No Reservations (Special Ops: Tribute Book 1) (7 page)

She frowned when she set down the phone and slipped the key
into her purse on the kitchen table. “Ten bucks says she doesn’t even mention
it when I next talk to her.”

“There’s that much bitterness between her and your aunt?”

“I wouldn’t call it bitterness. I’d call it—” she
paused, as though searching for the right word, and then shook her head, words
failing her.

“—family,” Maddox finished for her, with a slight
laugh to ease the tension. “Family is so fucked up sometimes.”

She cracked a smile. “You have no idea.”

The clouds parted with a sliver of sun peering from behind
them, offering its warmth as Maddox sat with Bridget on a bench outside an ice
cream shop on Main Street.

It was his second day of exploring Annapolis with Bridget, and
also what he’d proclaimed to be “Covert Operations Day” since they’d sampled
ice cream from every ice cream parlor within walkable distance from downtown.

He was grateful to have her company; he needed a second
opinion since any ice cream other than Becca’s glorious 18% butterfat recipe
tasted like ass to him. They’d also gotten the phone numbers of three more
retail spaces available for lease, and Maddox was confident that he’d soon have
a signed lease in hand.

Her time would have been better spent preparing for her own
opening, rather than his, he considered. His mind wandered to the inn where she
lived, devoid of guests with the exception of himself. She’d said she wanted it
to be perfect when she opened. But no centuries-old B & B would ever be
perfect. There would always be something creaking, or leaking, or sagging. That
was just the nature of historic buildings. And Bridget seemed sharp enough to
know that.

So why was she delaying? It must have to do with those
family issues she mentioned. Only the bonds of family or white-hot lust, in his
opinion, had the power to make people do completely illogical things.

“Do you want to go to the Herndon Climb?” she asked, peering
above the Academy’s schedule of events listed in the free newspaper they’d
picked up on the side of the street.

“Herndon Climb?”

“Yeah. It’s when the plebes all try to climb a lard-covered
obelisk to—”

“—retrieve a Dixie cup cap from the top,” he finished,
suddenly recalling the tradition. He might not have gone to the Academy, but
enough of his friends were Academy graduates that he’d heard about the annual
Climb.

“You seem a little dubious,” she observed with a smirk. “You
don’t think they’ll make it to the top this year?”

He shook his head. “I’m not sure why they’d want to.”

“Not into tradition?”

“Only into the SEAL ones.” He shrugged. “I shouldn’t be so cynical,
but I didn’t go here. To them, climbing that monument might be a tradition, but
I just see the prospect of getting a shit-load of lard in my face.”

Bridget laughed. “Name one SEAL tradition that is more
dignified than this.”

He felt his face transform, hardening, lost in a memory. “At
a SEAL funeral, we all pound our Tridents with our fists into the casket. That
way, a piece of us is buried with our teammate.”

She drew in a prolonged breath, and let it out slowly. “You
win,” she said after a beat. “How long has that tradition been going on?”

“Not long, actually. They wouldn’t have done it at my dad’s
funeral.”

Bridget’s gaze on him changed, the light in her eyes
draining away and being replaced by sorrow. “Oh, Maddox. I had no idea.” She
touched his hand to hers and he liked the feel of it, her warm skin blanketing
his.

“It’s okay. I was just six months old when he died. I don’t
remember him. I’ve got a stepdad now and a couple annoying stepbrothers.”

“So, your dad was a SEAL, too?”

Maddox nodded sharply, then gave himself a shake “But you’re
right. We do have a few undignified traditions in the military,” he said,
cracking a smile at the memory of a few grog bowls and a visit from King
Neptune the first time he passed over the Equator on a ship. “It’s to even out
the score a bit. So much of what we do is too damn serious.”

“Is your Trident buried with any teammates?” she dared to
ask.

“Yes,” he said curtly, hoping she wouldn’t ask for details
because it was a memory he’d like to erase—the feel of his Trident
against the side of his fist that day they put Reynolds in the ground. His
family had been small, just two grieving parents and one sister were present
that day. Yet the church had been packed with Reynolds’ extended family—his
SEAL family—all in their dress uniforms.

She squeezed his hand. “I’m so sorry.”

Savoring the feel of it again, her hand remained joined with
his for a few moments, till Maddox stood. While he enjoyed this closeness he
felt every time his skin met hers, he didn’t do well with sympathy. He reached
out, taking the soiled napkin from her hand and tossing it into the garbage.
“So, thoughts on the ice cream?”

“Well, I liked it. But I like all ice cream. I thought the
waffle cone might have been a bit stale.”

“Good. I was thinking the same thing. And the ice cream
didn’t have the butterfat content that Becca’s does, I’m betting. What did you
think of the inside?”

“It was cute. They need seating though. Don’t you think? I
mean, the benches outside are nice, but what if it was cold or raining out?”

“Good point.” He looked up the street. “Ready to hit the
next one?”

 With a queasy look, she touched her palm to her
stomach. “I don’t think there are anymore in downtown Annapolis.”

 “Actually, I thought I’d take a drive around the
outskirts of town and make sure I’m not missing anything there. There are a
couple that got good reviews online. I’d like to see what they’re doing right.
And rent might be cheaper there.”

Her eyebrows lifted, intrigued. “You’re going to eat more
ice cream?”

“Yeah. Want to come along?”

There was a lengthy pause as they turned off Main Street. “Sure,
why not? I doubt I’ll eat any more, but I’m thinking you might need a
designated driver when you pass out after a sugar crash.”

He was glad for the company when they climbed into his car
and drove to a place he found online that had five-star reviews. The area
called Parole didn’t have the historic charm of downtown, but it was chock-full
of restaurants, shopping, and new construction. Definitely worth considering,
even though he doubted his partners would want anything but the heart of
Naptown.

Five minutes later, with a waffle cone in his hand, he held
open the door for Bridget.

She glanced at his cone, overflowing with three scoops. “How
do you eat like that and still manage to keep those titanium abs?”

“I don’t eat like this every day. Have a bite,” he offered. “I’d
really like your opinion.”

Her eyes twinkled. “Well, when you put it that way…” Her
mouth opened, lips pressing against the creamy succulence.

Oh, to be an ice cream cone…

“It’s good,” she said, wiping her mouth with a napkin. A
smear of chocolate remained just above the left side of her lips and he ached
to lick her clean. But given the circumstances, he settled on brushing a napkin
to her mouth, enjoying her blush as it touched her cheeks.

He took a bite himself. It was the only way to cool himself
down after focusing too long on the perfect rose outline of her lips. He
swallowed with a shrug—no competition here—and extended the cone
back out to Bridget. “Want more?”

“No way.”

Giving a nod, his head tipped toward the sky. It was
cloudless and the sun beat down on the pavement making him miss the old brick
sidewalks of downtown. He’d admit that restaurants and shops were bigger here
and there was ample parking, but his eyes had already grown accustomed to the
hodge-podge of quaint, colorful buildings that made historic Annapolis so appealing.

Headed toward his car, a building caught his eye. “Hey,
isn’t that the bank where that safety deposit box key came from?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you have the key with you? We could stop by.” He
grinned. “Maybe your aunt’s got a stash of jewels in there you don’t know
about.”

“And wouldn’t that come in handy since I’m still paying off that
drainage system in the basement?” She halted and stared at the building
thoughtfully. “Yeah, I put the key in my purse,” she said, opening its zipper,
and rifling through its contents. “But don’t count on the jewels. Knowing my
aunt, it’s more likely a stack of unpaid bills that I’ll have haunting me in
months to come.”

“She wasn’t a good businesswoman?”

“Not from my best guess. The estate lawyer is still trying
to figure out a few things.”

“Really?” he asked uneasily.

“Yeah, technically, the place isn’t even officially mine
till probate is over. But the place was in pretty bad shape. If I didn’t move
in and start fixing it up, I’d have major mold problems by the time I
officially took it over.”

It made sense to Maddox; he’d heard how houses could fall
into disrepair and get vandalized if they were vacant. Hell, she might have
even had squatters to deal with if she hadn’t moved in. But he hoped that
decision didn’t bite her in the ass down the road.

A triumphant gleam in her eye, she pulled the key out from
her massive purse. “Found it.”

“You game?”

“Sure, why not?”

Maddox held the bank’s door open for her and Bridget walked
up to the teller.

“Hi, I have a safety deposit box key that belonged to my
aunt. She died this winter and I was wondering if you could tell me anything
about it,” she informed the woman behind the counter, passing the key to her.

 “If the account isn’t in your name, there’s not much I
can tell you,” the teller replied. “What was her name?”

“Lydia McConnelly. I inherited the house she lived in. I’m
Bridget Needham.”

The teller tapped away at her keyboard, then raised her
eyebrows, doing a double take at her monitor. “Can I see a driver’s license,
please?”

Bridget reached into her bag and pulled out her wallet.

Taking the license from her, the teller eyed her. “Well, the
box was closed in February of this year.”

Maddox cocked his head. “I thought you said you couldn’t
tell her anything since it wasn’t in her name.”

“She’s listed on the account. Bridget Needham. And Elise Needham.”

“That’s my mom.”

“Well, Elise Needham closed the box up on February 2nd. We
had to charge her for a missing key because she only returned one of them.”

“So there’s nothing in the box?”

“She emptied the box that day and closed the account.”

“Okay. Thanks.” She gave a perfunctory smile before stepping
away from the counter. She glanced up at Maddox, an odd, empty look in her eyes.
“Well, so much for a stash of jewels.”

“Sorry. But at least it wasn’t a stack of unpaid bills,” he
pointed out as he opened the bank door for her.

They fell back into stride together as they continued toward
his car, but the air between them had changed. He couldn’t quite put his finger
on it.

She was quiet on the way home, and conversation was strained
for the first time since he’d met her.

After dropping her off at the inn, saying he had some
errands to run, Maddox punched in the address of the hardware store into his
GPS and picked up his cell phone. He dialed Becca’s number and hit the
hands-free button on the display.

“Hey, Becca,” he said at the sound of her voice as he pulled
into traffic.

“Hey, Maddox. What’s up?”

“Am I on speaker?”

“Yep.”

“Is Brandon there?”

“Hi, Maddox!” He heard Becca’s son bursting into the
conversation.

“Hey, buddy. How was school?”

“Good. We’re making cookies for the last day of school
party.”

The idea of cookies after so much ice cream made him visibly
grimace. But he tried to share the kid’s enthusiasm. “Wow. What kind?”

“Sugar cookies. One of my classmates has a chocolate
allergy,” he added, his youthful exuberance suddenly sounding deflated.

“Bummer. Well, sugar’s okay. Do you mind if I steal your mom
for a couple minutes for a talk?”

“Sure,” Brandon answered before the background noise ended
as Becca took him off speaker.

“Hi,” she said, her voice hushed. “I’m in the next room over
now. What’s going on that it can’t be heard by ten-year-old ears?”

“Nothing too exciting. I just needed some advice.”

“
You
need advice. From
me
?”

“Yeah, from you. It’s girl advice.”

“Ooh. You met someone?”

He could hear the smile in her voice. “Yeah, that innkeeper
I mentioned.”

“I knew it.”

“What do you mean, you knew it?”

“I knew you’d hook up with her. It’s so you. And your
innkeeper, for God’s sake.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It’s just—I don’t know—your track record with
women is pretty consistent.”

“Consistently what?”

“Do I have to spell it out for you? Women fall at your feet.
You don’t have to walk ten feet and some woman’s giving you her number.”

He paused, uncertain whether he should take that as a
compliment. “Well, that’s the problem.”