Saved by the SEAL (5 page)

But now that I know him, how can I let him go on thinking that all he can ever be is alone?

S
even…eight…nine…ten!”

The bar clatters back on its anchor and I sit up on the bench. I'm out of breath and my biceps are burning.

“Damn, bro. You've been intense this morning. Five reps of ten with two-forty? Shiiiiiit, Ghost.”

I smirk at Lawson's use of my combat nickname. “It was a hard road coming back from the amputation, Laws. My upper body functioned the way it was supposed to, so I worked the hell out of it. It was therapeutic or something.”

Lawson nods as he reaches for a pair of dumbbells and begins a set of bicep curls. “I ain't mad atcha, Ghost. But…” He pauses in his lifting.

Here it comes.

I rise from the weight bench to grab my towel and my water bottle. I stand, waiting for him to spit out his question, wiping my dripping forehead with the navy-issue towel. We work out for the first two hours of every shift. It's my favorite part of the day, unless we're working on training exercises and maneuvers in the afternoon. We aren't today. It's mainly an admin day, and I have paperwork lined up on my desk I want to put off for as long as possible. Planning for the next mission my team will embark on without me is just depressing.

“Ben and I got your text yesterday morning that you weren't gonna make breakfast. But then you missed pizza Wednesday. You never miss pizza Wednesday. What the hell kept you so busy yesterday?”

And there it is. I've been wondering when I'd have to bring up Greta. Knowing Lawson, he'll rag on me until I let him meet her. And I'm conflicted about when or if that'll happen. What would I introduce her to my buddies as? A friend? The way my body reacts to Greta is way more than friendly. But I haven't made any type of commitment to her, either. Do I even want to?

And what if I introduce her to the guys, and one of them decides to make a move on her? Just the thought of anyone else getting close to Greta sends a sizzling jolt of anger ripping through me.

“I ran into a friend on the beach who needed help. I ended up needing to hang out with her for a while during the day yesterday and then again last night.”

I leave it at that, but on the inside I'm cringing, because I have a feeling Lawson “Sleuth” Snyder is going to ferret out the meaning behind the words I didn't say.

I groan and turn away as a slow, suspicious smile dawns over his face. “So you didn't go grab waffles with us because you ‘ran into a friend.' And that
same
friend kept you busy for most of the day, and then again after dark. So I'm assuming this friend is hot, and you had her panties lying on the floor by the end of the night.”

I whip back around. Anger builds up inside me until I imagine I look like a cartoon character with steam pouring out of my ears. “I said she's a friend. Get your fucking mind out of the gutter.”

Lawson drops the weights and holds up his hands in defense. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, Ghost. I didn't mean any disrespect. Does your friend have a name?”

I blow out easy breaths through my mouth as I bring my heartbeat back down to a more normal pace. “Her name's Greta. She used to room with that girl I told you about…Berkeley. I hadn't seen Greta for a while, that's all. We were catching up.”

“I bet you were,” mutters Lawson. When he catches my death glare, he picks his weights up again with a chuckle. “Sorry. If she's just your friend, then I guess she can come hang out with the guys this weekend at your barbecue.”

Shit. That's right.
This weekend is a long one, ending in Labor Day on Monday. I'd told my buddies we would do the end of summer up right and celebrate the fact that we'd all come back from Syria alive and well. They'd be ready to deploy again early next year, but I'd likely be sending them off without me for the first time since we'd been a unit. My leg can only take me so far from this point on. My SEAL days are over.

An overwhelming feeling of sadness and anxiety washes over me at the thought.

“You gonna bring her?” asks Lawson with another sly smile.

“I said we're just friends, L. I might ask her and her roommate to stop by. Berkeley and Dare are coming, so I don't want her to find out about it from them.”

Lawson scrutinizes my face as he finishes his third set. His normally cinnamon-brown face is morphing into a dark shade of red, and he hisses out a breath as he lets the weights drop to the ground. “Yeah. Act all nonchalant if you want to, Ghost. But I see it in your eyes. You want this chick to be there. So ask her to be there.”

I pretend to think about it. Then, moving quicker than Lawson expects, I snap his bare chest with my towel and take off, running as fast as my fake leg will allow me to go before he can give chase. Our workout ends with him cursing me as he follows me to the showers, while I howl with laughter.

I sit in the Jeep, my parents' enormous Lone Sands home looming like a majestic beacon before me. It's been months since I've been here. My mother flew to Germany when I was hurt. She stayed with me during my month-long hospital stay, and the entire time we were together, I could forget about my father and the way we'd left things the last time I'd seen him. She was there for me and me alone, and that felt good. For once.

But when we flew home, there he was. Back in control, trying to manage my medical situation professionally. He was sure he could still make a desk job at the base happen, and all of my protests fell on deaf ears. It was when my CO came to me with the transfer papers that I finally lost my mind and told my father exactly where he could shove his meddling manipulations.

So, sitting here now in the hot, late-August sunshine doesn't feel too good. It feels wrong. But I know I have to go inside and at least invite them to my barbecue.

They're my family. The only family I have. Regardless of the way I feel about their marriage and the way my father's control issues have fucked up my life, I won't ever stop trying to be there for my mother.

Ever.

I shove the Jeep door open and climb out. Before I reach the bottom of the impressive staircase leading up to the three-story home, the front door swings open. My mother stands there, a huge smile on her pretty face.

“Grisham, honey! Oh, I've missed you so much!” She hustles down the steps to grab me into a bone-crushing hug.

I hug her to me, a large lump forming in my throat as I realize how thin she is.

“Mom, it's good to see you, too. How are you doing? I'm sorry I've stayed away.”

When she pulls back, her eyes are shining. “I'm glad you're here now. And just in time for dinner!”

I glance up at the house, wary. “I don't think I'm staying, Mom. I just wanted to talk to you and Dad for a minute. Okay?”

Her face falls. Upon closer inspection, I can see that her makeup is flawless, as usual. The tiny creases around her eyes and mouth are cleverly hidden with whatever miracle product she's currently using. Her blond hair is perfect, placed in a short style, and even at five o'clock in the evening, when most people are changing into comfortable clothes to wind down the day, she's still wearing a skirt and heels.

“Come in, then, sweetheart.”

She leads me up the stairs and into the house.

My parents' Lone Sands home has been a second home ever since my father reached two-star admiral status and was stationed to the base in Brunswick County just under his long-time friend Admiral Holtz. Berkeley's father.

Just off the gray slate-tiled foyer, Mom walks into her front sitting room and sits on the sleek, white couch. She pats the cushion next to her. Her eyes monitor my progression as I move to join her.

“How goes it these days with your foot?” she asks, all trace of a smile gone from her tone.

If anyone knows the frustration I endured while fighting my way back from an amputation, it's my mother. She was there at the beginning. She saw the circuit of emotions I traveled, from denial, to red-hot anger, to mourning. The loss of a limb is a living, breathing journey from one end of the emotional spectrum to the other.

“I'm all good,” I assure her. “Regular workouts with the team and everything.”

She nods with genuine mother happiness. “I knew you'd get there, Grisham. Now, what's this you need to talk with me about?”

I open my mouth to speak when the heavy thud of boots on the stairs freezes us both.

“Katie? Do we have company?”

My father.

My mother stiffens beside me, and my hand shoots out to rest on her arm, reassuring her that I'm here. It's funny; it doesn't matter how much time you spend away from your family, the habits ingrained in you don't ever change or fade away. They're permanent, like the sunrise or the way the leaves change color in autumn.

“Yes, dear. Grisham's here.”

Her voice is completely different when she talks to him. When she's talking to me, her voice is clear and confident. Loving. She's my mother, and she throws herself into that job fully. During my recovery, there wasn't an ounce of uncertainty in her the entire time. She knew I'd make it back to full usage of my leg, and she made sure I never forgot her faith in me.

But when she talks to
him?
She's unsure and tentative. She walks on fucking eggshells. Anger roils inside my gut, threatening to overtake me.

Chill out, Grisham. He hasn't done anything. This time. Just get the invitation out. You're here for Mom.

I stand and wait for Admiral Michael Abbot to enter the room.

And enter he does, with a gigantic presence that envelops every room he's in. Our heights are identical at six foot one, and our faces are complementary. But I get my dark blond hair from my mother, whereas my father has a thick head of salt-and-pepper locks. His sun-weathered, tan skin stands out today in his white golf polo and crisp khaki pants.

“Ah. The prodigal son returns. What can
we
do for you, Grisham?” His tone is smooth, detached. In his opinion, we had it out once and that was all he needed to cut me off emotionally.

I avert my gaze from him and focus on my mother. “I'm having an end-of-summer barbecue. At my house. It's going to be Sunday afternoon and evening, so that everyone can still wake up and sleep in the next day. I'm extending an invitation for you two to come.”

There. I've done what I came to do.

Silence stretches across the room, and rather than enduring it, I turn for the door.

“Grisham!” My mother stands and reaches for my arm. “We'd love to come.”

Her voice is strong and sure.

My father clears his throat, and we both eye him with practiced caution. “We actually have plans, Katie. Remember? The church is having a barbecue that day. You're supposed to make potato salad.”

Her lips tighten, the fine lines around them deepening as she tries not to frown. “I'm sure we could do both, dear. Grisham's barbecue is going into the evening. I could bring a dessert.”

I feel like a kid again, caught between them. My eyes bounce back and forth from one parent to the other during their exchange.

My father narrows his eyes at Mom. “We'll talk about this later. When we're alone. Grisham, thank you for the invitation.”

And he's done. He strides from the room without a backward glance, most likely headed for the dinner table. My mother takes a deep breath, and I glance at her. Guilt floods through me, a dousing wave to remind me that I haven't been here for her enough. She needs me.

“I didn't mean to make trouble, Mom. Just wanted to make sure you guys knew you were welcome.”

She reaches up and wraps her arms around my neck, squeezing me tight. “I love you, honey. I'll try to convince him to come.”

I nod as we make our way toward the door. “Would like to have you. But there's no pressure. Maybe you and I could grab lunch sometime soon, okay?”

Her eyes light up. Just the sight of it makes me want to punch my father in his overbearing face. “Yes. Lunch would be wonderful. I…I miss you, Grisham.”

It's gut-wrenching when your mother, who lives in the same town you do, tells you she misses you.

It lets me know that I'm messing up, and something needs to change.

“I love you, Mom. Take care.”

With that, I'm walking back down the steps and climbing into my Jeep. I let out the breath I've probably been holding since I arrived, and send a thankful prayer up to the sky. I've done what I came to do.

Now there's another invitation I need to extend. This one should be no less complicated, but much more pleasant to deliver.

S
trolling through the nondescript industrial steel front door of my father's firm, I enter his lobby and glance around. My father doesn't employ a receptionist in his office; there aren't a lot of walk-in visitors. Most of his clients have appointments, and those visits, as well as the light administrative paperwork that occasionally piles up, are handled by his assistant.

Kyle Wessler looks up from a desk in the corner of the glossy, gleaming lobby, and his face breaks into a huge smile. I return his smile fully and throw my hand up in a small wave.

“Hey, Kyle. I've been summoned.”

He comes around the side of the desk and folds his arms across his chest. His bespectacled brown eyes are jovial, his clean-shaven face sculptured and handsome. Kyle's look is very buttoned-up and conservative, but his nerdy appearance is belied by a toned, chiseled body under his collared shirts and pleated pants.

“Well, I guess you must have been. It's the only reason you show that beautiful face around here.”

Kyle crooks a finger so that I'll come close enough for a hug, and I do just that.

“It's been awhile,” I agree. “Sorry about that, Kyle. You know, life gets crazy.”

He holds me at arm's length and scowls. “Too crazy for old friends you went to high school with?”

I nod, glancing down at my feet. “There's no excuse. Especially since you started working for my dad after school, huh?”

He glances at the stacks of papers on the desk. “Being his assistant keeps me busy. It's not exactly what I had in mind when I started here, but it's paying the bills.”

My dad's private security firm is extremely successful. Jacob Owen, owner of Night Eagle Security, Inc., is well known in the world of privately contracted security and protection services, and he's done a damn good job expanding his reach throughout the country. He's got another office in Dallas, and the home branch is here in Wilmington, North Carolina. Most of the work my father does is out of his home office, but he's always thinking bigger, especially when it comes to his baby.

His company.

“So, is part of your job as my dad's assistant to pump iron on a daily basis?” I tease Kyle, prodding his noticeably larger bicep with my index finger.

His face reddens, and I giggle at his reaction.

Despite his good looks, Kyle has never been a ladies' man. He's just a tiny bit awkward with girls, and much too shy for his own good. So I'm filled with surprise when he meets my gaze head-on and takes one of my hands in his.

“Pumping iron is for recreational purposes only. Your dad won't let anybody in as a security team member unless they've got Special Forces on their résumé, and that's not ever going to be me.” He gestures toward his glasses.

I nod with a sympathetic smile. “Tell me about life, Kyle. You must have a pretty serious girlfriend by now with all those muscles.”

Kyle glances down at his feet, shaking his head. “Nope. Pretty busy with work here.”

I wave my hand in the air, dismissing the thought. “That's silly. You can always make time for a personal life. Work can't be your whole world, Kyle.”

His face brightens, and he meets my gaze again. “Well, maybe we could catch a coffee sometime soon. Catch up a little bit.”

I nod, smiling. “Absolutely. And my roommate is single. You never know. Next time we're hanging out, grabbing a few drinks, I'll let you know. Sound good?”

Kyle chuckles as my father's office door opens and he fills the doorway.

At six foot three, 275 pounds, my father is a formidable man. His hair is cut in a short, graying buzz like he never got out of the army. I try not to roll my eyes at his stern expression.

“Wessler!” he barks. “Were you going to tell me that my daughter was here, or were you attempting to keep her to yourself for the entire afternoon?”

Kyle hesitates, and I can see the wheels turning in his brain, so I step quickly forward.

“He was just coming to get you, Dad. Do you want to go into your office and talk?”

He nods, extending his arm through his doorway and keeping an eagle-sharp eye on Kyle as I walk into the large room with the wall of windows overlooking the blue-green ocean.

My dad closes the door behind me with a sharp snap, and then he stiffly pulls me into his arms.

He's not stiff because he doesn't care; he's stiff because he's so damn big and ferocious that hugging is like a foreign language for his body. I flash back to all the times I wanted nothing more than to have him wrap his big, strong arms around me when I was still a little girl terrified my daddy wouldn't come home. How many nights my tears dampened my pillow and the song that serenaded me to sleep was my own weeping.

As much as I try to hide it, I'm still that little girl inside who just wants her father to hold her close.

I pull back after a moment, and he looks into my eyes, concern weighing on the corners of his.

“How's your sister? I heard about the hospital this week.”

I nod wearily. “Is that why you called? I mean, I'm glad you're concerned about Gabi, but you could have actually just paid her a visit. She's back home now. I'm sure Gemma could also do with some father-daughter time.”

I'm beyond sick of lecturing him on how to be a good dad. I feel like I'm in a topsy-turvy fairy tale; I'm always in the opposite position with him than where I'm supposed to be. The daughter isn't supposed to act like a parent.

He holds his hands up in front of himself defensively. “I know, I know. I've called her. I'll stop by this weekend. I just wanted to ask you, because I know you were there and have firsthand knowledge.”

My head bobs, and I sink into one of his oversize chocolate-brown leather chairs. The seating in his office is comfortable, clustered around a rustic wooden coffee table. My dad's desk is in the center of the wall of windows, but when he's consulting with a client, they almost always use this more comfortable seating.

“Okay, let's get down to business.”

He sits down across from me and leans back in his seat, steepling his fingers together.

“I asked you to come in today, Greta, because I need your help.”

I sit up straighter. “My help? With what?”

He gestures around his office. “Kyle's a good assistant. He does solid work with scheduling and dealing with clients when I'm on an assignment. But the company is growing by leaps and bounds. I'm hearing from new potential clients every day. I'm going to need an office manager.”

I open my mouth to speak, and then snap it shut again. “You want me…to
work
here? Dad…you know my plans for my future. I cook. I want to be a chef.”

He frowns. “Yes, I know. I offered to pay for culinary school, remember? You turned me down.”

I stare at my folded hands. My voice sounds muffled. “I don't need a handout. I can do it on my own.”

It's not exactly true. My mom pays for my rent. I know the money comes from her alimony, which comes straight from my dad. But accepting it straight from him feels different somehow.

He sighs in frustration. “It wouldn't be…I'm your father, Greta! Part of my job is providing for you.”

Yeah, you've always been a great financial provider. But don't you understand there's more to fatherhood than that?

But then my thoughts slowly turn in a warmer direction. My father asking me to share a workspace with him is like giving me a tightly wrapped hug. His company—his work—is his life. He always put it before his family; that's why he and my mother's marriage failed. That's why his relationship with his three daughters suffers.

But inviting me into his world? That's the same as asking me to share his heart.

I study him. “I'd have a normal salary?”

He nods emphatically. “Yes. And you could save it up so that you can send yourself to culinary school one day, if that's what you want. I only want to help you, Greta. You're my baby girl.”

My eyes begin to mist over before I can stop it. “I'll think it over.”

He smiles, a gruff twist of his lips: a Jacob Owen classic grin. “Sounds good. That's all I can ask. Along with Dare and I, we have a team of five other guys here. We could use someone like you to keep us in line.”

I laugh in spite of myself. “Yeah, right. Like I can keep a bunch of ex-soldiers in check.”

He frowns. “You know, if you're going to work here, you're going to need to complete a bit of training.”

My eyebrows lift. “Training?”

He grins again. “Yeah. Like PT. I'll get one of the guys on it, okay? Call me and let me know after you've thought about it over the long weekend. And then we'll talk if you agree.”

I stand, a strange sense of excitement fluttering in my belly. “Okay, Dad. I'll call you after the weekend.”

He pulls me into another awkward hug. “I love you, honey. I'll be waiting for your call.”

I drive home in a daze. My father has his flaws, but inviting me into the professional fold was a big move for him, and it spoke volumes. Could I turn something like that down? Because it's not just a job.

It's an opportunity.

I'm so preoccupied that when I let myself into my apartment I realize I haven't even looked at my phone since before my meeting. I flip it out of my purse and check the screen.

Missed call from Grisham?

Warmth floods my belly again at the sight of his name on my phone's lit-up screen, but this time the feeling has nothing to do with fatherly love. This feeling is all about the elusive butterflies that have been missing from my life ever since Grisham went MIA more than a year ago.

I press the green call key and listen to the ringing.

“Hello?”

Grisham's voice from the other end of a phone is the chocolate coating over a delectable piece of caramel. All of the rough embers of masculine goodness smoothed out over the cellular waves. I shiver with excitement.

“Grisham? Just got out of a meeting with my dad and saw that you called. What's up?”

“Hey, Grits. How did it go with your dad?”

I flop onto the couch and put my bare feet up on the coffee table. I watch my wiggling toes as I think of how to tell Grisham about my father's job offer. For some reason, the entire story wants to pour out of my mouth.

And I let it.

After I'm done, Grisham whistles. “That's quite the offer. I get the feeling your relationship with your dad is kind of strained. Am I right?”

I nod before I remember he can't see me. “Yes. It's definitely that.”

He chuckles darkly. “Trust me, I get it. More than you know. You gonna take it?”

“That's the thing! I'm not sure. I told him I'd take the long weekend to think it over. But…I kind of want to, you know? If for no other reason than he'll pay me well and I can put money away for culinary school.”

His voice is full of something I can't quite pin down when he answers. Admiration, maybe? “It's a good plan. It's smart to at least consider it.”

“Yeah. So, what were you actually calling me about before I spilled my guts?”

His outright laughter sends a pool of desire splashing through my core. How does he do that to me with just one sound?

God. Imagine what he could do to me with his hands. Or his mouth.

Oh, hell. The thought of Grisham's big, strong hands on my body…or his hot, sweet mouth connecting with my skin…

“So how does that sound? Greta?”

Damn. My runaway imagination made me miss what he'd asked me.

“Um, I'm sorry, Grisham. Can you run that by me again?”

Sounding amused, he repeats his question. “Do you want to come to my Labor Day cookout? You can bring Mea. I'd…I'd like to have you there.”

I decide to play coy, rather than standing up and shouting “Hells, yes!” at the top of my voice. “Why? Why would you like me there?” I let the teasing show in my tone.

“Because if you don't come, who else is going to cook up some potato salad in my kitchen?”

I gasp, and his laughter rings out through the phone.

“I'm kidding! Can you come? Please?”

On the last request, his voice drops an octave, and I'm putty in his hands. I'd probably say yes to just about anything he asks if he uses that deep, sexy tone again.

“Sure. And I'll bring potato salad.”

My voice is breathless when I accept.

“Yes! Mission accomplished.”

Laughing, I stick my tongue out at the phone. “And if you're good, I'll bring you a special dessert.”

Silence stretches across the line, and a hot blush creeps across my face as I wonder if my flirting went too far.

“Um, chocolate pie tarts. That's what I meant.”

Grisham's voice is sand rolled in my palm when he answers, rough and coarse. “Damn. The dessert I'm picturing doesn't have anything to do with chocolate. But it's still really fucking sweet.”

Oh, Lordy in heaven above.
I fan myself with one hand while I tuck the other between my knees as hard as I can. Tension is building fast and hard in my belly, and I squeeze my eyes shut as I silently count backward from five.

“That image might stay in my head all night.” My voice is just a whisper. “Good night, Grisham. I'll see you Sunday afternoon.”

His low, sexy drawl will be repeating long after we hang up, I just know it. “'Night, Grits. Yeah…Sunday.”

With a squeal, I throw my phone down on the couch and run to the bathroom for a nice, long,
cool
bath.