Saved by the SEAL (6 page)

W
hen Sunday afternoon rolls around, I figure it's finally happened.

I've lost my goddamn mind.

“Dude. I just want to know one thing. Have you always had a rug…on your deck?” Ben stomps his flip-flops a few times to emphasize his point.

I brush past him, carrying a bag of ice. “Bought it yesterday.”

“But
why
?”

When I drop the ice beside the cooler and look over at Ben his expression is so bewildered that I have to laugh.

“I just want everything to be good. This is a party. I'm gonna have chicks here. They judge.”

He nods, as if that makes total sense. “Gotcha. Well, this shit is kinda nice.”

I toss a bottle of beer at him before I dump the ice into the cooler. Then I carefully place some of the beer bottles deep inside the cold depths.

“You could use this more than me right now.” Ben pops the top of his beer and takes a long swig.

“Hey!” calls Lawson from the fire pit in the yard. “I could use your help puttin' the wood in this thing, Cowboy. Get your ass up.”

Ben heaves himself off the lounge chair he'd just chosen and lumbers over to where Lawson is working to make sure we'll have a good fire after dark.

After I finish putting some nonalcoholic drinks in the second cooler, I stand back and survey our work. There's seasoned meat chilling in the refrigerator in the kitchen, and my gas grill is clean and ready to go. It stands beside a stone bar area where a pub table is set up with three stools. My backyard is probably the nicest part of my house. It's a beach house, so spending time outside is mandatory. But knowing that Greta will be here today and that there's a chance my mom will stop by made me step up the decor just a little.

I strung small white lights over the pergola overlooking the wooden deck and arranged all of the lounge chairs in a way that promotes conversation. Just beyond the patch of grass off the deck is a walkway to the beach, and I placed two tiki torches on either side of it. Two more torches stand proudly on either side of the bar.

The rug I bought matches the deep green cushions on the lounge chairs, with green and turquoise stripes. I just hope everything looks good enough that the girls will be impressed by my decorating skills.

The slider leading into the kitchen opens, and I glance over to see Berkeley leading Dare outside by the hand. Her whiskey-colored eyes scan the deck and then she looks at me with approval in her gaze.

The first thing I realize when I see Berkeley is that this is the first time I'll be with her and Greta in the same place at the same time since being back home. Even though Berkeley and I were never an actual couple, unease gnaws at my stomach. The last thing I want is for the friendship between me and Berkeley to make Greta feel uncomfortable.

“Nice job, Grish!” she exclaims. “You stepped it up a little bit, huh? Who are you trying to impress?”

Shit.
Despite the fact that Berkeley and my relationship with her have changed a lot since she got together with Dare, she still knows me too damn well.

I shrug, attempting to stay casual. “No one. Everyone. It's a party, so I bought some stuff. You know how it is.”

Her eyes narrow as she watches me. “Sure. I know how it is.” She scrutinizes me, but I head over and hold a hand out for Dare.

“What's up, man? Glad you could make it. Where's Drake?”

Drake, Dare's best friend and old roommate, was an army buddy from Dare's Ranger days. I don't know him well, but he seems like a good guy. I'd told Berkeley when I invited her that Drake was welcome, too.

We shake, and Dare tilts his head toward the beach. “Said he'll be here later. Sweet view, man. I like your place.”

“Thanks. It's pretty cool. I can walk right outside with my board in the morning if I want.”

Dare's eyes drop to my leg and back up again. “You been back on a board yet?”

Shaking my head, I turn my eyes to the ocean. The place I've always felt the most at peace, the most at home. It's rolling gently against the shore today, no big waves crashing against the sand. “Not yet. Working up to it.”

Berkeley hugs me. “You'll get there.”

“I know I will.”

We're silent for a moment, and I know Berkeley is mourning the loss of my leg like she's done the handful of times I've seen her since returning stateside. “You two grab a drink. I've got chips and dip in bowls over there.”

“Awesome. I brought homemade salsa.” Berkeley drags Dare to the coolers just as Lawson and Ben head over to greet them.

I head back into the house to hunt down Berkeley's salsa. As I'm searching the contents of my dark cherrywood cabinets for a bowl, the doorbell rings.

“Should have put a note on the door that says ‘Come Around Back,'” I mutter as I jog to the door.

When I pull it open, Greta is standing there. She's all I can see for the first couple of moments because she's such a knockout. She's wearing a short, blue sundress that does crazy things to the color of her eyes. Her long, dark hair is pulled up with some pieces hanging down around her fresh, clean face. Her cheeks dimple slightly as she nearly lays me out with one of her sweet smiles.

My body strains to be wrapped around her right then. She's a total vision, and I shift my feet with the excitement I feel at being able to show her off to my friends.

“Hey,” she greets me.

I step back so she can step inside, and Mea and a guy I don't know follow her. My radar springs up instantly, circling the guy with startling intensity. Because, why the hell did she bring a guy?

I rein in what can only be jealousy and pull her into my arms. “Hey back. You brought friends.”

I pull back from her and reach out to grab Mea into a friendly hug. “Long time no see, Mea. You doing okay?”

She nods, her small stature almost brimming with hyperactivity. She bounces on her toes as she scans the living room. “I'm great! This place is super nice, Grisham. You did good.”

Smiling, I do a quick scan of the room. “I did okay, huh? Thanks.”

Greta also gives the room a favorable once-over. “I like the white brick fireplace. That's so different and cool.”

Pride is a helium balloon in my chest, puffing it out a few inches. “Thanks. Painted it when I moved in. It was this weird light brick color before. It looks better now.”

She nods and then gestures toward the guy. “I hope it's okay I brought another friend.”

When she says the word
friend
, I relax a little bit. I hadn't realized how tense my muscles were until she said the magic
F
word.

“This is Kyle. He's my father's assistant at Night Eagle.”

Kyle shoves his hand in his pockets. Glancing up at me, he holds out a hand for me to shake. I eye him with keen curiosity.

“Greta's about to become my new coworker.” Kyle slides her a small smile.

“Not yet,” she says firmly. “I haven't accepted yet.”

“You still thinking about it?” I look from Greta to Kyle and back again.

“I'm gonna leave you guys to chat for a minute. I gotta go find Berkeley! You coming, Kyle?” Mea disappears from the room, and I hear the slider open and close in the kitchen.

Kyle glances at Greta and me, but I can't keep my focus off of her long enough to be friendly with him. “Better follow her outside. Catch up with you later, right, Greta?”

She nods, a gorgeous dimple appearing in her cheek and her eyes shining bright with what can only be pure kindness. She radiates goodness, and I want to step closer so I can be captured by the glow.

“I'm going to talk to you about the job more tonight. I need you as a sounding board.” Greta's shy gaze slides up to mine, and my body responds with a painful rigidity. I want to take her into my arms and disappear with her, so she can tell me all the pros and cons she's considering. I'll gladly be her soft place to fall. And then I curse myself inside my head.

How can I be anyone's soft place to fall? I'm all hard edges and sharp points.

Greta jerks her head toward the door. “I brought some stuff so I could make potato salad, Grisham. Want to help me get it out of the car?”

I smile at her. Of course I'll get the stuff out of the car. And then I'll monopolize her attention while she cooks. “Sure, Grits.”

She follows me onto the front porch

“So, Kyle is just a guy who works at Night Eagle with your dad?” I ask casually as we walk toward Greta's RAV4. She pops the back hatch and I grab two grocery bags from the trunk.

She gives me a sideways glance. “Jealous, Abbot?”

Pretty sure I'll be jealous of any man standing close enough to touch Greta. The feeling rests in my mind like an anchor, sinking deep. Realization slams me hard.

When did I turn into the jealous type?

Chuckling, I shake my head at her. “Should I be?”

She blushes, which drives me crazy. The pink tinge that sweeps across the tiny, delicate freckles dusting her cheeks is intoxicating.

“I've known Kyle for a long time. We went to high school together. But he's always just been a friend.”

Good enough for me.
I can keep an eye on Kyle, but if Greta says she's not interested in him, I'll take her word for it.

Greta closes the trunk and we're strolling up the driveway when it happens. A souped-up car engine rumbles; it's close, no more than a block away. The sound doesn't just bounce off of me, it travels
through
me, burrowing deep and taking hold. I stop, freezing in midstep, my head turning toward the sound. The car roars onto our street, and my head jerks toward Greta. When the car backfires, I jump a fucking mile, dropping the bags from my hands and changing my stance to a crouch. I want to yell for Greta to get down, but then the car zooms past us.

It's harmless. Just a car.

Not a military hum-vee. Not a man-driven steel frame serving as a missile to destroy me and my team.

Just a car.

I'm trembling, my entire body shaking, as if I've just walked off a battlefield. A thin sheen of sweat coats my forehead, and I swipe it off. My heart beats wildly against my ribs, and I give a heavy sigh. Hanging my head, I reach down and grab the grocery bags, which are thankfully still sitting upright.

When I glance at Greta, her gaze is shrewd. She's looking at me, but that clear blue expanse stares straight through me. I know, instantly, that she realizes what just happened.

“Is it over?” she asks, her voice like the gentlest caress. It curls around me, wrapping me up in everything sweet.

I nod, blowing out a breath. “Sorry if I freaked you out.”

She shakes her head, dark locks flying in the breeze. A light, fresh floral scent wafts under my nose, and I'm immediately calmer, more collected. “Don't be. I know exactly what that was. How often does it happen to you?”

I begin walking toward the house again, and she falls into step beside me.

How often does it happen?

I want to laugh, but I know there's nothing funny about feeling the aftereffects of a trauma. It happens when I least expect it. Not as often as it did before. But there are times when I'm just walking down the street, and I see something or hear something that brings me right back to hell.

“Not often.” I want to keep Greta out of that dark place if I can help it. She's everything light, beautiful, and happy. She's sunshine. The last thing I want to do is cover her with my dark clouds. Stain her with all of my gray.

I lead her into the kitchen, and she gets to work finding a big mixing bowl and my sharp knives. I sit on a barstool to watch her chop up potatoes, onions, celery, and some kind of leafy green spice. She glances at me every so often, and I can almost see her thoughts turning back to my moment of weakness. It makes my stomach clench, my toes curl with regret.

“Want some help?” I ask.

She looks suspicious. “What can you do?”

I glance around at her array of supplies, thinking. “I'm a good stirrer.”

She pushes a bowl of something creamy into my hands, and I use the spoon inside to begin stirring.

“So when did you buy this house?” she asks.

“About a year ago.”

Nodding, she continues preparing the ingredients in front of her. “It's awesome. From what I remember, your parents live in town. Right? They must be so proud of you.”

I drop my gaze, concentrating extra hard on my stirring duty. I give a noncommittal nod.

“Last night, on the phone…you said you understood about my strained relationship with my dad.”

She pauses until I finally look up and meet her gaze. Her blue eyes are laser-focused on mine; she tilts her head to the side, as if she's seeing straight through the front I'm putting on.

“Maybe sometime we should compare notes.”

The idea of sharing what I went through—what I still go through—with my father is less than thrilling. But there's also a sense of companionship there I don't expect. Talking to her is easy, warm. Her voice, her gaze…everything about her wraps me up tight and soothes out the rough edges of pain and apprehension.

“You want us to share? I did enough of that with my therapist. And he wasn't as pretty as you. You might be able to get me to share too much. You're dangerous.” I wink at her.

She laughs, the tendrils of hair around her face drifting into her eyes. I step closer, and when she stops laughing abruptly, I can't help but invade her space. Standing right in front of her, I brush the nearly raven hair away from her big, gorgeous pools. She blinks, staring back at me.

“Better?” I whisper.

Electricity sizzles between us, like we're connected by a live wire. My arm wraps around her waist, and I snake my hand around to the small of her back, pulling her against me.

Damn, that feels good.