Saved by the SEAL (3 page)

She grabs my phone and runs to her room, slamming the door behind her.

“Mea!” I take off after her. My fist thuds against the wood of her door. “Don't do anything stupid! I am begging you!”

She opens the door a crack and hands me my phone. “I have to pack. You're welcome, babe.” She closes her door again with a firm
click.

“Ohhhhh, you little…” I pull my eyes back down to my phone and they widen at the text I supposedly just sent to Grisham.

Just reading that text is making my skin heat with a furious blush. Why…
why
is there no way to take back a text after it's already been sent? I stare in misery at my phone, waiting for his response. If he even—

My phone dings.

And my heart stops beating.

Mea is
amazing.

If he were here, I'd be stuttering my response. But even as my heart is beating a rhythm so rapid it could run right out of my chest, my brain finally kicks into high gear. I type out a response, telling him that I've already prepared dinner and that I have plenty to share. Then I hold my phone to my chest and try to tamp down the enormous smile that wants to crack my face in two pieces.

Grisham Abbot doesn't want me to sleep alone tonight.

He's on his way over to my apartment
this minute.

My stomach sinks with dread at the exact moment that my heart takes flight.

I
n my Jeep driving to Greta's, I'm arguing with myself like a crazy person.

So much for walking away
,
half of me is thinking.

But the other half is of a different opinion.

She needs you tonight. Just for tonight. You'd be a jerk if you didn't help her out.

My head bobs in a firm nod. What kind of guy would I be if I let a girl with a concussion sleep on her own? As someone who's had plenty of concussions before, thanks to football and active duty military service, I know a thing or two about concussion care. And she needs to be woken up so that someone can check her for signs that her condition is worsening. The doctor said that her concussion was mild, but still.

You can't take chances with these types of things.

I can't help it when my lips pull into a small smile at the thought of seeing her again. The last time I saw her in her sleepwear…
damn.

That thought goes straight to my quickly hardening cock, and I reach down to adjust myself because that shit
hurts.

There's no doubt that Greta is the most gorgeous girl I've ever laid eyes on. Any residual feelings I had for Berkeley died long ago, and I haven't thought of her that way since she's been hot and heavy with Dare. But thinking of Greta now…the way her dark hair contrasts so starkly with her milky skin. The way her eyes pierce mine, rather than just looking at me. The way her body is just feminine curves stacked on top of lithe limbs…

I hit the steering wheel lightly, trying to shake the image from my brain. I'm going to her place tonight for one reason and one reason only—to help her. Not to get into her pants like a fucking perv.

When I arrive, I sling my duffle over my shoulder and walk up the two flights of stairs to her apartment. I rap the back of my hand against the door and wait, my hands hanging on to the top of the doorjamb. My heart pounds a little harder when I hear the sound of soft footsteps approaching from inside. The door is yanked open, and I'm suddenly
this close
to the face that's been playing on repeat in my mind all damn day.

I'm frozen in place, because those eyes of hers have the power to hold me hostage. I don't even blink.

“Hey,” she says, her voice like satin as a slow, shy smile crosses her lips.

She's fresh, her face free of makeup. I try to keep my eyes on her face, but they act of their own accord, making a languid trek down her body. She's dressed for the late-summer heat in a ribbed purple tank top that hugs her tight, lifted breasts and her slim midsection. Small white cotton shorts that send a zing of awareness straight to my cock leave miles of skin free for my amusement. When I pull my gaze back up her body, her eyes are wide, and there's an adorable blush dusted across her cheeks.

“Hey.” I clear my throat.

“Um…come in.” She scoots to the side so that I can move my large frame in through the small doorway.

I walk into the apartment. Expecting to be flooded with both good and not-so-good memories of Berkeley and the time I spent with her here, I let my gaze roam around the living room. Everything is decorated in shades of white and blue, with a beach theme. Navy-blue couch and oversize armchair, white wooden coffee table. Navy-blue drapes with vertical white stripes. Large white lamps on mismatched end tables with navy-blue anchors. It's so kitschy and girly that I smile.

But the expected flood of regret and memories don't come. Instead, Greta steps into my line of sight, and my gaze shifts to her with focused intent. I set my bag down beside the couch and crook my finger at her.

“Come here.”

She doesn't hesitate; she walks straight over and stands, tipping her head back to look up at me. Something inside me twitches happily at her willingness, and it takes a lot of willpower not to grab her and let my hands roam over all of that exposed skin.

Instead, I cup her chin with one hand and brush feather-light fingers over her head wound with the other. “How is this feeling?”

She winces as my fingers touch it, and I pull them away. “It's fine.”

One side of my mouth tips up. “Tough girl.”

Grinning, she turns and heads through an arching doorway to the open-concept kitchen. “You hungry?”

I wasn't until she said that. Now, my stomach rumbles as the aroma of something delicious and homemade wafts under my nose. “Wow. Something smells amazing. What'd you make?”

“Smothered chicken, garlic mashed potatoes, and corn soufflé.” She says it like she just made Hamburger Helper or something equally mundane.

“Holy shit. You really
cooked
.”

She shrugs. “Yeah. I cook a lot. It's something I love to do.”

Instantly, curiosity rushes through me, and I want to know what else she loves to do. I pull out a seat at the bar top facing her and watch as she works to prepare our plates. She piles one high with a mound of mashed potatoes and a huge piece of chicken, and my stomach growls.

“You do? Huh. I didn't know that. I guess we never really got a chance to get acquainted before, did we?”

She shakes her head, sending cascades of that thick, dark hair rippling around her shoulders. I'm betting it would feel amazing tumbling around my fingers.

Stop. Mind out of the gutter, Abbot. You're here because she needs your help. Not your dick.

“Not really. But…I'd like to get to know you better, Grisham.”

Oh…fuck.
When she says my name, something long and forgotten opens up inside my chest like an expanding balloon. Like a dragon, waking up after a long, restful sleep. I reply automatically, before I can think better of it.

“I've wanted to know more about you ever since you first batted those long eyelashes at me a couple of years ago.”

Wait…what? What the hell was I thinking, saying that out loud?

My gaze stays glued to her face. I watch a myriad of emotions chase each other through her eyes, and a warm blush spreads over her cheeks. Her eyes widen, and her plump bottom lip disappears between her teeth as if on cue. I can almost count the different ways her body reacts to what I just said, and that's only while I'm looking at her face.

I can't help the easy smile that creeps onto my own lips. It's just too easy to tease her.

“Do you not realize that you're hot as the freaking sun, Greta? Any guy would want to get to know you better.”

She drops her gaze to our plates and finishes filling them with food. It's a physical thing…how much I want to get close to her right now and make her look at me.

She slides a plate across the bar top toward me and brings hers around to sit beside me. She climbs up onto her stool and I reach out a hand and place it on her lower back to make sure she's steady as she settles herself.  The warmth emanating from her is addictive; I don't move my hand right away. I hear her quick intake of breath as my hand smoothes across her shirt, cupping her tiny waist. I pull her toward me, and her stool scrapes against the floor. When she meets my stare under long, dark lashes, I grin.

“Much better.” She clamps down on her bottom lip, and my eyes are drawn there instantly. God, she's sexy. It takes everything I have to tear my eyes away from her mouth and focus on my food.

I cut a piece of chicken and stick the bite into my mouth. “Oh…damn, girl. I haven't had a home-cooked meal in…I can't even remember how long. This chicken is delicious.”

Her face breaks into a true, ungrudging smile that steals my breath away. “Thank you. That makes me feel good. Don't you ever go home and have dinner with your parents?”

I snort. “Yeah, occasionally if I can't avoid it. But having dinner with my parents means going out or ordering in. My mom doesn't cook.”

She gasps, her fork frozen halfway to her mouth. “Never?”

“Never.”

“I mean…nothing? Like, not even grits for breakfast?”

I burst out laughing. “Of all the things…grits? Is that something you have to have? My parents are both originally from Illinois. So no grits.”

She nods, quick and passionate. “Oh my
word
, yes. I need my grits. And I like to make 'em with plenty of butter. And cheese…ohhh, yeah. Definitely cheese.”

Still laughing, I wipe my mouth with my napkin. “Well, aren't you just the cutest southern girl.”

We eat in silence for a few minutes before I think about what she said and start laughing all over again. She smiles over at me, her face shining with pure light. I reach over and brush her cheek with the back of my hand, because I can't
not
touch her in that moment. Her pupils dilate at the contact, and I can see the breath hitch with a quick rise in her chest. I'm lost in the deep blue of her eyes for a moment, and the connection between us pulls taut.

“Grits.” My voice is hoarse with lust as I chuckle, shaking my head.

“You won't be laughing in the morning when I make them for you.” She fires it right back at me, which causes my grin to grow.

“No, I'm sure I won't. But I do like the idea of you cooking for me again in the morning.”

I wait for it…and there's the blush.

This is going to be a really entertaining night.

After dinner, it's still pretty early, so we settle onto the couch. Greta sinks into the cushions on one end, and I settle down in the middle not too far from her. My body lists in her direction, itching to move closer, but I don't want to crowd her.

This isn't a date
,
I remind myself.

“Want to watch a movie?” she asks. Her voice is like velvet. I just want to wrap myself up in it.

Her mouth pops open in a yawn, and I laugh. “Are you sure you'll make it through a movie?”

“If I don't, my knight is here to wake me up in exactly two hours.”

“Knight, huh?”

Her head tilts to the side, and she looks at me. Really looks.  “Didn't you save me on the beach today?”

“Anybody would have.”

Her bright blue eyes don't falter as she answers, “No, they wouldn't have. But you did.”

A hard lump forms in my throat. Swallowing it down, I tear my gaze away from hers and hand her the remote. “Movie night is lady's choice.”

One side of her generous mouth tilts up in a crooked smile. I want so badly to lean in and taste it, but instead I lean away from her and zero in on the TV.

“Why, thank you,
sir.
”

I glance at her again, and we both burst out laughing.

It feels good, laughing. Growing up, laughing and having a good time were discouraged by my strict dad. I was taught that hard work is what pays off, not goofing off and having a good time. His harsh hand was always something I feared, and I never felt safe enough to laugh around him at all.

I laugh with my buddies sometimes when we're at work, trying to break a tense situation. Or when we're out having a few beers. But this is really laughing…letting go. Being loose. It's light, and for some reason, it makes me hopeful.

It feels different. It feels
good
.

We start watching a movie about a man and a woman who go back to their hometown for a funeral after being high school lovers. I'm not supposed to like it because it's a chick flick. But I find myself drawn into the story, wanting to know what's going to happen with the couple now.

Midway through, I have to stand up and stretch my leg. I can't sit for long stints like this anymore without feeling like I need to walk, exercise my good limb a little bit. It's something I've had to do ever since the explosion. I stand, flexing, trying to be as casual about it as I can.

I can feel Greta's eyes on me as I walk to the counter and do a couple of standing knee flexes. Knowing she's watching me sends a flush of embarrassment creeping up my neck. The last thing I want is for her to see me as weak. Or as less than what I was before.

When we first met, I was whole.

But I came back from the other side of the world with a piece missing. My imagination runs away, weaving the tale of what she must think of me now.

When I return to the couch, she reaches over and places a hand on the thigh of my leg that was partly amputated. My muscle tenses under her touch, the skin of my neck heats. I reach down and grab her hand in mine. It's warm and soft, and I squeeze it gently as I look over at her.

“Does it hurt?” she whispers.

I shake my head with a small smile. “No.”

“Did it? Hurt? I mean…when it happened?”

I don't answer for a minute, and she misinterprets my silence.

“I'm sorry, Grisham…I didn't mean to…just forget I asked.”

Her hair forms a veil around her face as she looks down at her lap. I lift her hand to my chest and tug until she looks at me.

“Please don't ever apologize for asking honest questions. People never do that. They stare and they wonder, or they obviously try
not
to stare when I know they really want to. No one, even my family and friends, comes right out and asks about it. My dad has actually never even bothered to have an honest conversation with me about what happened. Not once.”

She nods. Her face is certain; there's not a hint of hesitation there. “I want to know.”

I sigh and lean my head back against the couch cushions. Going back to that night…it's not something I ever willingly do. I had to talk to a therapist about it, and I opened up as fully as I could. I think the talking helped, but it's hard as hell to revisit what happened.

“An RPG hit our convoy as we were on our way in as support for a unit of Rangers. The hum-vee in front of us took a direct hit, but we caught a big portion of the explosion. It hurt, Greta. It felt exactly the way you'd imagine it would feel to have one of your limbs literally blown off your body. But when you're out there…in a situation like that, you can't focus on the pain. You have to focus on living. On surviving. So that's what I did. I focused on living and making sure my men were out of danger. And then I don't remember anything else until I woke up in Germany.”