. Vali is balanced precariously on top of a paddleboard.

She rocks a pink-and-white striped bikini and a baseball cap. A velcro strap around her ankle ties her to the board— or the board to her. Since she’s paddling in about two feet of water, her odds of drowning are acceptably low, so I rock back on my heels to enjoy my view. God, she’s pretty. She’s confident, too—another turn on. I know who I am and what I do—or do not—have to offer. When Vali says yes to me, when she lets me all the way in, I won’t have to worry about broken hearts or other surprises. She’s a woman who could use a good orgasm or six, and I’m the guy to lend her a hand in that department. A fucking Boy Scout, that’s

me. I’m laughing at my own bad joke as I lean back against a palm. Strangely enough, I’m in no rush to strip the bikini off her and move on to the next step in my seduction plan. I kind of like just spending time with her rather than in her. I spot the moment she shifts and loses her balance. It coincides, not accidentally, with the moment Rex One bounds into the water and tries to scramble onto her board. She goes over with a shriek that pierces my eardrums and then comes up spitting curses and laughing. God, she’s cute. I kick off my boots, toss them into the back of the Jeep, and stroll closer to the water’s edge. Rex

One shoots me a doggy look, but I don’t call him back. He deserves to have a little fun, too. “Are those suggestions, darling?” She stands up, knuckling water out of her eyes. Hello. Wet is a good look for her. “You wish,” she says, and she isn’t wrong. “I always deliver,” I promise her. “And I take direction well. I can also work with begging, screaming, and any dirty fantasies you’ve been repressing but would now like to bring to life.” She snorts, pats her head, and realizes that she’s lost her hat. Rex One proves that he’s smart,

because he paddles after her ball cap and brings it back to her. She pats him on the head, rubbing his ears and crooning his name. Lucky mutt laps it up, too. It’s stupid, being jealous of a dog. Fortunately, I’ve got two arms that work. The dog may be good at fetching hats, but I can do better. I wade in and scoop her up, taking a moment to appreciate the fact that she’s sun-warmed and wet from her spill off the board. Logically? I’ve held hundreds of women. She’s got the same parts: two shoulders, two (spectacular) tits, and an ass made for holding. I don’t know what makes her so different—but she is. Maybe it’s because

she’s temporarily mine thanks to Xander, her mother’s matrimonial plans, and a twenty-five cent ring. That has to be it. I lean in and lick the salt off her skin where her ear meets the soft curve of her neck. Maybe it’s the taste of her on my tongue that’s so goddamned right? That makes me want to start at the top of her and work my way down. She’s perfect. Perfectly addictive. I press soft kisses over her even softer skin. I love women, but I love them hard. Fast. I give it to them good, and maybe I last the night, but there’s never been a time for the soft stuff. I imagine emotions are like an octopus, wrapping its sticky tentacles around me.

Making me want to hang on. Making me want more. I tease the deceptively fragile curve of her ear, dragging my tongue over the sensitive shell. “Finn—” She squeals and wriggles. That’s my name, and she can do all the talking she wants—I’m busy wrapping my arms around her. Holding her just a little bit closer, I wade out of the water. She doesn’t tell me to put her down. I can’t help but notice that. “Let me make you feel good.” That’s my voice that comes out sounding like a growl as I look into her eyes. Brown’s too simple a word for their color. She has these little gold flecks and the longest lashes. Like always, she meets

my gaze head-on, and part of me wonders what she sees. You know. In me. “Okay,” she sighs. “But only if you promise to be really, really bad.” “For as long as you want,” I promise, and I mean every word of it. I’m a SEAL, not a Boy Scout. I’ve got condoms in my Jeep because they’re part of any SEAL’s go kit (I’ve fired more than one gun wearing a condom on its muzzle—the latex keeps sand and other unwelcome shit out, but it doesn’t keep the bullet in). What I don’t have is a mattress, sheets, or anything else that’s gonna make this a sex marathon instead of a quickie in the backseat of a car. She

threads her arms around my neck, tugging my face down toward hers, and I feel her next sigh. Or maybe it’s a little pant, because I’m that goddamned good. It’s ten steps to the Jeep, and I put each step to good use. I dip my head until my mouth rests on hers. “Tell me you want me.” I need to be perfectly clear on this. Once I get started, it’ll take a miracle to pull me away from her. If she wants out or a different day or even a different fucking man, she tells me now. “Good to go,” she whispers back, and I feel those three words everywhere. On my lips and lower, and not just in my dick, although that bad boy’s hard as a

rock. I’m staring into her eyes like a fucking sap. I haven’t got her bikini off, but I already know she’s gorgeous. Spectacular. Rocking my needy, greedy world. Take your pick or just go with all of the above, because the feeling of holding her in my arms is electric. I run my thumb over her tattoo, tracing the vines with their names. “Right answer,” I growl, and I’ve never stormed a beach faster than I do the sand between the water and our ride. I’ve carried women before. Laid them down and licked them. Feasted, sucked, and enjoyed my way from the first inch to the last. That was sex. This is…

different. I slide her onto the seat She keeps her arms wrapped around my neck for a really fantastic moment, her body pressed against mine. I love that bikini —and those few inches of wet nylon are the only thing between me and her. She smiles at me, and I kiss her hard, my mouth tasting the impish curve, my tongue teasing her lips to open. To make room for me inside her. She groans and yanks me closer, on board with the get close plan. So I kiss her deeper, harder, and I don’t need to think to know this moment is better than any fantasy I’ve played out in my head. When she finally eases back, I’m

panting and she’s whimpering. I’m not ashamed to admit I need her, either. She’s special, and I can’t believe she’s letting me taste her. Touch her. Gonna take her next. Rex One bounds around us, barking happily. He’s a damn smart dog—he knows he’s looking at the best thing to ever happen to us. “How fast can you drive?” My dick about explodes at Vali’s throaty question. Maybe sex in the back of the Jeep could work. I actually look as I hotfoot it around the back end of the vehicle for the driver’s seat. Unfortunately, the back’s loaded with training center crap, and it hasn’t grown

a mattress or any other amenities. So not happening. “I’ve got one question.” She looks at me, and I swear to God she pants. Why, why, why am I talking now? “Would you say we’re in a committed relationship?” Vali narrows her eyes at me. “Get. In. The. Jeep.” Good enough. I swing into the Jeep and floor the engine. Yeah. Getting her home seems like another great idea. We pull away from the beach, spitting sand, and she curls up on the seat. Her face is flushed, her nipples tight beneath her bikini top. I did that—and that makes me

feel like the fucking king of the world. “My place.” I don’t know if those words are a question, a mission plan, or me getting down on my knees to beg, but she nods. “Sure,” she says, and then she turns on the radio while I drive like hell. Five to six minutes to reach my place. Another minute to park and get my feet on the ground. I’ll have her naked in ten minutes, and then she’ll be the best all-Ican-eat buffet ever. She sings along at the top of her lungs to our tunes, and it’s silly and it’s so her. I never expected to find that kind of crap cute, but I do. We reach Search and SEALs in world record time. I’m almost certain I

didn’t run over any old ladies, either. Vali hops out, and we all but run into each other. I’m dying to be inside her. To touch her more and learn each sweet inch. Guess she feels the same way. At this point, I’d almost trade my left nut to avoid Ro and Vann. They’re going to give me shit about this, and I kind of… wish they wouldn’t. “Which place is yours?” She feeds the flames, pressing a kiss against my jaw as she wraps her fingers in the dog tags I wear. I’m no longer active duty, but these aren’t my tags anyhow. They’re a replica of B.B.’s with everything but his name scratched out. I can practically hear him giving me a hooyah from up in

heaven. Prudence and sentimentality— I’ve got them both covered. I point out my place. “You go ahead. Door’s not locked, and I’ll be right there as soon as I’ve taken care of Rex One.” She grins. “Don’t take too long.” No danger of that. I’m on fire, and the only thing putting out these flames is Vali. I’m right down by the water, so close I can long jump off my front porch and get my feet wet. I’m not trying to impress her with the view, though. I’m just trying not to get naked in public with my brothers watching. I make a quick detour to put Rex One back in his kennel. Poor dog isn’t thrilled to have his afternoon cut short, but I’ll make it up to

him later. I’m not ashamed to admit I double-time it down the path to my place. When I step onto the porch, I discover that Vali hasn’t wasted time, either. Her bikini top hangs from my open front door. You’ve got to like a green light like that. Not like she has much clothing to drop, and she’s made a statement. Grinning, I step inside and yank my T-shirt over my head in the spirit of playing fair. The cottage isn’t big—it’s a one bedroom, with a living room, a kitchen, and an enormous wrap-around porch. Someone decorated it beach style before we bought it, which translates

into a boatload of rattan furniture and lots of white. It’s probably girlier than I should own too, but it was easier to use what was here. I did add a big fucking television and about a thousand paperback mysteries. I don’t think Vali’s here for that kind of entertainment, though. You know how I know this? Her bikini bottom is on the floor. Christ, I’m lucky. The sound of water running is my first clue. Vali’s in my shower. Naked, wet, and steamy? I didn’t think I could get any harder, but turns out I was wrong. My dick points the way to heaven. I drop my cargo shorts. Conveniently, I dressed for our date—

I’m commando, and I’m in the shower with her before she even knows I’m there. “Quick enough?” I whisper the question against her ear while I reach for the soap. Conveniently, my shower’s way too small for two people, so there’s a lot of touching and brushing, plus since she’s here to get clean? I have to get her dirty. I slick every inch of her skin with soap, and then I follow with my hands— and my tongue. She tastes like no one else—like honey and sunshine, the ocean and Vali. It’s that last ingredient that drives me fucking crazy. And because the shower’s so goddamned small, my dick brushes its

favorite places whenever I reach for the soap or adjust the water. I reach out, snag a condom from a drawer beneath the sink, and roll it on. When I slip between her legs, she’s slick and hot for me. “You’re making me wait,” she moans, and because I’m a gentleman and a SEAL, I make it up to her. She’s ready, so I push inside her, slow and steady, while the water pounds down on us. When I’m seated inside her, I savor the moment. Not for long, because she’s pushing against me, moving in a way that guarantees I’ll come faster than any teenage boy, but just long enough to thread the fingers of one hand through

hers and press her hands flat against the shower wall. I give it to her hard and fast from behind, my hips slapping into her ass, my mouth exploring the side of her neck, her ear, any inch I can reach. She makes the sexiest whimpers, moaning out bits and pieces of instructions and other words that might be in English—or Swahili for all I can fucking tell, because she’s lost with me in this moment. And while I pound into her, whispering how beautiful she is and how hot she makes me, my hands are busy. I run my free hand over her gorgeous tits, teasing the nipples, and then lower.

Kneading her stomach before slipping into paradise. There’s no space between us, because I’m filling her up and she’s demanding more, but she groans when I find her clit. “Dios, yes,” she breathes. And before I can make her scream my name, she’s coming. This is how I love her, tight and slick, her body holding onto me as she gives into the pleasure and gives up control. Her pussy clenches, squeezing me hard, and I can’t hold back either. Don’t want to. There’s nothing but a condom between us, and that doesn’t count. It’s just me and Vali. Vali and me. Fuck if I know where I end and she begins, but when I come, there’s no

more thinking—only feeling.

THE WATER’S STARTING TO RUN COLD BY THE time we stagger to the bed for round two. Ten minutes and four kisses later, she straddles me like a cowgirl, and I know she’s the perfect woman for me. I cup her tits, massaging the sweet, firm curves. “Do you know how gorgeous you are? How much I’ve wanted this?” Something flashes across her face. More ghost riders, maybe, because she looks a little sad for a few seconds, and then she presses those magnificent tits of

hers into my greedy palms. She watches me from her perfect perch on top of my dick. “You like my tits?” My reaction to her mouth forming those dirty, dirty words should be illegal. “Fuck, yeah.” I’m no poet. If she wants anything but heartfelt appreciation, I’m not her guy. “Good.” Satisfaction fills her voice, but then it gets better. She swings around and palms my dick. I now have a prime view of her gorgeous ass—and everything in between. She leans down and sucks my dick into her mouth. Jesus. Christ. It takes me a couple of seconds to

breathe, to overcome the urge to flip her onto her back and drive into her hard. She rises and falls, her ass counting the beats as she sucks me. I’m suddenly way too close to coming—and it’s ladies first and always in my book. Whatever she wants, I give it to her. That’s the only job I’ve got here, my only mission, and I’m not screwing it up. I run my hands down her back, cupping the round apple of her butt. The white lines from her bikini are a road map I’d be crazy to ignore. When I drag my palms over those sweet curves, tugging her up and back, she arches into my touch. That’s all the invitation I need. I pull

her ass back and plant my face in her pussy. She tastes like all my favorite flavors, so I drag my tongue through her sensitive folds. Time kinda stands still— or speeds the fuck up because this could last forever as far as I’m concerned— while she takes me in her mouth and I eat her like a starving man. She moans around my dick, and I’m groaning against her sensitive places, and we find a rhythm together that’s urgent and intimate. So. Fucking. Good. When neither of us can wait any longer, she shifts and I turn her around. I love watching her face, the way her mouth softens and her eyes can’t stop looking at me. It’s the sexiest thing I’ve

ever seen, Vali on the edge of coming, waiting for me to give her that nudge over. She helps me roll on a new condom—I’m not making her ask awkward questions about where I’ve been or with whom. I’m clean and I’m careful, but even so her safety comes first. And then she seats herself on my dick in one swift, hard move—hello, cowgirl fantasy—and my eyes might roll back in my head. I move in and out of her, my fingers hanging onto her hips, her hands braced on my shoulders. Her gorgeous tits bounce in the air between us, and I can’t believe she’s here. With me. A fucked up, used up SEAL. Somehow, I

won the cosmic lottery. And that’s the thought I hang onto as we move together, our bodies reaching out for each other, until we’re coming. Together. When she collapses, I catch her, rolling her underneath me. Something that good, how can you not want to do it again? She winds her arms around me, her face buried in my chest. I can feel her lips moving, pressing kisses against my skin. Her aim’s perfect, because she’s touched my heart. I keep her like that, tucked against me, and let myself think about it for just a few seconds. I do sex, not relationships, but this is the first time my heart’s been used for something other

than target practice. I’ve been shot at, ambushed, fired upon, and nearly blown up countless times, but I’ve always come out on top. In one piece. Vali kisses me, her mouth moving over the place where my heart is, and I’m fucking lost. I could lie like this forever, and that’s a scary thought. So sex it is. I pull back just a little and look down at her gorgeous, smiling face. “You up for round three?” She moves her hand lower, and I’m damned certain that’s a hooyah I’m hearing. “Bring it,” she says, and I do.

WHEN I WAS FIVE, MAYBE SIX, I DREW pictures of the desert, and those pictures always had palm trees in them. I didn’t know then that the Middle East runs more to date palms than to coconuts, so I drew acres of brown sticks, green leaves, and big, hairy, brown balls. Now I don’t smell coconut without remembering the desert. I don’t need some shrink to tell me that’s fucked up. When I wake up, I wake up just halfway, because that’s how the nightmare works. My head’s back in Iraq, and we’re in the Hummer headed toward another city whose name doesn’t matter. It’s a target, and we’re going there to shoot things. Shoot people.

We’ve got orders, we’ve got our reasons, and it all makes sense. Our Hummer is a pretty smooth ride, and sometimes we pretend we’re surfing the sand dunes in our very own privateissue, Uncle Sam boat. It’s the small things, right? B.B. has his FN SCAR slung over his lap, and we’re bullshitting each other. But even while our mouths run on, we’ve got eyes on the road, the desert, the horizon. There’s nothing friendly about this place, and we both know it. The words, the jokes, and the bad movie lines we toss back and forth are the only normal. B.B. called shotgun so he rides in the front of the Hummer, his gaze

dipping to the beat-up asphalt. The onduty K9 handler cleared the road just thirty minutes ago, so we’re not expecting fireworks. And we all know what assumptions make out of you and me, right? There’s a sharp bang and a crack of smoke. I go flying backward, hitting the ground hard because I’m too much of a dumbass to hang on. I fucking let go and fly. I’m up as soon as I’m down, though, thumbing the safety off my gun as I run for the Hummer. I’m playing catch up, even in my dream, time slowing down to that horrible molasses sludge where you’re running and running, but your feet take

you nowhere. In front of me, the Hummer bounces through the ginormous fucking crater that’s just opened up in the road, goes airborne, and performs a gymnastworthy somersault toward the canal. Once again, I’m too late. My whimpers wake me up. Fuck. That’s so wrong. I hate the little, broken sounds leaking out of my mouth. “Finn?” Of course Vali doesn’t sleep through my breakdown. Nope. She’s front and center, with a ringside seat. Worse, I can’t move. I’m totally paralyzed. I breathe in and out, my lungs working just fine. It’s my arms and legs that are stuck. No amount of effort has ever snapped me out of the paralysis that

follows the dream. She leans over me, her hand stroking down my arm. “What’s wrong?” It’s not as if I can fucking tell her, is it? And then she carefully tugs me toward her. She’s not all that big, but she manages to turn me onto my side, and then my front’s plastered against her gorgeous, naked body. Her eyes are wide with sympathy and understanding. She can’t know where I’ve gone, but she’s sure it’s not my happy place. And while she holds me, she whispers stuff. The words themselves don’t matter. She could read me the phone book. It’s the tone. Each word

sounds like she cares, and the ice locking me in place melts a little more with each word. I try to say her name, and the muffled sound has her tucking in closer. I’m scaring her. I know that, and I fucking hate it. I want to tell her it’ll be okay. I’ll get through this, and I won’t snap and go postal on her. Instead, I just lie there. Like a fucking log or a corpse. Her arms tighten around me, and she’s whispering shit in Spanish, and all I can do is close my eyes. But then I see the Hummer and what’s left of B.B., so instead I open my eyes. Vali’s a much better sight. We lie there like that, me pinned to the bed by memories, her hanging onto me. Funny

how she feels like an anchor, keeping me where I want to be. Eventually, my heart slows back down, and my head decides it’s okay for me to be in charge of my arms and legs again. “You want to talk about it?” Not a chance in hell. Instead I roll her under me. Loving on her is way better than words, and it doesn’t take long before I’m lost in her instead of the memories.

T- 5 d a y s VA LI

SOMETIMES LIFE’S MISTAKES TASTE GOOD. The crunchy bit of rice left at the bottom of the pot isn’t the soft treat you intended, but it’s still the perfect complement for the dish. Raspita is a screw up, but so bursting with flavor that you forgive it. Finn’s my raspita. He

can’t be my entire meal, but he’s the seasoning. The zip. I don’t mean to look at Finn’s phone. All I want is to check the time, but my phone’s dead and the man apparently doesn’t believe in clocks. When I tap the screen, however, Finn has a series of text messages from someone called Xander. Honestly? They’re hard to ignore. That’s a lot of naked woman. Xander is on a boat somewhere tropical and sunny, and he’s wearing a blonde on each arm. The blondes… aren’t wearing much of anything. I think their surgeons were even better than mine. They sport some impressive boobs.

So I stare. And then somehow… yeah. I read the texts. I’d apologize, except apparently Xander’s not the only asshole. In fact, he’s not even the biggest asshole. That would be Finn. Finn—who apparently bet Xander a million bucks that Finn could go for a month without having sex unless he was in a committed relationship. This explains some of Finn’s questions, but now I don’t know where we stand. I wasn’t looking for forever or a real ring, but I also expected to be something more than a payoff for a bet. It’s hard to reconcile the roughly tender man who

held me last night with someone who’d bet on his own sex life. This is the point at which I sneak out. I’m not ashamed to admit it. Unfortunately, however, I have to ask Rohan for a ride back to my place because it’s too far to walk. Finn’s mentioned him, but we’ve never been formally introduced. Plus, he’s a hot guy, and the girlfiends have happily discussed his looks, his whereabouts, and his presumed dating preferences. His dark eyes look me over carefully. He was the lieutenant commander of Finn’s SEAL team, the guy in charge, and the big kahuna. He’s used to make lightning-quick judgments where people

live—and die. I get the feeling that my request for a ride merits no less consideration from him. “My man will take you wherever you need to go,” he says finally, when the silence has stretched out between us a little too long. “Not him,” I say. Finn’s sleeping, and there are those pictures… yeah. I need to go, because I’m not entirely sure what I’m doing here. I came over for hot, noholds-barred sex, and Finn delivered that. God. Did he deliver. It’s just that I’m feeling a little clingy this morning, and I got a little too close last night. My emotions are right on the surface, where those pictures and texts can irritate them,

and that means I need to back off. Fast. Finn is fun—he’s not forever. Plus? I don’t want forever. See? We’re actually on the same page. His stupid bet is just fine with me. Rohan’s not big on talking, which is a godsend. He just nods as if he understands (which he can’t possibly since I don’t) and heads out the door to a battered, topless Jeep. “Tell me he treated you right,” he asks once we’re on the road. He keeps the Jeep at a solid, steady pace, his fingers loose on the wheel. He looks like a barracuda or a great, big grizzly bear trying to convince someone that it’s really cute and fuzzy. Harmless. Right. I

bite back a snort. “Finn’s amazing in bed,” I tell him, because there’s no way that comment doesn’t short-circuit our conversation. As expected, Rohan looks pained. Apparently, he didn’t need the mental image of Finn naked and engaged in sexual gymnastics. Ordinarily, I’d enjoy teasing him. He’s a big, macho guy, and he probably chews enemy insurgents alive. Feelings aren’t part of his training, though, and he’s clearly not comfortable being my stand-in girlfriend. He nods. Slowly. “So you’re sneaking out of his place, wearing his clothes, because he rocked your world so well?”

This is not when I’m bringing up Xander. I don’t have an answer—I’m just feeling overwhelmed. The other problem with hooking up in just a bikini? The morning-after walk of shame is that much more obvious. I’ve stolen a T-shirt and a flannel from Finn, but the man doesn’t own a pair of sweats that wouldn’t end up around my ankles. So I’m hoofing it back to my place barelegged. “I need to go home,” I say, and he drives a little faster. “Finn’s wonderful.” When he parks outside Bee Sweete five minutes later, I just hope the neighbors aren’t staring. Ro even waits until I’ve climbed the stairs and

unlocked my door before he pulls away.

T- 5 d a y s FINN

I LOVE MY JOB. TRAINING DOGS IS GREAT money, and my canines make a difference in the world. Not that I’m a fucking Boy Scout, but it’s nice to still matter. I may no longer infiltrate hot, buggy, cartel-infested jungles for Uncle Sam, but I’m not parked in a rocking

chair banging out knitting, either. Training guard dogs isn’t easy. I bust my ass, and what I do counts. If I was in the National Football League, I’d have gone from the starting string to the sidelines, but I’d still be the coach. I’d make the calls, organize the plays that matter. It sucks when I have to let my dogs go, too. I can’t keep them forever. They’ve got a job to do out there in the world without me, and most of them I’ll never see again. Knowing a dog you’ve trained is out there keeping good men and women safe is a rush. I kind of figure it’s parenting SEAL-style, because these dogs are my fucking babies. I’ve raised them, trained them,

and guided them through the doggy equivalent of adolescence, only to drop their asses off at college and drive off into the sunset. Some of the dogs love you back, while others can’t wait to be rid of you. I miss them, and, yeah, I’ve got a whole gallery of pictures on my phone. If you ask real nice, I’ll show you. I’d like to offer this as Exhibit A in my defense. I do know how to have a relationship. SEALs and dogs don’t count, you say? Well, they’re the training wheels that should guarantee I don’t fuck things up with Vali. Vali is easy to be around, and not just because she’s hot. I mean, that helps. Don’t get me wrong.

But she’s funny and relaxed, and when I’m with her, it’s all just… easy. Or it was. Because waking up alone after we had awesome sex and I opened up to her about my PTSD? Yeah. That sucks. More than sucks, if I’m being honest, because I can’t even pretend that I don’t care. I wake up, and she’s not wrapped around me. I stretch—keeping my eyes closed because my brain has already added two and two and arrived at four but I don’t want to admit it yet—and my legs don’t bump into hers. She’s not in the bed. Okay. So maybe she’s in the bathroom? Hope is not a strategy. I man up, sit

up, and survey my bedroom. Funny how it looks exactly the same as it did last night, yesterday, last month—but it seems emptier. Vali’s gone. I shove back the covers, take a second look around the room, and confirm what I already know. She’s left, and I’m so far gone that I even check for a note. Under the fucking bed. I don’t know where I went wrong or how I screwed this up. I’m confused as shit, and I don’t like that. I’d planned on having hot wake-up sex with her, and then maybe we’d spend the day together. We could work on my relationship skills. Repeat the hot sex portion of the day, because some things really, really

bear repeating. My place has more than one room. It’s not too fucking much to think she’s just not… here. I get up, pull on a pair of jeans, and recon. She can’t do this to me. She doesn’t get to mess with my head or my heart—that’s not part of our deal. But she’s not in the bathroom. She’s not in my bed, under my bed, or in the fucking living room. The kitchen’s empty, and so is my front porch which means… what? I check the beach and the dog runs, in case she wanted early morning puppy love or a job. I’m a positive thinker—and an idiot. This is where Ro find me when he peels into Search and SEALs, driving

just fast enough to be dangerous. Ro loves speed, although he usually drives precisely the speed limit. Rules are important, or so he claims. I’ve always been the flexible one, but today he screeches to a halt in front of my bungalow, tires spitting sand. He leaves me no doubt the stick he’s got shoved up his ass. As soon as he’s popped the door, he’s out and striding toward me. “You gonna pack up your shit so Xander can move in?” And good morning to him too. “Xander’s not winning our bet.” I peer around him, on the sad, pathetic offchance he’s got Vali stashed in that Jeep of his. An early morning breakfast run, a

feminine emergency, something. Jesus. I need to get over this. Over her. Ro makes a rough sound. “Because he won it last night.” Say what? “I’m winning our bet.” I could call Vali. I have her number. Talking about her early morning departure would be mature, right? Ro crosses his arms over his chest, and I get the feeling that his posture is the only reason he’s not taking a swing at me. “You had sex.” What I and my penis do is actually none of his business, but I assume he’s worried about Xander horning in on our position. Despite his time with the

SEALs, Xander isn’t all that familiar with the words partner, team, or plays well with others. He’s more of a supreme dictator, hostile takeover and evil billionaire overlord kind of guy. I wouldn’t want to try working with him either, not without the ability to lock his ass up in the brig for insubordination. “I have a committed relationship,” I say. Fuck. I actually sound both sincere —and proud of myself. Ro snorts. “You think Xander’s gonna buy that?” Honestly? Yeah. And for one simple reason—because it’s the truth. I’m new to this relationship business, but I kinda… like it. I like Vali and I like the

way she makes me feel. I’m a better version of me when I’m around her, although I still need to figure out where the hell she’s gone. Ro growls something entirely uncomplimentary. “Lose someone?” It’s none of his business. “I drove her home,” he tells me, proving that my personal shit is, in fact, now his business. “Why?” He looks at me like I’m a dumbass. “Because she wanted to leave?” “Why?” I sound like I’m five and stuck on auto-repeat. This isn’t the happiest realization of my life, and Ro repeats the dumbass look.

“Because she wanted to leave,” he enunciates. “Because she was done with your sorry self.” She can’t be done. I’m not done with her. Feelings are really fucking inconvenient, aren’t they? Ro runs a hand over his head. He looks like he’s considering ripping his hair out. “Do you really care about her?” I open my mouth. Close it. Since when do we discuss feelings? I’ve never seriously considered dating anyone longterm and, honestly, my dating life mantra has been the more, the merrier. But Vali is different, and I want to hang onto her. She’s someone special. She matters. And

more importantly? I want her to hang onto me. “Fuck yeah,” I mutter, proving I’m not getting the gold star in communication skills for today. But it’s honest. I mean it. Ro groans. “Go after her. Try talking instead of…” He trails off and turns away, but his message is clear. No fucking. More words. The odds were always high that I’d screw this up, but I was planning on having things end with Vali today. Or tomorrow. Or even next week, next month, or next year. Fuck. Me. I go back inside, grab my keys and the rest of my clothes, and hope

inspiration strikes before I reach her place.

VA LI FINN KNOCKS ON MY DOOR. AT LEAST, I’M betting it’s him, because the knock is firm, loud, and annoyingly long—all traits I associate with him. If assholery had a noise, I’d be hearing it right now. Unfortunately for Mr. I-make-milliondollar-bets, I have a hot date with my kitchen. Usually, I can lose myself in baking, but today… my attention’s way too focused on the door and the man on

the other side. He bangs and knocks, the staccato rhythm morphing into shaveand-a-haircut-two-bits, and then something that might be rap. Or maybe that’s how they teach SEALs to batter down a door. Nope. Still not answering. I beat the egg whites until they’re foaming and then drop spoonfuls of heated sugar into the white froth that clings to the wire beater. Salt, cream of tartar, vanilla. Meringue kisses are beautifully simple. I fold in the pink color and then pour everything into the pastry bag. Tiny kisses, one after another, dot the baking sheet. They’ll be melt-on-your-tongue sweet in another

thirty minutes. Finn bangs harder on the door. I’m pretty sure he calls my name, but I thumb up the volume on my iPod and pretend that I’m having a really great time. Without him. I almost wish he’d force his way in, make me talk to him, except what could I say? Who’s Xander? And I wasn’t worth a million dollars? The last kiss sort of plops onto the tray, looking more like a mutant blob than anything sexy. Appropriate, right? Finn stops knocking, my phone stops vibrating with his texts, and I’m happy. Really happy. I make another tray of meringues, and these are a deep, inky purple because the pink was too

goddamned cheerful. When my kitchen window flies up ten minutes later, I instinctively fling the tray at the intruder. Dios, who breaks in the second-floor window? Finn deflects the tray one-handed and hauls himself through my window. His hair’s rumpled like he ran his hands through it. He’s wearing his standard uniform of a faded T-shirt, jeans, boots —but I don’t spot any wings sprouting from his back. How the hell did he get up here? “You should answer your door,” he says, swings his legs over the sill, and plants his boots on my kitchen floor. Wish granted, my heart sings. No.

Not my heart. Some lower, earthier, girlier part of my anatomy. I’m not happy he’s here, and I’m definitely not thrilled he’s ignored my very pointed dismissal of his previous attempts to communicate. “Breaking and entering is a felony in the fine state of Florida,” I counter and glare at the timer on my oven. He gives me an innocent look. “Nothing’s broken.” Says him. When he opens his mouth, though, I cut him off. I’m not interested in whatever he has to say. If I were, I’d have opened my door. “You can’t just climb up a two-story building and force

your way in my window.” He looks at my open window and the… grappling hook? Who carries that kind of stuff around with him? “You shouldn’t date a former SEAL,” he says calmly. Deflect. I play my ace card. “Who’s Xander?” Finn blinks. “You know Xander?” I drop the mixing bowl into the sink a little harder than is strictly necessary. “I know he texts you. I know he likes blondes with big boobs. And I know he makes some really dumbass bets. You want to try again? Who is Xander?” Finn prowls closer. “An asshole. A billionaire. A former SEAL. Possibly,

D. All of the above.” I hold up a hand. “Stop right there. Why is he texting you about a no-sex bet?” Finn braces his hands on the other side of my kitchen island. He looks sexy and rumpled, and I’m way too aware of the bed that is mere steps and a hallway away. So what if he’s pretty? And has really, really talented hands? I don’t even want to think about the milliondollar price tag. Or the fact that apparently I’m the very stupid, very oblivious monkey wrench in that particular deal. He leans toward me. “Why are you reading my texts?”

“You should buy a clock,” I snarl. “All I wanted was the time.” “Shit,” he says, and I agree onehundred percent. Shit sums this morning up in four letters. “We agreed to keep things casual,” I tell him in a deliberately casual tone. “We’re not serious. I just hope the sex was worth a million bucks.” His smile is slow and confident, which makes me want to throw something else at him. On purpose this time. “I should explain our bet.” “Not interested.” Please let me sound confident. He takes a step to the right, clearly intent on coming around the island to me.

Not. Happening. I slide right and glare at him. “Xander bet me I couldn’t stay celibate for a month,” he says quickly. “And you didn’t.” He stares at me intently. “He made an exception for sex in a committed relationship. I’m committed to you.” We’re having—were having—fun together. We were supposed to be light and nothing serious. Our engagement is a game, a sham, and the opposite of commitment. All of that is true—so why do I want to believe Finn’s telling me the truth? He’s a player, like his friend Xander, and he’d probably “date” either or both blondes in Xander’s picture.

“You’re not a commitment kind of guy,” I tell him. I wish… I don’t know what I wish. He flattens his palms on the island. “I’d like to be.” Huh. I try and fail to imagine a monogamous Finn. As the timer counts down the remaining minutes in slo-mo, I say the first thing that comes into my head. “Since when do they let billionaires join the Navy?” He shrugs. “It’s an equal opportunity country. Uncle Sam’s more concerned about how well you storm a beach while taking enemy fire than the state of your bank account. Gotta say that I agree. Xander was a good man in a fight.”

Yeah. Nothing to say to that. Guess Finn agrees because he sort of mutters “Fuck this” and then vaults over the island. I’m pretty sure my eyes go round with surprise—he’s just cleared three feet in as many seconds—and I spin around. I need to leave, to go somewhere else, anywhere he’s not. But he’s right there in front of me, his arms gently caging me in place. “Hi,” he says roughly. “I missed you.” “So you scaled my house?” He lowers his head until his mouth almost brushes mine. “It seemed like my best plan.” “Xander?” FYI? This would be me

caving in. “He’s an idiot. I’m an idiot.” Then he kisses me, and somewhere long before the meringues are done baking, I’ve agreed to give him a second chance.

T- 4 d a y s FINN

THIS IS THE PENALTY FLAG DAY, THE DAY I make my general dickishness up to Vali in the matter of her choosing. Unfortunately, that doesn’t mean bondage games. Nope. It means running errands with her… which is a very couples thing to do.

I’ve got pictures of Vali on my phone. I thumb through them while I wait for her to finish up whatever it is she’s doing inside Bee Sweete. Most of them are just her, quick shots I snapped when she wasn’t looking. The only one I’ve got of the two of us Captain Dickwad took when we were parasailing. He caught us just as our asses hit the water. We’re bouncing, spray flying everywhere, and he’s practically snapped a crotch shot. Vali’s shrieking, and I’m laughing at her because after you’ve HALO jumped, getting your butt wet on a landing is the least of your worries. She hates that picture, but I think it’s cute. I’m waiting with the camera app up

and ready when she comes flying out the side door of Bee Sweete. She’s late and she knows it, because she’s moving. She comes barreling toward the Jeep, an enormous cardboard box obscuring her face. This means I can see the bottom half of her T-shirt and two inches of tanned tummy above the waistband of her shorts. Those shorts deserve to be memorialized, so I raise my cell phone, take aim, and snag myself a couple of pictures before I haul ass out of the car. That box looks heavy, and when I pluck it from her arms, she doesn’t protest. I get that she’s capable of carrying her own crap from Point A to Point B, but why should she if she has me to handle

her dirty work for her? She huffs with relief, shaking out her arms as I load the monster box into the Jeep. Her cheeks are pink too, and I hope she didn’t haul that load down from the second floor. Vali’s stubborn sometimes. Okay. Most of the time. I slide into the front seat, and while she makes herself comfortable next to me, I inspect my latest pictures. “What are you doing?” She leans over, her arm brushing mine. “I’m admiring my trophies.” I hold up the phone so she can see. “Those aren’t trophies,” she protests. “They’re more like blackmail.” Honestly? No. I pocket my phone—

leaving it on the front seat is an invitation Vali doesn’t need—and start the Jeep. “Have I ever forced you to do something you didn’t want to do?” She gives me a look. I’m probably supposed to read all sorts of things into it, but fuck if I can figure out the language there. “Where are we going?” I ask. She gives me another look. Unfortunately, she seems to have a bottomless supply of them, and none of them are in English. This would be easier if she came with a user manual. “You’re the one who said he wanted to run errands with me.” I flick her a two-fingered salute. “At

your orders.” “Uh-huh.” She laughs, and the husky, low sound reminds me of the dulce de leche she makes. “We’re going to the post office.” Honestly? The post office is not high on my fantasy list. I’m sure I’ve mentally imagined banging a mail carrier at least once, but the actual workplace of said fantasy girl is full of lines and grumpy people. No offense to the US Post Office, but no one hanging out on the public side of the counter seems to know how to address an envelope or tape a box shut. I risk a glance inside Vali’s box. It’s full of other, smaller boxes. “Getting a start on your Christmas

mailing?” She tosses me something, and I catch it automatically. She’s given me a… small pink boob? It’s hard to keep my eyes on the road when she teases me like this. “It’s edible,” she announces, and that smile of hers is enough to make me consider pulling over and screw the post office. I’ve eaten plenty of things in my life. Mini-boobs are not one of them, so I wait because clearly she’s dying to explain. “I make candy for women undergoing chemo.” She points to the ribbon attached to the plastic package in my

hand. Being thoroughly distracted by the pink titty candy, I haven’t gotten around to reading the words yet. Together we can lick this. Jesus. “You’ve got a filthy mind.” Mind you, it’s not a complaint. I adore Vali’s filthy mind. It comes up with all sorts of downright naughty things to try when we’re in bed together. It’s just that if I’d ever thought about breast cancer, I’d have assumed it was one of those Serious Subjects. The kind you don’t joke about. Ever. I put the Jeep in drive and tuck the candy into my cup holder. I can think of several things to do with all that pink

sugar, starting with rubbing it on Vali’s tits. She grins at me as she twists her hair up into a messy bun. I don’t drive slow, and with the Jeep being sans doors, she’s practically eating her hair. “Be glad it’s not for ovarian cancer.” I think about that while she talks about something else. Honestly? I’m not really listening. My brain derailed when I imagined licking Vali’s sweet, pink lips —and not the ones talking a mile a minute, either. “You’re not listening,” she accuses after a couple of minutes. Which is entirely her fault. “You brought up vaginas,” I point out.

She’s lucky we’re still on the road and not in another ditch. “I mentioned ovarian cancer,” she counters. “Ovaries aren’t pussies.” Potato. Potatoh. The post office is a ten-minute drive from Bee Sweete. Since Vali’s car is now officially in the shop having cosmetic surgery after its road trip into the ditch where we met, I volunteered to take her where she needs to go. The post office is a one-story pink stucco building flanked by an orderly row of mailboxes and palm trees. It’s laidback and lazy in the sun, and it doesn’t take us long to get inside. Mailing the four hundred million baby boxes takes the better part of

twenty minutes, however. The older woman in the post office uniform clearly knows Vali, and the two of them chitchat back and forth about the weather, the books they’ve read, a recipe for something unpronounceable that I’ll have to coax Vali into making for me, and who in town is sporting a new baby bump. That’s information I didn’t need, but it makes Vali grin from ear to ear. I reach around her and shove the door open. “You come here often?” She nods and hightails it for the Jeep. “Once a week.” I mentally re-count the number of boxes we just mailed. “You know that

many women with breast cancer?” She doesn’t answer until we’re well out of the parking lot, and even then she avoids the question. “Thanks for driving me here. It was really nice of you.” The thing is? I’m not a nice guy. My post office field trip is the direct result of my wanting to spend time with Vali— and not because I’m trying to earn a gold star for niceness. She really should understand that. “I want to get in your panties,” I tell her and wink. “And you’ve got a soft heart.” She doesn’t smile back. Doesn’t give me shit, doesn’t make that cute little disgusted sound that’s more snort than

sexy. “Pull over,” she orders. “Park.” Jesus. Is she sick? Did I actually piss her off so much that she’s decided to swim home? The expression on her face is hard to read—she’s not laughing, not even with her eyes. Fuck. It’s not like I can read her mind. All this time we’ve spent together? I’ve been thinking about banging her—not about practicing my telepathy skills. I pull over, and she reaches over and kills the engine for me. Okay. This isn’t a five-minute pit stop and she’s not puking. I’m still clueless, though. “Cancer’s not a joke,” she says, even though she was laughing just a few

minutes ago. Okay. We’re actually in violent agreement there. The people in my life tend to go out with a bang—assault rife, IED, Hummer rollover. It’s louder and faster than cancer, but dead is dead. Also? Vali looks like she’d be happy to kill me. “Not a joke. Got it.” Shit. This is where I’m supposed to say the S-word. Sorry. And I am sorry. I’m a sorry piece of shit. I’ve lost people. She’s lost people. And now she thinks I’m making light of those dead people she carries around with her? Not a chance. I shift in my seat. “I’m sorry—” She moves so fast that my drill

sergeant would be proud. One minute she’s got her ass parked in her own seat, and the next she’s straddling me. Her hand hits the seat lever, I fly backward, and she slams a palm into my chest. “You know someone with breast cancer?” There’s no right answer here. I open my mouth, and she shifts the palm on my chest to my lips. “I don’t know if I would have had cancer or not,” she tells me, and time slows down the way it does when you realize there’s a missile coming in hot and headed for your bunker. You can’t avoid a hit, and it’s going to be bad, and you’d better pray to whatever you

believe in that your fortifications are just enough. “My sister died from Stage Four breast cancer. My Tía Mina died. I wasn’t taking the chance. I told the doctors to cut them both off.” She yanks her tank top down, wrestling her arms out of the thin straps. I have seconds to admire her blue satin bra, and then she flicks the front open— God bless front clasp bras—and she shrugs the bra off. This gives me the best ever view of her tattoo, where the vines and the flowers swirl over her skin. She runs her fingers underneath the lush undercurve of her boob, and my tongue immediately volunteers as a replacement.

“Do you see this?” “I’m looking.” I’ll touch, too, just as soon as she lets me. “Do you know what this is?” The only twenty-question game I want to play right now involves her sexual likes and dislikes. I drag the back of my fingers over her skin. “It’s a scar.” I have scars, too. It’s not like I’m Ken doll pretty. Uncle Sam plays rough with his soldiers, and I’ve failed to duck on more than one occasion. Still, I’ve got all my working parts—as I’d be more than happy to show her. “I told the doctors to cut them off,” she repeats, cupping her boobs. “And

they did.” Okay. Sometimes, I’m slow. If you told me I had a choice between testicular cancer and shaving my balls off, I’d take my chance with the disease. We men? We’re not fans of anyone—doctor or not —taking a whack at our reproductive gear. I run my fingers over the scar that wraps beneath Vali’s boobs. The skin is puckered and rough, but barely pink. It hides there in plain sight, part of her tattoo, not quite covered by the color and the flowers. I’ll bet that’s intentional. “The scars are from my augmentation surgery.” She traces the path with me. “They kept my nipples and that’s my

skin, but what’s underneath it is one hundred percent implant.” Now that I’m paying attention, I can feel the rough ridges beneath the flowers and vines. I mean, I’d noticed them before, but I’d been distracted by other parts. Parts like nipples and nakedness. “Okay,” I say like an idiot. She’s clearly sensitive about this, and I want her happy. Whatever’s upsetting her, I need to fix it. But I’m genuinely confused, and she needs to hand me a cue card. Give me a fucking hint. “My boobs are fake,” she announces defiantly, as if that’s supposed to make me run screaming in disgust. Not a chance. I mean, most guys love boobs—

and we’re not discriminating. Big ones, little ones, and every single size in between—they all work for me if you’ll let me touch. And taste. This is starting to feel like that stupid ass argument about organic vegetables versus the kind that gets raised the old-fashioned way with pesticides. Whatever. I’m not going to discriminate against fake boobs. They’re generally just as lovely as their more authentic counterparts, and they tend to be big. Big breasts definitely work for me, although I honestly haven’t seen a pair of tits that I couldn’t admire. And Vali’s boobs are just part of her—a spectacular,

gorgeous, can’t-wait-to-get-them-in-mymouth part of her, sure, but I’d still like her just fine if she was an A cup. “You’re beautiful,” I say. It’s not like I’m lying. “Guavas,” she counters, and now I really have no idea what the fuck we’re talking about. Only one thing is clear. Vali’s got some kind of hang up about her tits. She seems to be under the mistaken impression that cutting them off and installing a replacement pair would be a turn off. It just means she’s strong. I’ve had conversations with other SEALs, the kind of shit you talk about when you’re stuck in a foxhole and you’ve run through

all the movies and Kim Kardashian hasn’t heated up the Internet lately. We talk about how far we’d go if we were trapped. Would you cut off a finger? An arm? A leg? We’ve never discussed dicks—the odds of getting trapped by your dick are slim—but I’d bet none of us would have the balls to do what Vali did. “You’re strong.” I give into the urge to touch. Her skin is so pretty. “Fake,” she counters. And I honestly don’t know shit about reconstructed boobs, but she’s wrong about one thing. “These are your tits. They’re you.” True story.

She opens her mouth, and I’m betting she either wants to smack me or argue with me. It’s not like I’m a smoothtalker, so I figure I’ll just show her. Demonstrate my sincere affection for her boobs. Most guys love breasts. Sure, we’re looking into your eyes and we’re noticing your great smile or the dimple in your cheek that makes it look like you’re so flirting with us, but really? We’re trying not to stare at your boobs. No pair is exactly like another pair, but that just makes it better. Vali’s like the gold medalist in the breast competition. Full and round and her ink… her ink drives me crazy. Plus, they’re her choice. She’s chosen exactly

what they look like, and that’s hot. I trace my fingers over the sides, skimming the soft skin, the curve where her boob meets her rib. When I exhale, my breath skates over her skin and her nipples pucker. When I do it again, taking my time, her breath catches. “Beautiful,” I growl, but I ignore her nipples for the moment. It takes an act of fucking restraint, because they demand I suck them into my mouth like ripe little cherries, but I do it. I’ll let her thank me later. Instead, I press my mouth against the soft, smooth skin of her breast. I kiss up and then down, learning each sweet inch as she shifts on my lap. And when she starts to writhe? I

know I’m doing my job right. I grip her hips loosely, helping her to ride my dick through our clothes while I love her with my mouth. Her skin pinkens, her nipples tightening to dark red points. When I finally suck them into my mouth, tonguing them roughly, my reward is an ear-shattering moan. She’s gonna come just like this, her breasts in my mouth, her pussy riding my dick, and I love it. The next words out of her mouth are my name in a desperate, keening chant. FinnFinnFinnFinn. She digs her nails into my shoulders and grinds down on me. I shove up, giving her the friction and hardness she craves, and we just about rock the fucking Jeep.

“You’re a good guy,” she says later. Much, much later, because showing her exactly how much I appreciate her custom-made boobs took time. You can’t rush art—or art appreciation. She rolls off me—collapses, really— onto her seat. I kind of want to have this piece of the highway commemorated. Maybe put up a plaque or bronze a palm tree or two. Aren’t most of our state senators guys? I bet they’d understand my need to remember this place. “We need to try this in a bed again,” I say. “I do even better in a bed.” She rolls her eyes. “You rise to a challenge well.” It’s clear I’ll never understand her.

I’ve offended her, sucked her titties until she came by the side of the road, and now she’s rediscovered her sense of humor? This is why so many men go for the quick bar pick up and skip the whole relationship business. If I’d spouted compliments and tried to get to know her, would I have ended up parking by the Florida highway with the taste of Vali’s spectacular breasts still in my mouth? Not a chance in hell. There’s one thing she’s taught me in the last hour. Two things. First, I’ll go to the post office with her anytime she asks. I had no idea the mail delivery business could be so dirty. Two? Vali gets

whatever she wants. If there’s even a chance I’m seeing her naked (or holding her, giving her what she needs, or anything else that verges on forbidden relationship territory), she gets it. I’m firmly wrapped around her little finger. Or possibly some other part of her anatomy.

T- 3 d a y s VA LI

FOR OUR DATE TONIGHT, I’VE COOKED FRIED plantains that I’ll pair with lime wedges. Browned and caramelized into a sweet, hard surface, the fruit will rock Finn’s family. In case that’s not enough, I’ve also got deep-fried pork with yellow rice and okra, the sections of okra

seeded through the rice like small green flowers, and a crusty loaf of Cuban bread. Finn eyes the mountain of food on my kitchen counter. “I wasn’t planning on starving you.” I shrug and load the box into his arms. “Mami taught me never to come empty-handed.” Besides, I’ve tasted Finn’s attempt at cooking, and I’m better. On our way, he stops by the gas-andgo. I follow him inside, because it feels stupid to sit in the Jeep and wait. He promptly puts me to work, dumping eight jumbo-sized bags of chips into my arms. “Hold these.” Without waiting for an

answer, he lopes towards the beer display and pulls out two twenty-four packs. “Just how big is your family?” That question’s safer than the one really ricocheting through my head: holy taquitos, they’re alcoholics! Finn has never mentioned coming from a large family. He shrugs and heads for the cash register. “We’re classy. What can I say?” A few minutes later, we’re back on the road. We make a quick pit stop at the nearest drive through, and Finn orders twelve kid’s meals in a dizzying combination of no ketchup, no cheese, extra pickles.

The building we pull up in front of isn’t winning any architecture awards. It’s a low, one-story bungalow that was probably painted peach once upon a time, but now is that indeterminate, faded beach pastel you see all over the Florida Keys. It’s comfortable looking, even if it doesn’t look like any family home I’ve ever visited. I don’t realize it’s a veteran’s home until Finn opens the front door and motions for me to precede him. The doors are those double glass doors with the metal handles you find at doctors’ offices and hospitals. A faintly antiseptic smell hits my nose, bleach and cleaner followed by a Lysol chaser. The nurse at

the front desk waves us through with a wink for Finn. Naturally. The man’s a magnet for women. Finn takes off down a corridor to our right. Clearly he’s been here before, because he doesn’t need directions. Maybe his grandfather is here? Military service runs in families. Maybe he’s stopped off to see Grandpa before taking me home to meet the folks. Not that we need to take our faux engagement that far, but he offered. And now I’m curious. He steps into a large common room filled with old men, and a rousing cheer goes up. If these are his relatives, someone he cares about practices polyamory. Or polygamy. I never can

keep those two straight. I teeter on the threshold, juggling chip bags. “Is there something you should tell me about your family?” He flashes me a quick, superficial grin. He’s pulling out the charm now. “They’re loud. And they cheat.” The old guys send up a roar that’s practically deafening. The two seated in wheelchairs protest their innocence—for which I don’t blame them—while a nearby neighbor waves his cane, threatening to accidentally decapitate the guys around him. I do a quick headcount. Ten. Finn is claiming ten senior citizens as family? Finn wades right in, making

introductions by calling out names with military precision. His men salute, and the uproar slowly dies down. Or maybe that’s because the better part of the first box of beer has been passed out and cracked open. I meet a second lieutenant, two first lieutenants, a major, and a colonel. I’m not sure who served where or when—they all talk over each other and most of them are deaf—but I know one thing. These are good guys. “You invited me to meet your family,” I say a few minutes later as I pour chips into bowls on the table. The beer has magically disappeared, but I’m certain the men know precisely where each can is located. “I was expecting

tías, tíos, maybe your own parents?” Finn shakes his head. “This is my family.” Without volunteering any more information, he starts passing out the Happy Meals until there are two left— one for me and one for him. Apparently stage two in Finn Family Night involves cards. My card skills don’t go much past Go Fish, but everyone is happy to teach me the finer nuances of poker. The food I brought doesn’t hurt, either—after the guys devour their fast food, they’re more than happy to start in on my contributions. It’s like feeding a bunch of amiable piranhas—the table is stripped bare in no time.

I’ve never been big on cards. Mami and her relatives love a good game of canasta, and they’ll spend hours parked at the table, eating and talking. These guys are fun. They also cheat—there’s no getting around that. I’m at a disadvantage given my inexperience, but I’m not blind. Or deaf. It’s a good thing we’re playing for the roll of pennies Finn produced, because otherwise they’d take me to the cleaners. I almost don’t notice when my phone rings. Finn looks up when I toss my cards in, but I shake him off. I’ve got this, and he’s having fun. I’m not tearing him away from his family to hold my hand while I talk to my mom. I’m a big

girl, and I don’t have to have his help. “Mami,” I say, stepping outside. It’s warm and dark, the wind stirring up the palm tree fronds. The Gulf of Mexico lies just on the other side of those trees, close enough to wade in. We side step our way through the hellos and how-areyous, and then she launches into the reason she’s calling. “I want to set up times to visit bridal shops.” “That might be premature,” I say carefully. Frankly, I’m lucky she hasn’t decided that we should elope to Vegas, because then she’d show up, herd us onto the plane, and things would get really difficult to explain. I should tell

her the truth, that Finn isn’t my fiancé. He’s not even really my boyfriend. More of a friend with benefits. Really, really awesome benefits. Unfortunately, describing the miraculous properties of Finn’s penis isn’t going to slow my mother’s mad dash to the altar. Quite the contrary. She’ll assume he has super sperm and start shopping for baby clothes, too. My Mami is one determined woman, and usually that’s a good thing. Tonight, however, I feel trapped. The door opens behind me, spilling light out. I don’t hear Finn approach, but the man’s part ninja. He slides an arm around my waist.

“Hi, Mom,” he says into my phone, and just like that Mami melts for him. The man’s downright lethal. I have to hold the phone against his ear for the better part of five minutes while she talks at him. He grunts, nods, and makes every possible noise of agreement. I hope to God he’s listening to what he’s promising, because the IRS is less persistent than my mother. I’m pretty certain I catch the words cathedral, twelve-person bridal party, and open bar. By the time he finally hangs up, I figure she’s already picked out our kids’ names and the location of our first house. “Your mom likes me,” he says, satisfaction filling his voice. Naturally.

He hasn’t figured out the price tag on all that liking yet. I love Mami, but she’s unstoppable. She’s the tornado tearing through the trailer park, the Category Five storm barreling into the Florida Keys. She’s going to knock Finn on his mighty fine ass—he just doesn’t know it yet. I lean back and look up at his pretty, pretty face. “Naturally. You agreed to everything she asked.” He shrugs. “She wasn’t unreasonable.” “Did you listen? Or did you just grunt?” He feathers a kiss over my forehead. I know we’ve got a faux engagement to

go with my oh-so-fake ring, but that kiss feels real. “She’s happy,” he says, like that’s all that matters. “She’s already picking out baby names,” I counter. This is the part where a player like Finn sprints for the hills. Hot, mindless sex is his thing—not babies and happily-ever-afters. He surprises me, though, with another shrug. He stays firmly pressed up against my butt, and it’s clear part of him is really, really onboard with the baby-making plans. I wonder if he’s ever lost a battle. He’s the kind of guy who wins every confrontation, the one who walks away

with the medals, the prizes, the girls. I can’t wait to introduce him to my Mami.

T- 1 d a y s FINN

WE SIT ON THE SAND, OUT IN THE OPEN, once a month. Not because we’re working on our tans or admiring the fucking view, but because we’re remembering the guys we lost in another place with different sand. B.B. deserves good memories, so that’s what we make

for him. A beer and a beach—those were his two favorite things, next to his wife. They hadn’t had kids yet, but they’d joked around in their emails to each other. B.B. had read out parts, and we’d hung onto every word. She’d picked out a dozen names, and we joked he’d better get busy next time he had leave. I volunteered to show him how it was done, although we both knew I’d never touch his wife. She was sacrosanct, like one of those Catholic saints you light candles for. You don’t fuck with a buddy’s woman. You don’t even think thoughts like that. B.B.’s taste in beer, however, was pure crap. He loved light anything in a

can, and he didn’t care if the shit was lukewarm. It was a standing joke in the unit that he’d drink anything with a poptop. It’s Ro’s turn to buy the beer this month, and he’s let the brews roast in the back of his Jeep. The cans alone are practically hot enough to cause seconddegree burns. We pile out of our rides and head for the beach. Ro tucks the six-pack under his arm and takes point. Vann and I fall in behind him, just like old times. The beach isn’t bad. It’s a sliver of pretty white sand with a half-dozen palm trees —the coconut kind Florida sports instead of the date palms B.B. last saw. I think he’d like it.

The sun’s going down, and a pack of tourists zip by on Jet Skis, whooping and hollering. There’s a blonde bringing up the rear, tits bouncing in two teeny-tiny pink triangles of fabric, and I hope B.B.’s seeing this from wherever he’s gone on to. It’s a first for me too, appreciating the landscape without wanting to take a hike through it. Vann drops onto the sand, back to a tree, doing an outstanding impression of not giving a fuck. His gaze quarters the water, though, and not because he’s admiring the boobilicious blonde. “Hooyah,” Ro intones quietly, stripping cans off the plastic ring. We drink the first beer in silence and pour

the last half of our cans into the sand. The ancient Egyptians had the right idea, setting their dead up with all the crap they’d need in the next life. If I’d had my way, B.B. would have travelled on with his Kevlar, his gun, and a fresh case of beer. There’s no reason eternal rest shouldn’t be one big, fucking party, right? We sit and stare at the water, because there isn’t a script for remembering our dead. I’m pretty sure Vann’s got his own memories, and Ro watches both of us like he’s afraid we might flip out on him. He’s the mother hen—I used to joke it came with the job title of lieutenant commander. He’s never figured out how

not to lead us now that we’re home and it’s okay. I can live with his concern. Ro crumples up his can and lobs it at a palm. “I got an email yesterday.” I fight the urge to snark him. Clearly he’s leading up to some unpleasant or momentous shit, and he doesn’t need me to point out that people get emails all the time. It’s like announcing there’s oxygen in our atmosphere or that Congress is fighting yet again. “From a woman,” Ro continues. Again? Not a news flash. While Ro has shown zero interest in dating, he’s not bad-looking if I’m being objective. If I were a girl, I’d probably be totally into him. Somehow, though, I doubt he’s

trying to explain his plans to get laid. “She knew B.B.,” he says roughly. “Really well. But she’s not Stacey.” Vann looks up. “Are we talking know as in I said hello to him at the grocery store? Or know as in I banged the hell out of him?” “She wants to talk to you,” Ro says to me, ignoring Vann’s question. Clearly, Unknown Emailer’s relationship to B.B. was more carnal than friendly. “She wants to hear about B.B.’s final moments.” “Hell, no.” I hadn’t had anything to say to Stacey—so I definitely don’t have to explain what happened to the girlfriend. Or whatever she is. I’m not

giving her what I couldn’t give his wife. “How’d she get your contact info?” Because unless B.B. was fucking a Russian spy or a CIA operative, she shouldn’t have been able to get Ro’s civvie deets. That would only have been shared with family. Ro looks uncomfortable, which is saying a lot. The man regularly cleans us all out at poker. “From the Search and SEALs website,” he admits. When I don’t say anything more, he pulls out his phone and tosses it over. The man’s had the same password for as long as I’ve known him, so it takes me less than two seconds to hack in. A quick swipe, and

I’m looking at his stuff. “First email,” he says and leans back, digging his beer can into the sand. I thumb open his mail app. He’s one of those super annoying people who deletes his email as soon as he’s dealt with it or moves it to some descriptively labeled folder, so it’s not hard to find the email. Jesus. That’s a baby picture. Of course, babies are pretty interchangeable, right? Bald, big eyes, usually resemble a prune. This one’s got those three attributes well-covered. I squint, trying to decide if it looks like B.B. “You see the problem?” Ro asks. “I see a baby picture,” I grunt right

back at him. He’d better connect the dots here because… yeah. I don’t want to believe it of B.B. Vann swipes the phone out of my hand. “Jesus.” “That was not a virgin birth,” Ro says, looking pained. “But she and B.B. had a thing together, and now they have a baby. That makes the baby family.” He doesn’t look happy, either. Vann stares at the baby some more. “Does Stacey know about the baby?” Ro thunks his head back against the palm. “Fuck if I know. Not like I’m going to call her up and ask her, right?” I don’t have a vagina or girlfriends, but even I can picture the ensuing

apocalypse. “She wants to come out here,” Ro says, and he’s looking at me. “She wants to meet us, wants to hear what happened.” I’m an asshole, but I don’t break promises. It’s why I generally try to avoid making them, along with any commitments longer-term than a few days. I’m also the only person who was with B.B. during his final moments, which means I’m the future star of that particular shit show. “Not a good idea.” Which is an understatement, in my opinion. It’s not like Stacey will find out or magically show up at the same time, but it still

feels like a betrayal, and I resent being put in that position. In about twenty years, Baldie Baby can revisit the idea, and maybe I’ll be more amenable. I can imagine telling the kid someday, but not the other woman. “Stacey had miscarriages,” Vann volunteers unexpectedly. Jesus. I didn’t realize he knew those kinds of details about B.B.’s personal life. Vann looks uncomfortable—apparently he’s not entirely happy that he knows these things when the rest of us are happily ignorant —but he plows on ahead. “They’d been trying for a couple of years when B.B. was home.” I don’t spend time thinking about

babies. I’d make a lousy father. So it makes no sense that my head superimposes a few other features on the baby picture newly burned into my brain. Features that look a whole lot like Vali’s. It’s probably because her Mami keeps harping on grandkid potential— it’s in the air. Like the flu, or a really bad viral infection. “I’m not talking to her,” I tell Ro and get to my feet. Suddenly, I don’t feel like drinking room-temperature beer on a beach. B.B.’s gonna have to go without this month. Apparently, I should have brought him a condom. Or lectured about safe sex and the birds and the bees when we had a down moment out there in the

field. Ro sighs like a girl and holds out my second beer. I ignore him and head for my Jeep. I’m not in a drinking mood. When I stand up, I’m not certain what I’m planning. All I know is that I need to get away. It’s childish, stupid—pick your adjective—but I can’t sit there and drink a beer to B.B. And by the time I’ve got my Jeep on the road, I know exactly where I’m going. To the only place—and person—who feels like home. Yep. Vali. I wonder if she’s waiting for me. If she feels this pull between us. Guess there’s only one way to find out, so I head for her doing sixty and going all out.

T- 1 d a y s VA LI

“CAKE TESTING,” MAMI SUGGESTS. “There are some wonderful bakeries here in Miami. You could come up for the weekend, and we’ll go cake shopping.” We’ve already had this conversation. Three times this week. Once she saw my

“ring” and got a good look at Finn, she was onboard with my getting married to a former SEAL. I’ve lost count of the number of times she’s declared he must have a good character and that “every girl needs a hero.” It’s not that I have any objections to heroes—but Finn’s feelings for me are practically nonexistent. We have insta-lust—and we’re not really getting married. Coffee-flavored cakes. Buttercream, fondant, red velvet, and coconut. What’s on the inside may count most for people —but when it comes to wedding cakes, it’s up for debate. The average person has no idea that meringue is the chameleon on the cake-decorating

world. It can be made to look so many different ways. Chrysanthemums, daisies, polka dots, ribbons of roses, fleurs-de-lis… the possibilities are endless. I don’t have anything against cake. Spending an afternoon sampling taster slices would actually be tons of fun, even if I don’t need the calories. But she wants Finn to come with us—so she can “get to know him”—and I can’t imagine him trotting from one expensive venue to the next to devour teeny slices of taster cake. Does he even like cake? I’d like to lick frosting from his abs. I have a fixation on his abs. They’re delicious, and I haven’t been able to

stop thinking about them. If I had to pick my favorite part of Finn Callahan, his ridged, toned abdomen would be a firstplace contender. Along with his baby browns that twinkle wickedly when he’s thinking stuff he shouldn’t, the roguish mouth, and the impossibly tight ass. Part of me wants to hang up on my mother and call him. I bet he’d come over too. He plays it like he’s such a bad boy, and while he’s hot… he’s also kind of nice. He’s had my back since the day we met, offering quiet support. If I really did want to settle down, he wouldn’t be a bad bet. No. Those are my hormones talking.

Okay. They’re not talking so much as they’re chanting Finn Finn Finn Finn. They want to get us laid again. And… I’m not listening to my Mami. She makes a noise on the other end of the line. She’s waiting for my answer. “Okay,” I blurt out, because old habits die hard. She’s my mother, and I’m used to agreeing with her. Wait. Mami sails ahead, and I realize that I’ve just agreed to a beach wedding in Miami. And not just any beach—the beach at Fontainebleau. The resort’s just come out of a billion-dollar renovation, and its guest list typically includes presidents, rock stars, and the obscenely rich. The deposit required to hold a spot

there probably approaches the GDP of a small country. It would be romantic. I have to give my Mami that. She truly does have my best interests at heart (even if it’s her interpretation and not mine), and she’s picked out a lovely venue. It’s easy to imagine the ocean, the palms, the way the white frosts the top of the waves when the breeze picks up like the best kind of meringue. It would be a gorgeous place to commit to a man like Finn. The words rehearsal dinner, oceanside cocktails post-ceremony, ballroom, and day-after brunch fly out of Mami’s mouth while I’m still sorting through my

mental fantasies of wind and waves. I’m slightly suspicious that she waited until I was distracted and then sprang this on me, knowing I’d agree to anything. There’s no way on God’s green earth that I can afford the Fontainebleau, though, and I tell her that. Naturally, she has an answer. “I’ll pay for it.” “No,” I say automatically. I’m an adult with savings of my own—I’ll pay for my own wedding. “I’ve been saving for years,” she says, and then she says the words that are the icing on the cake. “I saved money for both you and your sister. You’ll have a wedding for both of you.”

I like the idea of having a special cake to remember Bella. The thing is? If and when I get married, it needs to be about me and my man—but there’d be room for Bella, too. “I can’t commit without talking to Finn first,” I say firmly. The groom’s buy-in is essential, right? The problem, though, is that the Cword and I are in a committed relationship together. I live my life one day at a time—while my mother keeps trying to skip ahead to the future. If my life were a book, she’d thumb right over the chapters containing cancer like they were blank pages no one needed to read. Neither of us can erase them, but

dwelling on them isn’t our choice, either. But where my Mami wants to skip ahead to her favorite parts of the story (marriage, grandbabies, and ginormous Christmas dinners), I just want to enjoy the happy sentences. The sentences I’m reading now. She huffs, which is all the agreement I’m getting. “When do I get to meet him?” This right here? This is the problem with lying. While there’s no reason she couldn’t meet Finn, I hardly think it’s fair to make him meet his faux motherin-law. That wasn’t part of our deal, and I can’t imagine he’d be looking forward to it. Stalling is the order of the day.

“Let me see when he’s available,” I say. Mami starts talking again, but I’m distracted. The rat-a-tat-tat on my door is a surprise. I’m not expecting anyone, and it’s not like it’s Girl Scout cookie season. The steep flight of stairs to my apartment deters most people, too. It’s cheaper and easier than a guard dog. I’ve left the outer door open, so when I turn my head, I can see Finn standing there on the other side of my screen door. He’s big and brawny and so damn gorgeous that my stomach hurts just looking at him. I’m not a Finn expert, but something about the tight line of his jaw screams

upset. My fingers tighten on my phone. “I have to go. Finn’s here.” And something’s wrong with my beautiful man. “Ask him,” Mami orders, and I’d promise her the sun, moon, and stars— from not one but two solar systems—if she’d just hang up and go away. Finn came to me. That has to mean something. He motions, silently asking if he can come in, and I nod. He’s always welcome here. Finn enters. Shuts the door. Locks it. And then he turns and prowls toward me. Gently, he pries the phone out of my hand, taps the screen, and tosses it on my

couch. “I wanna see you,” he growls. Somehow, I don’t think he’s talking about a date.

FINN I SHOULDN’T BE HERE. Fuck me, but I know that. I should have driven home, but instead my feet brought me here. Vali looks at me, wide-eyed, when I pull the he-man move, but she doesn’t say anything. Maybe my bad day is written on my face—it sure as fuck feels like it’s

tattooed there. I make my move, advancing on her, slow and steady. I’ve taken beaches, cleared rooms this way, one foot in front of the other, hyperaware of my surroundings because death could be coming at me and my boys from any one of a dozen different angles. Vali’s dangerous in a different way. When I’m around her, I can’t shut down my feelings, and what’s worse… I don’t want to. For the first time in eighteen months, I feel like I’m alive and it’s okay. “Finn?” she whispers my name, and I hear the questions she doesn’t ask. What’s wrong with me? Why am I here? Should she be freaking out, or is my shit

okay? She doesn’t back up, though. That’s one more thing I love about her. Vali holds her ground. She keeps what’s hers, and I’ll bet it just about killed her to lose her sister and her aunt. I’m not hurting her. Not ever. She’s wearing a ridiculous pair of teeny cotton shorts and a baggy T-shirt advertising her loyalty to a sports team that’s racked up an appalling number of losses. Guess her bad taste in men extends to baseball, too. I slide my hands over her cheeks, tunneling my fingers into the hair tucked behind her ears. She’s breathtaking. That’s got to be why my chest feels so tight, why I can’t breathe.

“Hey.” She tilts her head back, her cheek brushing against my hand. We’re so close now that there’s almost no space left between us, but I need it all. I tug gently, and she comes. Her thighs brush mine, her tits rest against my chest. When she breathes, I feel it. “I had a shit day,” I admit. She’s practically naked, and that’s a sign, right? I slide my leg between hers, the heat of her pussy burning me up. She’s so hot, so ready, and all I did was walk through her door. No tricks, no nothing. It’s everything. “Let’s make it better.” She reaches up, her fingers stroking over my chest,

my shoulder, the curve of my throat. She toys with my dog tags as she waits for my answer, and that just reminds me how screwed up things are. Sounds like a plan. I scoop her up in my arms. I’m sweaty. I should shower, should pretend I’m capable of romancing her like she deserves, but I’m desperate to be inside her. Everything will make sense then. Everything will be okay. I carry her down the hallway. Her place isn’t big, so finding her bedroom is ridiculously easy. I should probably ask, but I’m talked out. Instead, I nudge her door open with my foot, pull back the covers, and set her down on the bed. She smiles up at me, and just like that

I’m greenlighted. I make short work of my clothes, stripping them off and setting them in a pile on the floor. She hesitates. “You want a drawer for that?” A drawer’s a big commitment, and I kinda covet her real estate. “Later,” I whisper roughly against her ear, drinking in her shiver. In the spirit of distracting her, I drop down onto the bed beside her and go to work. Drag my fingers down her throat, over her shoulders, and then lower still. Her skin’s so fucking soft that it’s hard to imagine her heart could be even softer. That’s a no fly zone, though, so I trace the sweet line between her tits through

her T-shirt, and she sucks in a breath. “You’re not wearing a bra,” I growl. She gives a little wriggle. “You absolutely sure about that, sailor?” Hell, yeah. I fist the hem of her shirt, drawing it upward until it clears her head, and I toss it on the floor. Her belly is the sweetest, gentlest curve, and her tits are fucking gorgeous, the nipples tight, hard points. And since there’s no bra in sight, I’ve got an unimpeded view. “Positive,” I whisper roughly, and she just gives me that Mona Lisa smile of hers as I palm her bare stomach. The moan she makes is my favorite song. Kinda like an anthem. I move down, outlining her belly

button, following the sweet curve that points me fucking home. Her throaty sighs encourage me, and I spread my fingers, drinking her in. The whole committed relationship thing seems way more plausible from where I am now. It’s not about my stupid bet with Xander —this is all about Vali, about us. “You’d better say it,” I whisper, easing down her body. “Give me the words so I’m not misbehaving here.” “You need directions?” Her question is part snark, part whimper, and all kinds of trouble because I’m not sure what I’m doing here other than trying to make us both feel better. One good tug and her shorts fly down her legs. I want to take

my time and admire her thong. It’s bright red, and the front is completely seethrough except for the small red bow that gives my tongue the perfect target. Apparently, I’ve been looking too long, because Vali wriggles, trying to coax my fingers lower, and that’s not the kind of invitation I turn down. I plan on sinking my fingers deep in her pussy, just as soon as I’ve stripped her down. I sacrifice the thong for the greater good and pull it down her legs. “Do me,” she orders. “Make us both feel better.” She smells so fucking good. The whimpering sounds she makes are even better, because she needs me, and she’s

not afraid to show me. She pulls me closer, running her hands over my shoulders, my arms, my ass. Fuck, when she grabs my ass I almost detonate. She sets me on fire. I suck her nipples until she’s gasping. She’s such a pretty moaner. She makes these rough, needy sounds in the back of her throat, her fingers digging harder into my body and pulling me closer. See, her mistake was in thinking this was about me, when what I really need is to lose myself in her. “Don’t stop,” she groans. As if I could. I bite down—gently, because I’m not a fucking caveman—as I push my fingers

into her pussy. Just getting inside her this much is so damned good. She’s wet and tight, gripping my fingers in heated welcome. I used to be a planner in bed, used to know which moves I’d use, where and when. Now all I can do is feel because Vali rocks my world, making me harder, needier… hers. My name tears out of her mouth. I’m gonna make her scream it next. “I can’t get enough of you,” I whisper against her skin. I should say something better. I should tell her she’s fucking gorgeous (so true), the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen (also the truth), and the best goddamned person to ever come into my life (which is why I need

her to not leave). Instead, I get lost in the sensation of her hips arching up to meet mine, her body twisting. I want every inch of her, inside and out. “You make me feel beautiful, Finn,” she whispers. She is beautiful. That she’s ever doubted it, even for a second, makes me want to howl. To hurt somebody. Fuck, I’m ready to kick my own ass if I screw things up between us. Right now, though, she’s all about the pleasure. She draws her knees up, rocking into my hand, so sweetly greedy. She can have all of me. She’s gonna love my mouth. “Hands over your head, baby. Don’t let go.”

“What are we doing?” She gasps the question—but she also follows my directions. “You’re coming for me.” Is that my voice that sounds so rough and hoarse? And my hands tugging, pinching, easing over her skin as I pretend to myself that I’m the only guy she’ll ever come for again. That she’s mine and mine alone. I may be the fucking rental bike for half the Florida Keys, but she’s like the Sistine Chapel. No way you don’t worship her. Just for a moment, I wish… shit, it doesn’t matter what I wish for. I shove her legs wide with my shoulder and enjoy my view. She’s fucking pretty here too, all pink and soft.

It would be so easy to hurt her or do the wrong thing, and nothing’s ever mattered more. “Finn,” she whispers. “Stop torturing me.” I haven’t even started yet. Since I’m a man who needs a good mission, I go all in. I brush my mouth over her pussy and drink her in. This is the perfume all those manufacturers should be bottling—the way Vali smells is such a turn-on. She drives me crazy on my first pass. By my second, I’m an animal. “Perfect,” I growl, because speaking’s getting harder—along with another part of me. And then I show her

all the ways I’m not a nice guy. I make demands with my mouth, my fingers, and my dick. It’s wrong, and I don’t care. I lick her pussy like she’s my favorite flavor of ice cream—first the exploratory taste to make sure she really is that fucking awesome, and then deeper, faster, as I devour her. She’s mine, and the writhing of her hips, the needy cries spilling from her mouth? That’s the yes sealing our deal. I’m Michelangelo painting the Sistine Chapel on his goddamned knees. I spread her thighs wider, make room for myself, and love her with my tongue. She can have the rest of me later. After she’s come. I lick and taste, dragging my

tongue through her swollen, creamy folds, and she holds on, making the noises I love. She’s losing it for me, giving it up, and I’m pumping the sheets with my dick, desperate to be inside her. Not yet, though—first I need to make her feel good. “Hurry. Up.” She bites out those two words and yanks hard on my head. Guess she’s impatient—and not following my rules anymore. Her hands are definitely not over her head, and we’ll be discussing what happens to misbehaving bad girls later. In rounds two, three, and four. Probably tomorrow and next week too, because I’m committed to this relationship of ours in

a whole new way. I suck her clit into my mouth, stroking it with my tongue. “Finn!” She screams my name, and I could get off on just that sound. Four letters, and she’s got me wrapped around her finger—next part of me to go is my dick. I yank on a condom, give my erection the good to go, and slide home in one long, hard stroke. She’s had all the preliminaries she’s getting. I don’t have any more words left in me because nothing has ever felt this good. She shrieks, and it’s a good thing she doesn’t have neighbors. I grab her hips and put her right where we both want her—on my dick,

taking each stroke I hammer her with. She’s wet and tight as I thrust into her, and fuck me but I won’t last. And I don’t want to last. This isn’t about being the best (although I so am) or sexual gymnastics (although we’re not doing too badly in the creativity department). It’s about making a place inside her body for me and giving her everything I’ve got. I ram into her, thrusting up, and she digs her fingers into my ass, yanking me down harder. My name’s coming out of her mouth in a long, breathy moan FinnFinnFinnFinn. And after that… yes. I add a few curses and do some

name-calling of my own, because that’s the one thing that makes this perfect. I’m doing this with Valentina Fuentes, and she’s my everything. And then she tightens, clenching around me, nails digging in, and we both know she’s coming and I’m racing her toward the finish line. I slam into her, pounding myself deeper, harder, faster, and when I come, there’s nothing but white lights and fireworks going off everywhere. Including my heart. I didn’t know that particular organ could orgasm, but it tightens and spasms right along with my dick, pouring everything of me into her.

VA LI I’M SUPPOSED TO INSIST THAT FINN TALK after we have sex. That he spill his secrets and let me inside. Instead, I run my fingers over his head. Despite being eighteen months out of the military, he still keeps his hair cut regulation short. It feels both soft and prickly beneath my fingertips, like velvet with a bite. Like the rest of him, his hair’s amazing. Dios. I’m not sure when casual sex got so complicated. Because my mind’s still blown by the most intense orgasm of my life, I give up trying to think, however. Instead, I lie there breathing Finn in, my

head on his chest, my fingers tangled up in those dog tags he insists on wearing. I wonder if he realizes that he’s cuddling. Mr. Big, Bad SEAL has popped his relationship cherry. “Take the tags off,” he says after a long while. His body is still loose and warm beneath mine, and his heart beats as steadily as ever against my cheek, but I can almost feel him pulling away. “Are you sure?” “Do it.” When I fumble looking for the clasp, Finn’s fingers cover mine and help. The tags fall into my hand, and I can’t help examining them. Someone’s scratched the initials B.B. into the metal beside the

SEAL’s name. They’re not Finn’s. “Get rid of them,” he says. People say things when they’re hurt, when the bad news fairy has hit too hard. Finn may mean it right now, but tomorrow—or possibly a whole lot of tomorrows later—he’ll change his mind. So when I get out of bed, I tuck the tags into the empty dresser drawer I made for him to put his stuff in. He doesn’t want my space, but it’s his now. “Who’s B.B.?” For a moment, I think he’s not going to answer. He rolls onto his side, watching me fuss with the drawer, folding the chain into neat quarters. “Not who I thought he

was.” That past tense? It says it all. Two inches of metal is all Finn has left, and now he doesn’t want that. He wasn’t kidding when he said he wasn’t into relationships. I get back into bed— still naked—and he pulls me into his arms, though, so there’s that. It’s still light enough to see—our marathon sex session hasn’t extended past sunset, and I haven’t raised the questions of a sleepover yet—but my close up of Finn’s chest puts me face-to-face with his scars. They’re not big ones, and you’d have to strip him down to really notice, but they’re there and I haven’t had the right chance to ask him about

them before. I trace a three-inch ridge of raised flesh on his side. “What’s this from?” He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Same place I got the dog tags from.” “B.B. cut you?” I thought the initials stood for another soldier, but maybe it’s a weapon. Like the air gun but more lethal? “The Hummer B.B. and I were riding on hit an IED,” he says after another one of those pauses where his head’s taking a trip down memory lane somewhere far, far away from the Florida Keys. “Our ride flipped and went into a canal. We were taking heavy fire, so when I went after B.B. I picked up a few souvenirs.

We had to wait for an extract, so I got him into a culvert that emptied into the canal, and then we waited.” He says this so casually, like getting shot badly enough to have scars is no big deal. And maybe it isn’t in his world— but if he’s wearing B.B.’s dog tags, B.B. didn’t make it out. “It took him almost an hour to die,” Finn continues. “We took fire the whole time because the hostiles knew where we were. B.B. wanted me to leave him, to try and crawl through the culvert to another exit point.” Let’s say you’re having a really bad year—or possibly two—and you think everything that could go wrong has. And

then a SEAL shows up and tells you about his bad day. A bad day that involves explosions and bullets. Friends dying. I wondered where Finn went when he zoned out and his head went somewhere else. I suspected those moments first in Bee Sweete and then later in bed at his house sent him back in time to battlefields and bad places—and now I know. I could mention it, could let him know I understand and I have a few triggers myself. I won’t use Lysol anymore, and I hate the color white. Those things are my own personal fast pass to re-watching Bella die, and I’d prefer to gloss over the sad, bad parts

and remember the happy times. And Finn’s memories are so much worse. I had help and friends and the knowledge that this was coming, so that even though there was no preparing for it, Bella’s death didn’t literally explode in my face. “B.B. asked me to kill him.” The words hang in the air between us, and I’m betting he’s told no one this before. He probably thinks he’s stunned me, but the thing is? I’ve been asked to do the same. Terminal metastatic breast cancer is a horrific diagnosis. At that point, it’s not just your breasts—cancer’s in your very bones, and it’s coming for your heart and soul. From what I’ve seen, the

pain is excruciating, and some women would rather go out on their own terms. I didn’t say yes when my sister asked me for help, but I didn’t say no, either—and then she passed naturally, and I didn’t have to choose. Choose between ethics and love, helping someone I love and losing that same person. “I wouldn’t do it,” he says fiercely. “I wanted him to live no matter what.” Finn’s not a quitter. He’s a fighter and a soldier, and I’ll bet he doesn’t understand about giving up, about how sometimes letting go of life is the only way through. I remember the pain and I don’t know if I could be strong enough to do it again. If I did get cancer despite my

preventative measures, if it were me facing a terminal diagnosis, maybe I’d ask for help ending things, too. Or maybe I wouldn’t. There’s no way to know for certain, but Finn wants black and white rules. “He quit on me,” Finn says now. “And he quit on his marriage. He cheated on his wife.” There’s no easy answer to the questions I hear in Finn’s voice. I wish I did have answers; I’d give them to him in a heartbeat. But Finn doesn’t do relationships, and I’m just looking for a good time, a friend with benefits, and neither of us has much practice opening up. In fact, it’s safe to say we suck at it.

I’ve fantasized about having more with Finn. Spent more hours than I care to admit daydreaming about possible feelings, about next dates, about milestones. Finn’s an amazing guy. I’ve been living in my own world for so long that I’ve forgotten men like him exist. They’re big and strong on the inside as well as on the outside, and they’re fighters. I’m sure it’s why he enlisted in the first place. He’s the kind of person who means it when he promises to protect and serve. What he can’t deal with, however, is coming home. With losing the friend who fought beside him —twice.

Finn’s amazing. I should enjoy every minute I have with him. Indulge all my fantasies. Store up memories of amazing, mind-blowing sex. He’s good for it. We both know it. Someday, I’ll be the ninety-year-old woman telling stories in the nursing home, and Finn will be the hero I cackle about. I’ll have all the aides sighing over him, while they look at me and wonder how an old bird landed such a hottie. That’s all I’m doing here. Making memories. Waiting until he moves on, and I head in a different direction. Funny how our fake engagement feels so real sometimes. I hold him silently, and he lets me.

Together we breathe in, breathe out, letting the last moments of our afternoon spin away. Eventually, I get up and make him an omelet, a smoking pile of potatoes, chorizo, and onion sprinkled with salt. He’s still eating when someone starts banging on the door.

T- 1 d a y s a n d h o l d i n g FINN

RO IS AT THE DOOR, BANGING ON THE fucking thing so hard he’ll be inside in a minute if I don’t take steps. I’m not into sharing or ménage, so I glare at him through the six inches of open space. “What the fuck do you want?” He has to know what we’ve been

doing in here—and I’m actually okay with that. And apparently I’m also perfectly happy with having the emotional maturity of a caveman, because I feel good knowing that Ro and Vann both know that Vali’s mine and not just because of the ring I put on her finger. I suddenly understand why guys mark their gals with their jizz, ink a bigass tattoo on her skin, or even buy diamond rings. Vali’s mine. I’m the king of the fucking world. Ro’s not going away, though. He stands there, booted feet planted on my porch, as immoveable as Congress. “Come downstairs.” Ro makes this sound like the most logical request in the

world. Let’s be honest. I don’t care if a meteorite dropped out of the sky and cratered Angel Cay. I’ve just spent the last five hours having fucking fantastic sex with a woman I have feelings for. The feelings are new and genuine, so I’m gonna have to figure it out, but anything else isn’t a concern right now. “Fuck off,” I suggest. Then add, “Please.” Manners are part of the new and improved, almost domesticated, me. Ro isn’t swayed. “Come down now,” he orders. He seriously wants me to step away from Vali? Who is mostly naked,

wearing just my T-shirt and no panties in her kitchen? While she cooks? I couldn’t have come up with a better fantasy if I tried. “Jesus. More kittens?” Because kittens definitely aren’t pulling me away from Vali. Ro gives me a look I haven’t seen since Iraq. It’s the look that says Get your ass in there, soldier, and save the day. “This isn’t a game,” he says, and then he turns and marches down the stairs toward the street. Alright then. I duck back inside, leaving the door open. Vali putters around her kitchen, doing those mysterious things that seem to end up

with me eating way too much food. She’s a goddess. A sex goddess, a cooking goddess, and just possibly the all-round ruler of my universe. Baby steps, though. I’m still getting used to the idea, so I settle for pulling her in close and brushing her mouth with mine. “Ro wants me downstairs,” I say. This need to share stupid, mundane details must be what it’s like to be part of a long-term couple, but I kind of like it. She nods. “Okay. Do you need me?” She has no idea. I kiss her again, a little deeper. “Always.” Her blush is cute, as is the slap she lands on my ass.

“Go,” she orders. “And then come right back.” I salute and head out the door to where Ro is standing by my Jeep. Vann is next to him, and he actually looks worried—which is a look he usually reserves for situations like having twelve heat-seeking missiles locked in on his position. My ride’s great, but why is it drawing a crowd? Even Señor Seagull’s in on the action, perched on the roll-top roof and surveying the area with his beady bird eyes and hopefully not shitting on my seats. It’s not the ride, although there’s a mountain of unfamiliar crap beside it. A sleeping bag that’s not mine. Several

suitcases (also not mine). And a really fluffy-looking, quilted bag—it’s bright pink and covered with daisies. Again? So not mine. “You remember Em,” Ro says, and Vann steps back, revealing a petite, brown-haired woman who looks at me with huge eyes full of emotions. Hope, calculation, more than a little exhaustion… she’s got it all going on in those eyes. She’s looking at me. Does she look familiar? I’m honestly not sure. Out of sheer self-defense, I nod to acknowledge our possible acquaintance and look around trying to make sense of this today’s command

meet-and-greet. Em’s not traveling solo. There’s a baby on the ground beside her, sleeping in a car seat. Short of stripping it down to its skivvies, I can’t tell from the small, wrinkled face if it’s a boy or a girl. “That’s Roger,” Em says, as if introducing the baby is mission-critical. Who names a baby Roger? The poor kid had better plan on an uphill battle when he goes to school and his peers have fun with that name. His daddy had better teach him to fight—or to not give a fuck. Or just get his name changed when his momma isn’t looking. If he were my kid, I’d do all three.

“Do you like him?” She sounds uncertain. What the fuck do I say to that? I’ve seen prettier babies, but this isn’t a beauty pageant, and I don’t want to hurt her feelings. Ro elbows me. Hard. “Good-looking kid,” I lie through my teeth, and she beams. I’ve said the right thing. “He’s yours,” she announces and then reaches down and starts fishing around in the car seat like she’s going to hand over the baby. And… do what? Wait. Rewind. Mine? I’m beyond certain I don’t have any mini-mes running around. This world can barely handle me—it doesn’t need a sequel.

“Are you—” I get two words out and skid to a verbal halt. Sure clearly isn’t the next word that’s supposed to come out of my mouth. Nor is crazy, delusional, or on the make. Okay. That last one’s three words, but you get the point. Vann and Ro glare at me. What. The. Fuck. Babies aren’t like Christmas presents. They don’t come with gift receipts or tags stuck to their foreheads, and even if they did and the tag fell off, you can’t just unwrap them to figure out who should get the present. And honestly? I don’t want this present. I agree. That makes me a horrible

person. I stare at the baby some more, and it scares the fuck out of me. There’s no good way to ask if Em’s sure. There’s no good way to tell her that I’m not entirely certain I even remember her. Maybe? I’m drawing a blank, but the truth is I’ve banged enough women that maybe I did have sex with her and simply forgot. I’m always careful, but accidents happen. I’m living, walking proof of that. And because karma’s not quite done crapping all over my life, bare feet slap on the steps behind me. Vali’s come down to check on me. She’s put on some more clothes, but she still looks like she spent the night in my arms. It’s a good

look for her, but Em’s eyes widen. Maybe I really did sleep with her, because I recognize the competitive gleam in her eyes. “Oh.” Em chews on her lower lip, and like he’s some kind of feelings magnet, the baby in the car seat opens his eyes and starts to wail. Loud, earpiercing howls that sound less human and more like an air raid siren. Maybe he could be mine, because that’s exactly how I feel right now. Em scoops the baby up and starts patting him on the back, babbling nonsense words. A ripe odor emanates from the bundle in her arms, and then, before I can fall back or adjust my

position, she hands him over. To me. Vali leans in, smiling. I don’t know how she feels about babies, but there’s lots I don’t know about her. I’m working on that. From the way her eyes soften when she looks at the baby, though, she’s clearly not baby-adverse. “He’s gorgeous,” she says, with just the right degree of sincerity in her voice. “He looks just like his daddy,” Em announces, satisfaction filling her voice as she attaches herself to my right side. FYI? There are way better ways to be the filling in a two-woman sandwich. “He got Finn’s nose for sure.” Vali lets go of my arm like she’s been

burned, and my fantasies crash and burn so badly that they have road rash. “He’s yours?” “Yes,” Em says at the same moment I say, “I don’t know.” I’d like to say no, to flat out deny it, but what if it’s true? Why would Em lie? Ro throws me a lifeline. “We’re going to work this out.” If I weren’t watching my life swirl down the crapper, I’d appreciate it. He plucks the baby out of my arms with an expertise I didn’t know he had—but thank God for—and heads toward his ride. I don’t know what kind of help he thinks he’ll find there—it’s not like he’s got a DNA kit in the glove box or the

complete video of our sex lives so I can prove I didn’t do this thing—but I’ll take what I can get. Part of me—the immature part that’s a bastard—hates Em on the spot. Why is she here screwing up my life? Why did she pick now to come knocking on my door? She’s blindsided me with a baby in front of Vali, and any other time, I’d be telling Em to fuck off. But she’s a party of two. She has a baby. That might, just possibly, in some kind of weird, horrific, alternate universe kind of way, be mine. One of the first things I learned as a SEAL was that civilian casualties are never okay.

Innocent bystanders shouldn’t get hurt by my war, and I have a responsibility to point my weapons in the appropriate direction. The baby—Roger—didn’t ask for any of this. I don’t get to throw a temper tantrum and drag Vali back to bed. I don’t get to ignore what’s happening, because it may be my mess and, even if it’s not, Roger still needs my help. I can’t think of any acceptable reason for his momma to be chasing me through the Florida Keys rather than raising him in a house with a roof and a front door and a nursery other than her needing help. And Roger needing a daddy. Roger definitely deserves that.

“Finn—” The way Vali says my name isn’t a good sign. “I don’t know who she is. I don’t know who Roger is.” I want to pull Vali close, to swing her up into my arms and fall back to our bed. Whoever Em was to me, she’s no one now—unless she really is my baby momma. Fuck. Me. Why didn’t I wear two condoms? Get my swimmers’ exit route snipped so that at best I shot blanks? Not that I want anyone coming at my dick with a scalpel (or whatever the fuck they use these days —doctors might have a big ass laser beam for all I know). That’s always been off-limits territory for me, but… I

wasn’t planning on a baby. Or being anyone’s daddy. In fact, it’s safe to say that when it came to my sex life, I didn’t plan at all. “Go on.” Vali makes a little shooing motion in the direction where Em, Roger, and Ro have headed, presumably to use his Jeep as an impromptu changing station. Vann is fastening the car seat into my Jeep. Manly or not, I realize I just might have a panic attack. Our Angel Cay audience would love that. “You need to take care of this.” Take care of them hangs in the air between us. It’s like B.B. 2.0, except I’m dying of invisible injuries, and I never intended to hurt anybody. Logically, I

realize your dick doesn’t just trip and fall into the nearest vagina. It gets there because you put it there. So… this is my fault. There are no excuses. For the first time, I second-guess my choice to screw around and sleep with pretty much anyone who asked. “I need to tell you something.” I get the words out, but Vali looks everywhere but at me. Mostly, she watches Em and Ro bent over the stillsqualling baby. She’s already moving on from me, and I don’t know how to stop her. I don’t have any practice at holding on. There has to be a way to fucking tell her that I love her. Because I do.

The baby screams so loudly, I start wondering if I should get a head start and dial 9-1. Keep my finger over the last button just in case he bursts something or needs medical assistance. That can’t be normal, can it? “Go,” Vali repeats, and then she turns around and marches back toward the stairs. She’s leaving me, and there’s not a goddamned thing I can do except head in the other direction, toward Em and Roger, because she’s right. I’ve missed my chance to tell her that I love her, and while I may be the biggest dumbass in the world when it comes to relationships, I do know one thing. Words count. It’s not so much the number

of words (I love you is only three words and eight small letters) as the message. And I didn’t bother telling Vali that she’s become my everything… so now I have nothing.

VA LI

THERE’S NO EMILY POST FOR WHAT YOU DO when your faux fiancé and lover suddenly becomes a daddy—and you’re not the momma. After Finn’s baby makes his grand appearance in Angel Cay, I hide. There’s no other word for it. The only saving grace is that at least Em and Roger made their grand appearance when I was at home—I don’t have to slink away from Finn’s place in the

ultimate walk of shame. I lick my wounds for a day, mentally replaying the scene of Finn driving away with Em and Roger in his Jeep, and then I text Marlee. Maybe it has something to do with the picture I snapped on my phone and sent her—making a photodocumentary of my relationship imploding was stupid and way too revealing, but like Lot’s wife, I couldn’t help myself. I had to look over my shoulder when I was walking away, and I saw way more than I’d bargained for. They looked like a real family. Marlee disagrees. She says appearances can be deceiving (as if I’ve never heard that line before), and then

we analyze every second of that morning. I’m sure Finn wasn’t expecting to wake up and discover he was a daddy. He’s lots of things, but he’s not a liar, and he has a code of honor that, while sometimes twisted and/or unfathomable (he has a penis, after all, and years of service as an active-duty SEAL), is largely admirable. Given his anger at B.B.’s extra-marital activities, I don’t think he’d cheat on Em with me if he’d known. Or more accurately, I don’t think he’d cheat on Roger. “Maybe Roger’s not his,” Marlee points out. She’s zoomed the picture in as far as it will go, so she can examine the top of Roger’s head and his profile.

There’s not much to see, and even less to base a paternity claim on. The car seat swallows up most of the baby, but you can just see his nose and his forehead, still red from his tantrum. In the picture, he’s snuffling, settling down as the Jeep’s motion calls to him like a siren. Roger’s going to be okay. Finn won’t abandon him, and Finn’s awesome at rescues. “It’s been two days,” I point out. Marlee wraps her arm around me. She’s a hugger, which I definitely appreciate right now. “Has he called?” “Texted,” I admit. “And?” I nudge my phone toward her so she

can see. Finn’s given the emojis on his phone a workout. I’m nuts about you (although I think the picture might be an acorn and not a nut-nut). A dancing stick figure man. Bear with me (presumably I’m the girly emoticon surrounded by teeny-tiny growly bears). Does Finn have a serious bone in his body, or is this just how he thinks? I haven’t responded. I mean, what’s there to say? Are you, in fact, a daddy? Where’s Roger now? “Wow. Points for creativity.” Marlee sounds impressed, but I bet you can Google half this shit. And really, communicating in sixteen pixels isn’t all that effective. I have no idea what Finn’s

trying to say to me—or what I want to say back.

DID I MENTION THAT MOM RADAR WORKS overtime? As if she’s sensed my personal life imploding, my Mami makes a surprise visit to Angel Cay. She texts me when she’s ten minutes away—which gives me just enough time to slip out the back door or schedule a dentist appointment if I really want to avoid her. Which I don’t. Mami drives a big, pink Cadillac that probably guzzles more gas and punches more holes in the ozone layer than any

one car should. I learned to drive in that car, and my sister and I borrowed it every chance we got. It’s the kind of car you feel glamorous in, like you should be wearing a head scarf and glasses à la Marilyn Monroe as the paparazzi chase you down the street because you’re just that famous. Where do you think I got the idea for a pink VW from? Mami’s Caddy is the mothership. As soon as she pulls up in front of Bee Sweete, she lays on the horn. Honks doesn’t quite cover it. She slams a palm onto the horn—and doesn’t let go. Anyone with any kind of hearing in Angel Cay knows she’s here. I go flying down the stairs to meet her. The first few

minutes are hugs and kisses and about a million half-sentences where we try to share every thought and feeling we’ve had since we last saw each other. I think we make up more than a few new words, but I’m absolutely clear on one thing. I’m loved unconditionally. Five minutes later, I’m helping Mami pull an enormous stack of dress bags out of the back seat of the Caddy. It’s kind of like those Russian nesting dolls. I lift one bag, and there’s another underneath. That’s a whole lot of baggage. “Are you moving in with me?” Honestly? I wouldn’t mind. Other than when it comes to bridegrooms and babies, Mami is flat-out fantastic. We

may bicker occasionally, but we get along well, and maybe having her here would fill up some of the loneliness that Finn left behind. Not that he and I actually had a full-blown relationship, but we were working toward it. I’m almost certain of that. She shoves another dress bag into my arms and heads for the stairs. “Three’s a crowd, niña. You don’t want me here with you and Finn.” Right. Finn. My mystery man she has yet to meet and who has disappeared into the sunset with his new family. She marches through the door to my apartment. “Where is he? I need to meet this new son of mine.”

She looks around as if she expects me to have Finn tucked behind the furniture or set out waiting for her inspection. It’s easy to imagine his grin at meeting Mami. He’d like her—I’m sure of it. They both have a mouth on them, and Mami likes to have fun. Of course, if she knew about Roger, she’d probably skin him alive. I drop the dress bags onto the couch. “He’s away this weekend.” I should just confess the truth—that I was never engaged in the first place— but part of me isn’t ready to let go of Finn. It’s pathetic. At best, he was a really, really good dream—and at worst, he was a complete and total illusion. I

should be singing hosannahs that our budding relationship got nipped by the baby. Instead, I’m singing the blues. I feel myself tear up, and Mami wraps her arms around me. “It’s okay. We’ll cook and gossip, and by the time he comes back to you, baby girl, you’ll have a dress.” She waves a hand at the stack of dress bags. Oh. Shit. “Since you couldn’t come up to Miami,” she continues, “I brought you some dresses to try for the wedding.” Cautiously, I ease the zipper down on the closest bag. A gorgeous, sparkly puff of ivory tulle explodes out of the

opening. Oh. God. It’s beautiful. I absolutely shouldn’t touch it, but instead of backing away, I pull it towards me. The dress is even more fabulous when I can see the whole thing—a long, sleek column of delicate gauze that begs me to try it on just for a few minutes. It’s so easy to imagine myself exchanging vows beneath an oceanfront gazebo or barefoot on a beach in this dress. “Get naked,” Mami urges. “I brought a mirror, too. I’ll go get it.” My Mami makes hardcore survivalists look unprepared. And because I’m weak and Mami’s gone to so much trouble, I strip down in my living room. And for the next hour, it’s

like I never left home, never grew up. I try on one spectacular dress after another, twirling in front of Mami’s mirror or sashaying down my living room like I’m a supermodel while Mami snaps pictures and texts them to her friends. It’s like playing the grown-up version of Barbie—if Barbie’s mom had the kind of credit that let her borrow thousands of dollars worth of clothing. Afterwards, when we’ve put the dresses away, we cook and talk. We make enough food for an army, which makes me think of Finn’s first family, the old guys in the veteran’s home. I should bring some of this out to them—they’d like it. When we cook in Cuba, we like

to feel full. Too many families have gone hungry too often to deal in small, fancy portions. We fill the table, and if there’s a mistake in the cooking, we adapt. “I need to tell you something,” I say when the last dish is tucked into my dishwasher, and all that’s left is a bottle of wine and two glasses. Mami nods. “Always, niña-piña.” It’s been years since I’ve heard my childhood nickname, but I refuse to tear up now. I keep going; I always have. First when cancer struck our family, then when I learned I had the genetic mutation that made me, too, first in line for cancer. And later, when I told the surgeon to do it, to cut off my boobs. I

just have to get through these first days, and everything will be better. I pour the wine. “I’m not sure it’s going to work out between me and Finn.” She nods, but she doesn’t look surprised. “So he’s not working this weekend?” “I don’t know what he’s doing,” I admit, “but he had some stuff he needed to work through.” “You should be helping him,” Mami declares. “Men don’t always think clearly.” Don’t I know it. “This was personal.” I’m pretty sure I’m not invited to a family party like the

one he appears to have going on. Mami looks utterly unconvinced. “And his asking you to get married was impersonal? And the sex was too?” Wait. What? My mouth gapes open unattractively. “We’re not discussing my sex life.” I don’t sound as certain as I’d like, and she laughs. “I’ve been married. And I was engaged twice before that.” This is news. I stare. She shrugs. “It took me three tries to get it right, but once it’s right, it’s right.” We lost my father to a massive heart attack ten years ago. Everyone cried, because my dad was the kind of guy you couldn’t not like. He owned four

restaurants in Miami, but he was never too busy to cook for us. His Saturday barbecues were legendary. The whole neighborhood would stop by, on one pretext or another, and everyone left with a plate of food. He loved beer, the Miami Heat, and my Mami. She’d walk in the room, and he’d light up. They were the two halves to a whole, yin and yang—you get the picture. Mami rubs my hand. “Do you want a second chance?” I don’t have to think about it. “Yes, but—” “Shhhh.” She smiles, and there’s so much knowing in her eyes that I shut up. “There’s nothing dignified about going

after him. You don’t get to keep your pride all the time, not if you keep the boy. You just have to decide if he’s worth it, niña-piña. I went after your papi, and most days I never regretted it.” “Almost never?” I have to ask. Her smile gets wider. “He was a guy. Some days, I wanted to kill him. All the other days—he was perfect for me. You want him back; you go get him.” I tell her about the meet-and-greet with Em. About Roger, and Em’s claims that Finn is the father. “Did he say he was?” “He didn’t say he wasn’t.” “So you need to ask him, face-toface. Not on the phone. You go there, and

you ask him who Em is to him, who Roger is. And then you ask him who you are—and if he doesn’t say she’s his past and you’re his future? You kick him in the balls, and you go, niña.” Things are exponentially simpler in my mother’s universe. “Worst case,” she continues, “you have a bonus baby you can borrow.” She has a point. “You’ll be okay here on your own?” She waves her hands toward the door. “Go on.” She hesitates, looks at the ring on my finger, and fires her parting shot. “But I hope he didn’t pay a fortune for that ring.” I can feel the goofiest smile creasing

my face. “It’s a private joke between us.” Mami’s face softens, and she’s off somewhere in her own memories. I’d bet a million bucks those thoughts star my dad and that they’re private, just like my ring. And then she smiles at me, relief and love lighting up her eyes. “Then that’s the perfect ring.” I couldn’t agree more.

FINN

I’M NOT A DADDY. RO PULLED SOME strings somewhere and insisted on a DNA test. Asking Em was awkward, although not as awkward as not remembering her. She says she had black hair then and was skinnier; I’m not sure that helps, and it’s not like we had a relationship. We just had sex. I’m not a daddy—but I could be. Roger still screams almost non-stop

when he’s not sleeping or sucking at Em’s boobs, but he’s starting to grow on me. Em admitted that she picked me as Roger’s daddy—I’m on his fucking birth certificate apparently—because she’d been going through a wild patch, and she wasn’t entirely sure whose swimmers snuck through the condom. Her other options weren’t as stable, she said. Or as nice. I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or not, but there’s still more than a hint of desperation in Em’s eyes and that’s what we focused on. She didn’t have anywhere else to go, which is why she ended up here in Angel Cay. Vann, Ro, and I are sorting out a place for her to

stay and a job. When she asked why we were helping her, I asked why not? We’re in the rescue business, and she needs a hand. When she pointed out that we’re also in the training business, I told her not to get her hopes up. I’m not qualified to train Roger. The sun’s going down when I finally get to Vali’s place after settling Em and Roger into a studio apartment a couple of cays over (close but not too close— I’m not stupid). I’ve avoided thinking about Vali since I left her apartment with my maybe-baby I’ve texted, I’ve hoped, and I may have fucking prayed, but I’m not the kind of guy miracles happen to. Roger isn’t mine, but that’s just dumb

luck. Rex One bounces beside me, tongue out, a happy grin on his face. Dogs like routine. They’re not fans of bouncing around from place to place. Unlike some of us, they’re homebodies rather than nomads. I’ve always itched to move on, but something about Angel Cay feels right. I put my feet under the table here months ago, and I don’t regret it. I can do wedding cake tastings, wedding gown fittings, the whole nine yards—if it’s what Vali wants. When the door to Vali’s apartment opens and feet hit the stairs, I look up automatically. And honestly? My heart fucking stops.

“You think we have a chance?” I rub my hand over Rex One’s head, and he barks. Yeah. I don’t speak dog well, but he’s happy to see Vali. She looks tired, like she hasn’t been sleeping well—and not because she had a screaming baby going off like an air raid siren every two hours. Her hair is twisted up in a complicated, messy bun, and she’s wearing denim cut-offs and a T-shirt, but she’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. She stares at me as she descends. I’m not winning any beauty contests today myself. Possible paternity, a screaming kiddo, and losing the woman of your

dreams will do that to you. “Hey,” she says. Three letters. One word. That’s not a whole lot to go on—but she’s here and she’s unarmed (as far as I can tell) and… I love her. I haven’t told her that, though, and that was my first mistake. I thought I was playing, when I was deadly serious. She lets me take her hand, though, and draw her towards the sand and the sea. Angel Cay’s not wide, and it doesn’t take us long to hit the beach and for me to find a spot where I don’t feel as if every last resident of the town is watching me put my heart on the line. “I want a second chance,” I tell her.

Shit. I should be asking, right? Begging. At least we’re standing on sand when I get down on my knees. “Finn—” She makes a face. She looks confused, hopeful, and sad at the same time. I did this to her, so I need to fix it. “Roger’s not mine. I’m honestly not sure if Em and I ever slept together, but she says we did and I’ve—” How do I explain that I’ve hopped from bed to bed (when there even was a bed involved, because I’m downright creative when it comes to sex) but it didn’t mean anything? That it was a way to forget? “And I’m sorry,” I conclude. I’m pretty sure I’ve skipped about a dozen

other things I’m supposed to say. Things like the sex didn’t matter, and that Vali is the only woman who does, and that it will never, ever happen again. Because I’m hers. “I love you.” The words hang in the air between us, and she stares up at me. “I really do, Vali. Tell me what I have to do to prove it.” The labors of Hercules? I’m so down with that. Whatever shit, impossible tasks she can dream up? Done. Handled. I’ll spend the rest of my life proving to her that I’m worthy. “Finn—” I love hearing my name on her lips, but right now? I’d like to hear

something else, too. I love you would be my first choice, but I’ve got others. It’s okay, I understand, and Let’s go make a baby of our own! Come to mind. Okay. So I’m probably not ready for fatherhood—even with Vali—but I’m totally prepared to worship her with my body. Just to make this perfectly clear, I tug her into my arms. She lets me, and I add that to the column where I’m putting the good things. “Tell me what to do,” I repeat. “Because I love you, and I’m fully prepared to leap tall buildings in a single bound, vanquish dragons, whatever it takes.”

The Florida Keys are remarkably light on fire-breathing dragons, and we don’t have a single building that exceeds three stories, but… it’s the principle. She lays her head against my chest, her fingers curling into my shirt. “Mean it,” she says fiercely. These are not words that I say. As a kid, sure. I trotted out I love yous on request (or demand). Then I grew up and realized feelings were optional… until I met Vali. “I love you,” I say. It’s even easier the second time, so I imagine that by the time I’m fifty or sixty, I could potentially punctuate every other sentence with the words. “I picked up milk. I love you.”

And just because the words are out there, just because it’s not the first time and they’re not shiny and new? They don’t mean any less. “I love you, too,” she says to my shirt. I rest my cheek against her hair, holding her close. This, right here? This is perfect. Of course, we can’t stand like this forever. At some point, we have to move, have to get on with our life—but it will be together. We’ll be okay and we’ll have each other, and that’s fucking perfect.

The Reeves Foundation is pleased to announce a donation of one million dollars to the veteran’s center in the Florida Keys. The donation will fund dropin care for local veterans, in addition to a new recreation room and

movie theater. “Our veterans deserve nothing but the best,” said Reeves Foundation director and CEO Xander Reeves. “And Finn Callahan has committed himself one hundred percent to making sure the vets of Angel Cay

have the happily-everafters that they deserve.” Keep reading in the ASSIGNMENT: Caribbean Nights series… Kat Cantrell’s Revealing Her SEAL, Evan Silva’s story, is coming soon! Turn the page for a list of titles in this collection. Have you read Mick and Cara’s story? If not, go back and discover Ruined by the SEAL by Zoe York! And coming June 15, 2016… HER ONE BEST SEAL. There’s nothing Vann O’Reilly wouldn’t do for a friend. So when Marlee asks him to be her baby

daddy, this SEAL’s all in.

I’m standing in the bathroom. This isn’t an unusual occurrence—I’m a guy, I stand when I pee, and peeing’s just about

the most basic human function there is. We’ve all got to do it, and I’m no special snowflake. I’m alone too, which is also not unusual. The wild-eyed look, the stubble on my jaw because I rushed to get here, the inside-out T-shirt? That’s the fucking difference. That and the white plastic stick on the bathroom counter. I’m usually more put together. I’m a former SEAL—it comes with the territory. You don’t get to have nerves when you’re storming a beach in hostile territory. Break down and someone plugs your ass with a bullet? Yeah. You can do the math on that one. I always hold it together. Vann O’Reilly. Big, bad

US Navy SEAL. Nowadays, I train military dogs who can and will rip your throat out on command. Not because they’re vicious killers, but because it’s their job and I’m the best trainer around. I have plenty of experience killing, and I’m one hell of a teacher and watchdog myself. I’m in control. I give the commands. So that can’t be my hand shaking when I reach out and nudge the plastic stick perched on the corner of the bathroom counter. This isn’t my bathroom. It’s way too girly, for one thing. The shower stall is tiled with these blue Moroccan diamonds and the curtain is a bright teal with yellow

tassels. There’s a pink ball hanging from the ceiling that’s supposed to be a light, and almost every surface is covered with little bottles full of colored crap. My shower has a bar of soap, my razor, and a bottle of shampoo. This place looks like a CVS truck exploded and dumped its contents. It smells like a fruit bowl, too—a really exotic combination of pineapple, peaches, and vanilla. If I wasn’t so freaked out, I’d probably be hungry. The little stick sits in the one clear section of the counter. It’s been washed and dried (thank God) with a square of toilet paper. All I have to do is turn it over and I’ll know. I’ve taken beaches in

less time than this is taking, so why is my hand sort of hanging frozen in midair? I’m decisive. I’m take-charge. I’m scared. Fuck me, but I’m scared. This is Marlee’s bathroom, not mine. I don’t belong here amongst all this girly stuff, and until right now that didn’t bother me. I sort of shuffle closer to the counter. I can’t bring myself to reach out and touch the stick, so I’ll bring the mountain to Mohammed. So to speak. Six inches. Five. Four. Do I really want to know? I bump into the counter before I can decide and the stick goes airborne. It hits the floor, and I lean over. I’ve got a blue

plus and a blue line. That’s clear as mud. The thing should just say Baby? And then give you a checkbox for yes or no. I have no idea what I’m looking at. Don’t these things come with instructions? A big hand reaches down and snags the pregnancy test from the bathroom floor. I’m not alone anymore, and I’m pathetically grateful. Ro and Finn are my wingmen today, just like they’ve been since we served as SEALs together and then when we started Search and SEAL. Ro turns the stick over and whistles. “Are you playing family?” I grab it from him. This isn’t a game. A plus sign means… positive? More? Bull’s eye? I’ve definitely shot targets

that looked like that, and even though it’s not like this pregnancy was accidental, I still panic. Finn parks his ass on the closed toilet seat and fishes in the trash can. He has no shame, but before I can decide if I mind, he’s holding a sheet of printed directions. Apparently, home pregnancy tests aren’t any more intelligible to the women peeing on the stick than to guys. He scans the sheet and then Ro turns the stick around so he can see the read out. “Congratulations,” he announces. I pretend that’s not a question I hear in his voice. “You’ve successfully procreated.”

Pre-order Her One Best SEAL for June 15th, 2016! ASSIGNMENT: Caribbean Nights

Claiming Her SEAL – Kat Cantrell Ruined by the SEAL – Zoe York Sweet for a SEAL – Anne Marsh Revealing Her SEAL – Kat Cantrell Bound by the SEAL – Zoe York Her One Best SEAL – Anne Marsh

EXCERPT FROM Burns So Bad Jump thousand. The familiar summer anthem of the smoke jumpers exploded through his head. Adrenaline flooded Rio Donovan’s body as he anticipated the exhilaration of dropping through the air as he threw himself out of the DC-3’s cabin and streaked towards Rail Mountain. Sixty seconds and two thousand feet. God, he loved his job.

The plane pulled away with a roar, only half-drowning the whoops of his boys jumping out of the cabin behind him. Rio Donovan shot a sideways glance at his jump partner, angling his body away from hers. Christ, she was a cool customer. She watched the ground rushing up to meet them without so much as cracking a smile. He’d bet she’d already cataloged the burn area and mentally marked a half-dozen hot spots she’d rush to knock down as soon as they were on the ground. Gia Jackson was good. There was no doubt about that. She’d earned her place on Strong’s jump team. So he had absolutely no business noticing how the jump harness

separated her breasts into two teasing mounds. She was one of his boys too and… not going there. Fifteen hundred feet to the ground and his next job. Focus, Donovan. Look thousand. The forest fire beneath belched a big ass plume of dark smoke on his right, the sideways drift half-obscuring the small speck of burned over meadow he was aiming for. The drift streamers had to be down there somewhere, the red ribbons an X-marks-the-spot he wouldn’t see for at least another thousand feet. The meadow swung crazily as the wind buffeted him hard, twisting him in a circle before he got the spin under

control and his boots down because he needed to get horizontal, fast. Feet first, straight up-and-down. A holler tore from his throat. Fuck, yeah. This was living and better than any covert op he’d led for Uncle Sam. Straightening his legs, he dropped below Gia. He weighed more than she did and he’d bet it killed her that he’d make the LZ first. He loved how competitive she was. Beating her to the landing zone would be fun. Reach thousand. Still mentally counting down, he tightened his grip on the rip cord. Pull thousand. And yanked hard.

And nothing. Not a goddamned thing. The lines twisted around the drag chute, turning his backup into a mess of flapping nylon and rope. Cursing, he took his eyes off the ground rushing up to meet him and eyeballed the tangled mess. That was okay, he thought, his hands already reaching for the utility knife strapped to his thigh. Cut it away and pull the reserve chute. Plenty of time. Still, he didn’t waste any seconds, sawing the sharp edge hard and fast through the ropes, because panicking was a luxury he couldn’t afford. Every second closed the distance between himself and the ground and dying hadn’t formed any part of his plans for today.

He preferred to come home alive from his missions. The tangled lines fell away, seeming to float next to him for a long second. He was bigger and heavier and the gravity really was a bitch. As soon as he pulled the reserve ripcord, however, he knew today wasn’t his day. Or it was his last day. Nada. The reserve chute didn’t fire and so now he was falling, not jumping, because he didn’t have a working chute. The ground spun again in a crazy 360 and there was no good way to land this. No way to pull out and demand a doover. He’d auger. Pancake. Die. Flashes of memories raced through

his heads, bright pops of had-beens, the places and people he’d loved. He’d done his fair share of loving and he had almost no regrets there. All he prayed now was that his brothers, Jack and Evan, wouldn’t let their adoptive mother see his body. She didn’t need to carry that kind of memory with her. A thought and a prayer and then he watched the ground rising up toward him, because if he was going out, he’d see the end coming. He had less than thirty seconds to live and to start dying. ~~~ Rio Donovan was falling.

The sheer impossibility of that truth hit her, but Gia Jackson hadn’t got where she was in life by refusing to accept the impossible. Her playful, sensual, Harley-riding, ex-SEAL computer genius of a partner who’d gleefully kicked her ass at every fire they’d jumped so far in this short season… was falling. To his death. His drag chute drifted away uselessly above him, tangled around a mess of lines, and she spotted no reserve chute. He’d have pulled the cord. She knew it. Instead of riding the toggles toward their landing zone, his big, leather-gloved hands were crossed over his chest. Gia couldn’t make out his gorgeous face behind his protective

helmet, but he was head up, feet down, barreling toward the ground in a one hundred miles an hour free fall. No one, not even the legendary Rio Donovan, could survive that kind of hit. She was his goddamned jump partner —and he hadn’t called out or hollered. What the hell was he thinking? They were supposed to communicate. That was part of the plan. She’d enjoy rescuing his fine ass just so she could yell at him for the sheer stupidity of his giving it up move. In order to do that, however, she had to get closer. She made a left-hand turn, curling up into a ball to drive her fall faster and close the distance between

them. “Problem, golden boy? ” She had to yell to be heard over the wind’s roar as she gripped the toggles. Snatching Rio from mid-fall wouldn’t be a walk in the park. He outweighed her, plus she had to avoid tangling his arms and legs in her line. Rio’s head snapped up. “Technical malfunction,” he drawled, like it was an everyday occurrence. His eyes stared into hers and this close she could just make out the long lashes he wielded like a weapon. She’d wondered before what it was like, seeing the world through Rio’s eyes. If he felt it, he never showed fear. She loved that about him. Nothing

ever seemed to scare him. God, to face life like that would be a miracle. “Need a hand?” She maneuvered closer. “I’m open to suggestions.” His body hung there in the air relaxed, as if he wasn’t hundreds of feet from dying. She looked down, scanning for the first two sets of jumpers. Add Rio’s weight to her own and she’d sink like a stone and getting too close to another chute would steal her air and drop them both on the other canopy. Killing three people today wasn’t part of her plan. “Grab on,” she snapped, because she didn’t have his kind of patience. God. Of course he hesitated.

“My boobs and I will survive the contact, I promise,” she snarled, correctly reading his hesitation. Now was no time to discover his inner gentleman. Rio wrapped himself around her with an audible grunt. He might have said something, but she doubted it was thank you. Probably an order or a command, she decided, hauling hard on the toggles. There was no time to figure their descent out better. Face to face, he scissored his legs around her waist, pulling her tight. Despite two bulky jumpsuits and the yards of safety webbing, she swore she could feel the heat of him. There was definitely no missing his strength.

“Get your head out of my way.” She craned her head, trying to see around Rio’s helmet. He growled, but tucked his face against her throat. After all, now he was riding blind, trusting her to land them both safely. He might not have a choice, but she’d bet he hated the feeling. She liked being in control herself. The ground spun below them, mixing up meadow with char and snags. The mountainside sprouted flames, first on her left and then on her right, as she faced them into the wind and steered for the LZ. The spotter in the DC-3 had warned the landing would be tricky. Sure enough, a blast of heat baked her

face when she swung too close to the burn site and the air started to choke up with smoke. She adjusted her grip on the toggles, taking them westward. “You sure about this?” he growled, sounding damned unhappy for someone who’d been about to die. “You want me to dump your ass now?” she countered, correcting the chute’s trajectory. “Hell.” His body tensed and she knew holding him was impossible if he decided to let go. “How much do you weigh, Jackson?” She didn’t take her gaze off the LZ. She was off the landing zone by twenty yards right now and hanging them both

up in a tree—when Rio didn’t have a safety harness—wasn’t her first choice. A hundred foot fall would just kill him more slowly than the free fall. “You’re asking a lady her weight?” She could feel his smoky chuckle in her ear. God. The things that chuckle made her think of were probably illegal in at least half the southern states. “You’re no lady, Jackson,” he said. He was right. “I’m your jump partner.” There. The clearing spun into view again and she steered hard. The guys on the ground had Oh, shit written all over their pusses because they knew a problem when they saw it. They

scrambled, pulling in their chutes and making room. She’d bet the lack of next steps was killing them, because unless they sprouted a giant trampoline out of their asses, all they could do was wait and watch. And it was almost over. “We the last in to this party?” Having a wingman was unexpectedly useful because she couldn’t take her eyes off the ground. Rio looked up, completely unconcerned. “Nope. We’re going to beat the last two jumpers if you hurry this up.” “Got it.” She did too. She wasn’t letting him fall.

“Gia.” She couldn’t look at him now, but he had her full attention nonetheless. He made her name sound deadly serious. “You let me go if you can’t land us both. Promise me.” Always a fucking gentleman. It was a good thing for him she played by a different code. She shifted, repositioning them, and the move pressed his chest against hers. Welcome to my late night date fantasies. “You’re my jump partner. You don’t fall on my watch.” That was the truth. Landing tandem— without a safety harness—was a highrisk maneuver, but letting him falling simply wasn’t an option. He’d have done the same for her and they both

knew it. That was what partners did. Too bad for him if he had an issue with her being female or having her girly bits squashed against his front. Rio was out of choices and he’d have to make do with her. “Gia—” The way he said her name, she didn’t know it was a curse or a prayer. So she gave him the truth. “I’ll kill you if you let go.” The final seconds were a blur of holding on and braking hard. The ground swung left-right-left in a nauseating arc as she picked a point over Rio’s shoulder and drove them in. The muscles in her arms and back screamed at the

doubled weight. But the chute held. Rio held. She bent her legs, getting ready to hit. Two broken legs would make her deadweight in this firefight. But as soon as her steel toes got close to brushing the ground, Rio pushed away, letting go and tucking into a roll. Perfect as always. Her boot clipped his shoulder—so sorry —and she caught his grunt as she slammed into the ground a few feet away. He wasn’t dead. Hallelujah. If she’d been more of a church-going, praying person, she’d have cranked out a few verses of something, but instead she ran, chute flapping, slowing her

momentum to the litany of thank Gods in her head. The rest of the team moved in now that she and Rio were on the ground, whooping and high-fiving. Her head ran roll call, automatically taking stock of who had landed. Jack and Zay, Liam and Angel, Quinn and Van. Evan Donovan’s big arm grabbed her as she tore past him, swinging her effortlessly to a halt. “Nice job.” Rio’s brother made those two words sound like a gold star and a Purple Heart. She grinned at him. “My pleasure.” ~~~ Not dead. Rio took a moment to

appreciate that glorious fact. Sure, he’d slammed his shoulder into the ground when he’d tucked and rolled, and Gia’s boot had clipped his shoulder as the chute dragged her further up the field, but the landing could—should—have been so, so much worse. He inhaled sharply. Control it. His back on the ground, his ass planted hard, he stared up at the blue sky. If he didn’t inhale—which was almost an impossibility at the moment anyhow, as his lungs strained to get back up and working—he couldn’t even tell there was a twenty acre wildfire to his right demanding quick attention. Good thing he loved his job and

lived to get the mission done. He could feel the steel-toes headed his way—he’d bet the entire jump team was either high-fiving Gia or headed his way to ask What the fuck?—so he did a quick inventory. He’d be sore tomorrow —nothing new there—but a quick twitch said both arms and legs worked. Which was nothing short of a miracle. Of course, Gia was probably the most stubborn person he’d ever met, which was another miracle given the ability of his two brothers to hang on and not let go, and she’d made it damned clear that she wasn’t letting him fall. Gia. Letting go of Gia was the hardest

damn thing Rio had done lately—and not because he’d been afraid of dying, but because she smelled like lemons and outdoors. He had no idea if she knew that, or if the scent was just Gia, but he got a contact high immediately when he was around her and those seconds wrapped in her arms were pretty unforgettable. For many reasons. He pushed himself into a sitting position, waved off the incoming team members and eyeballed the clearing. The last two jumpers were down, pulling in their chutes and pointing their boots towards the flames, ready to get to work. Usually, he did the rescuing. Being on

the receiving end was a new sensation, but hardly one he could refuse when the only other option was dying. He wasn’t fatally stupid. He definitely owed Gia. So what did it say about him that he’d noticed how her breasts felt pushed up against his arm when he was in the middle of dying? He was fairly certain he’d remember her accidental touch for pretty much forever, which gave a whole new meaning to memories to last a lifetime. He’d nearly died. Shake it off, he reminded himself. Although the fire came first, some things needed to be said. She’d had his back. And his front. He was fairly certain

though that Gia hadn’t been thinking about getting his rocks off while she’d steered them both to the ground. That had been his problem. He wanted to believe the insta-chemistry was an adrenalinefueled response to almost dying, but he suspected it was more than that. He’d felt something for Gia from the moment she’d joined their team. Once again… shake it off. Halfway across the LZ, Gia popped her helmet off and clipped it to her belt. Despite the distance, it felt like some magic string connected him to her. She took a few questions from the rest of the team as she yanked off her helmet, but then she strode off, clearly ready to get

down to the business of fighting fire. While he sat here on the ground like a dumbass, dazed and confused. What the hell was wrong with him? He picked himself up with a grunt, unbuckling his jacked harness. When he got back to base camp, he’d go over the entire pack. Misfires happened, but he didn’t like it. He’d packed that chute himself and Jack had checked it. Every inch of that line had been neatly and precisely folded. Just like always. As if he’d heard Rio mentally call his name, Jack strode over. He’d got his chute off and his game face on. “What the hell happened up there?” He slapped Rio on the back, his hand

lingering a moment longer than usual. Apparently, Jack had done the math too and realized just how close to dying Rio had actually come. “Malfunction.” Christ. He relived the moment when he pulled the rip cord and nothing happened. Jack looked like he was entertaining the same thought. He jerked his head towards Gia, who was rolling up her chute. “She bailed your ass out.” “Sure did.” Jack frowned. “We’ll go over your chute when we’re back at base.” His oldest brother approached safety with the kind of focus usually reserved for national security matters. Maybe that

was because of the way they’d grown up. They’d been three young boys who’d met up on the streets of Sacramento and then stuck together. Given their youth, life had been hand-to-mouth, carving out an existence for themselves where they could. It had been Jack’s idea to take the last name Donovan. One more thing they could all share, he’d pointed out, and Rio and Evan had agreed. Even when the fine state of California had eventually tried placing them in separate foster homes, the Donovan brothers had stuck together. Always. After one too many runaway attempts, the three boys had been sent as a package deal to Strong. They and Nonna had been a family ever

since. The concern written all over Jack’s face wasn’t a surprise, but Rio preferred to ignore it. It wasn’t as if he didn’t care about safety—after this last little free fall he absolutely cared—but he’d never gotten quite so worked up about it. He preferred to move forward. Dwelling on the past never helped. Jack lent him a hand sliding the harness off. Rio didn’t need the assist— the chute lines were the issue, not the buckles—but Jack clearly needed to do something. His brother paused, gear slung from his hands. “Are you hurt?” No and that was another mark in the

miracle column. “Not so much as a scratch. If you tell Nonna, I’ll kill you.” Their adoptive mother didn’t need to know she’d almost lost one of them today. She understood the risks of what they did. Smoke jumping wasn’t for the faint of heart and, sometimes, good men got hurt. He was just damn fortunate he hadn’t joined their number today. Because Gia Jackson hadn’t let go of him. “We’re starting in five,” Jack said. He didn’t ask again if Rio was okay. They needed all hands on deck to knock down this fire and Rio had no intention of sitting this one out to commune with his inner self.

“Got it.” He turned around, scanning the clearing. Gia was on the side nearest the fire. Of course. “She’s good,” Jack said quietly. She was. She was also the first woman they’d brought on board. It wasn’t that the Donovans preferred to keep the team all-male—although it certainly made certain logistics like suiting up simpler—but there just weren’t that many women interested in jumping out of planes into the very center of a forest fire. And then hauling a hundred-plus pounds of gear around with them while they shoveled dirt onto twelve-foot flames. Maybe women were simply smarter than men. He grinned.

Jack’s fiancée, Lily Cortez, would have agreed with that statement. He strolled over to Gia, not sure what to say. The DC-3 pilot had dropped a crate of supplies for them and she was checking out a chainsaw. She’d tugged off her gloves, one caught between her teeth, her fingers flying over the tool. Gia definitely knew her stuff. “Hey,” he said, squatting beside her. She set the chainsaw down on the ground and rocked back on her heels. “You ready to roll?” “Always.” “Good.” She nodded and reached for her glove lying on the ground. When his hand shot out and grabbed

it first, she looked up and glared at him. “Are we playing keep away now, Donovan? Because that’s real mature of you.” “Thanks,” he said roughly. “You’re welcome.” She made a giveit-up gesture with her bare hand. “Return the glove.” He winced. “You saved my life.” Some things had to be said. She huffed out an impatient breath. “Does this mean we share some kind of psychic bond now, or you’re going to pull a Robin Hood and stick by my side until you’ve returned the favor?” He shook his head. “Not in my plans for today, no.”

“Good.” She smiled, a lazy, happy stretch of her lips that warmed him up inside. This was why he generally opted for pissing her off rather than pleasing her, because he felt the effect of her smile straight to his toes. With a really, really long detour in certain parts in the middle. “Can we go back to fighting the fire?” He held the glove open for her. She stared at him for a moment and then slowly slid her hand inside. “Would it kill you,” he asked, “to say You’re welcome, Donovan?” She thought for a moment. He kept his fingers loose around hers because, hell, they were practically holding hands out

here in the forest and he was pathetic. In the month since she’d joined the jump team, he’d yanked her up and down a dozen hills when everyone was scrambling with the gear. A helping hand was also standard practice getting in and out of the DC-3. But this was different somehow. She shrugged. “Okay then. You’re welcome. Now can we go fight the fire?” “You bet.” He stood, pulling her with him. When they were both on their feet, she looked at him and then down at their joined hands. “You can let go now, Donovan.”

He did. She was right. They had a fire to knock down. Part of him wished she’d call him Rio. Not Donovan and not partner, but by his name. He wasn’t interchangeable with his brothers. “Thank you,” he said again, starting for the fire. “For catching my ass. That was above and beyond. I owe you one.” “I’m not expecting a fruit basket.” She sounded irritated. “Or joint accounting.” She waved an arm impatiently toward the rest of the guys. “That’s our team right there. We jump together. We fight together. We stick together. If you’re dumb enough to fall out of a plane, I catch your ass. You’d do the same for me because that’s how it

works. I’m one of your boys.” One of his boys? Like hell she was. She shoved past him and stalked off toward the fire. Christ. She was good. And her speech showed true management potential. He’d have to talk to Jack about giving her more responsibilities on the jump team. Unfortunately, though, he still had a problem, because there was no way he saw Gia as just one of his boys. He had a feeling he wouldn’t be able to help himself. He’d held Gia and he wouldn’t be forgetting the feel of her anytime soon. Hell. Lusting after a team member was every kind of wrong and he damned certain didn’t look at Mack or

Zay or Joey that way. So he had no business looking at Gia like he wanted to strip her jumpsuit down those long, long legs and follow his hands with his mouth. Gia Jackson was off-limits. Continue reading Burns So Bad for free!

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR After ten years of graduate school and too many degrees, Anne Marsh escaped to become a technical writer. When not planted firmly in front of the laptop translating Engineer into English, Anne enjoys gardening, running (even if it’s just to the 7-11 for slurpees), and reading books curled up with her kids. The best part of writing romance, however, is finally being able to answer the question: “So… what do you do with

a PhD in Slavic Languages and Literatures?” She lives in Northern California with her husband, two kids and four cats. Website | Newsletter | Facebook | Twitter | Goodreads

Copyright © 2016 Anne Marsh All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage or retrieval system, with the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law. Formatting and ebook design by Geek Girl Formatting.

Contents Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Vann's Story! More ASSIGNMENT: Caribbean Nights Try Burns So Bad on Your Kindle Today! Join the Newsletter More by Anne About the Author