Saved by the SEAL (8 page)

“He is, yeah. Work is his life, you know? So I guess if I'm going to be working here, he's pretty serious about me learning to fight.”

Thoughtful, I nod. We reach her car, and she uses her key fob to unlock her doors. I lean against the driver's side as she throws her small gym bag into the backseat.

“Work is his life? You really feel that way? Where does that leave you and your sisters?”

She shrugs. “Out in the cold. I'm so used to it that it barely registers anymore. And now I'm going to be part of his work life, so…” She sighs. “I still feel really bad for my sisters, though. Gemma and Gabi are still young, teenage girls who need their dad. My mom and I aren't substitutes for that, even though we try. Did I tell you that Gabi has CF?”

I frown. “Cystic fibrosis?”

She nods, leaning against the car, right beside me. “Yeah. She's a tough kid, but it's really rough sometimes, you know? For all of us.”

I whistle low as shock and sympathy slam into me. “Damn, Grits. I didn't know. I'm sorry to hear that.” I'm stabbed with a prick of acute pain somewhere inside me at the aching look that crosses her face when she mentions her sister's disease.

“We handle it. But my dad has never really been there for her and my mom the way he should have been. I mean, he pays for everything. Which is helpful, of course. We'd be up shit's creek in medical bills if he didn't. My mom's a nurse, but she only works part-time so she can take care of my sister if she's sick. So her salary wouldn't cover all of that.”

Her voice breaks on the last word, and I don't hesitate. I pull her into my arms. She rests her cheek against my chest, and I think she's glad I can't see her face.

“I just wish he'd realize that throwing money at a problem doesn't actually fix it. Gabi and Gemma want
him
, not his money.”

I stroke her incredibly soft hair and brush my lips across the top of her head. “What about you, Greta? What do you want from him?”

“N-nothing.” She sniffs.

“I think you need to be honest with yourself about that. You feel like you're missing something. You brush it off as sympathy for your sisters, which I'm sure is partially true, but he's just as absent from your life as he is from theirs. Working with him might be the first step to changing that, right? This is going to be a good thing for you two.”

She nods. “I hope so.”

And then we just stand there while I hold her. It feels amazing cradling this girl in my arms. She's soft and warm. She feels like if I hold on tight enough, I can be whole again. Greta's like a tether from the darkest place inside me, from all the scary, dirty things I've seen and done a world away, to the light. She draws me further into her sunshine each time I'm with her. With her, I believe I can be important to someone again. I can start over once my SEAL days end. She's my glimpse of the future, and she feels perfect standing against me.

She feels like home.

I
can't remember the last time I talked about my father with someone. I've talked to Mea about him and the way my relationship with him makes me feel, but Grisham is pulling emotions out of me I thought were dead and buried. I don't cry about Jacob Owen anymore. What's the point?

It could be worse. Some people have never met their father. Some people have lost theirs. Mine is still here, he's just not here in the way I'd want him to be in a perfect world.

I know it's not a perfect world.

For the remainder of that week, I'm unable to see Grisham because of how busy he is at work, helping his team prepare for another mission. He hasn't said much about it, but I know he's devastated about the fact that he's not going with them. I'm not sure what to say to help him through it, though. We haven't reached a point where I can offer him any type of encouragement where his job is concerned. I'd like to be there for him, but I'm equally as busy learning the ropes at Night Eagle.

On Friday morning, I arrive at the office before my father. With a little whoop of triumph, I use the key card he gave me to let myself in. I turn on the computer at the front desk, which is now my desk, and head to the little lounge to make myself a cup of coffee. My father cleaned out a secondary desk in his office for Kyle, and I know it won't be long before he arrives.

There's a knock on the office door, and I check the giant wall clock hanging in the front lobby: 7:45 a.m. We don't even officially open until nine. Who would be knocking?

I hesitate, wondering whether I should just ignore it, or open the door and inform whoever it is of our office hours. The visitor knocks again, and I curse under my breath.

I walk to the front door. Right now, I really wish this was a retail facility and the doors were glass, rather than the dark steel so that I can have a view of who is standing on the other side.

Suck it up, Greta
,
I tell myself.
The boogeyman doesn't come out this early in the morning.

I pull the door open to find a bike messenger standing there. He hands me a large white box, and nods. “Have a nice day.”

“Wait!” I call as he mounts his bike.

I want to know why the hell a bike messenger is delivering to us so early on a Friday morning. But he ignores me, riding away before I can say another word or ask him a single question.

Shaking my head with confusion, I sit down at my chair and inspect the white box. My name is labeled on the front, but nothing else. Just my first name.

When I open the box, I gasp, one hand flying to my mouth.

Lying in the box are a bunch of long-stemmed bloodred roses.

“What the...” I dig around in the box, searching for a note.

I've never been sent flowers before in my life. I rack my brain, trying to think of who would even think to do such a thing. Just then, I hear the buzz of a key card being used and Kyle walks in through the front door.

“Hey, Greta,” he greets me cheerfully. Our eyes meet, and his eyebrows shoot up curiously. “What's wrong?”

I glance down at the box, unable to speak, before looking back at him helplessly. He comes over to the desk quickly, walking around to where I'm seated, and peers into the box.

“Wow,” he says quietly, fingering the bud of one perfect rose. “From your SEAL, I'm guessing?”

Well, crap.

I hadn't even thought of Grisham until Kyle referred to him as
my SEAL.
Would he send me flowers? A heated smile crosses my face without my permission before I beat it back down with pure willpower.

“First of all,” I retort, “Grisham isn't
my SEAL.
We're friends.”

Kyle looks doubtful. “A friend who makes sure he's the one teaching you combat moves instead of the well-trained guys who work here? A friend who sends you roses?”

I gaze down at the box of roses in my lap again. Fingers of pleasant surprise walk across my skin, paralyzing me. “I have to send him a text…thank him.”

Kyle shrugs. “Hop to it, then. You want me to find something to put those in? You can keep them on your desk all day.”

Now a real, unhidden smile breaks out, and I don't bother to try and hide it. Looking at flowers sent by Grisham all day is going to make this the best Friday ever.

“Thanks, Kyle.”

He goes off in search of a vase, and I pull out my phone to thank “my SEAL.” I know he's in a workout, and I don't want to interrupt him with a phone call. I figure he'll text me back when he's finished.

There. That should do it. Not too sappy, even though I feel like gushing.

I've just put my phone back in my purse when I hear the
ding
that signifies I have a text. My spirits soar, realizing that he texted me back during a workout.

Grisham and I have spoken or texted every night this week. Our conversations have been easy and flirty, but every single time we talk, I get off the phone with tingly limbs and a racing heartbeat. He just makes me feel…lifted. Like I can fly. I'm excited about the prospect of hearing from him every single day after work, and when I do, it's like I've just come in first place in a race. It's euphoric. And it's scary.

When I read the text, my confusion ratchets up again.

He didn't send them? Then who on earth did?

My gaze is flipping between my phone and the flowers when Kyle comes back into view, holding a water jug that he's cut the top off of. He smiles apologetically. “This will have to do, yeah?”

I nod numbly. When my phone dings again I startle before glancing at the text.

I shake my head to clear it, and then I type back a quick response.

I put my phone down on my desk, place all of the roses in the jug, and settle in to get some work done. My dad's schedule is kind of a mess, so I'm putting all of his appointments and conference calls into an Excel spreadsheet and exporting it to a cloud so that he can access them from any device or computer at any time. I shake my head as I work, in disbelief that this hasn't been done before.

Over the past week I've realized that although my father is the best at what he does—running a private security business, effectively acquiring and successfully completing government contracts, and protecting people—his office skills are seriously sucky. I've made it my personal mission to help him with that and make this office a smoothly running operation, just as efficient as his field missions are.

I'm working so hard that lunchtime comes and goes. My father, Kyle, Dare, and the other members of the team have been locked in the office all morning, going over the particulars for a new project they're working on. I haven't been briefed on the details yet because they're still hammering them out. But next week, my father will let me know what they'll be doing for the project, because he'll need me to input data into his computer system and make travel arrangements for the team as needed.

Early in the afternoon, I'm finished with my administrative tasks. The list I set out to accomplish by the end of the week is done, and it's a freeing feeling. I didn't expect to like this job, but it actually suits my skill set. I'm good at organizing things, with keeping details in order.

I'm good at this.
The thought brings a smile to my face. I sit back in my chair, realizing my stomach is grumbling. I head to the lounge to grab the sandwich I'd stuck in the refrigerator this morning and bring it back to my desk. I don't want to be away in case someone comes in for a consultation.

The door opens, bringing in fresh, salty air, a seaside breeze, and Berkeley Holtz.

“Berk!” I exclaim, standing as she lets the door swing closed behind her.

“Hey, Greta!”

We meet in the middle of the room, pulling each other into a tight, squeezing hug. Berkeley and I grew pretty close while she lived with Mea and me, and now she lives with Dare. The fact that she's not around all the time, thought, makes my feelings for Grisham a bit easier. Even though my head tells me that he and Berkeley never actually dated, my heart sometimes protests that I'm breaking some kind of girl code.

“What are you doing here? Your man's in a meeting.”

She flips a chunk of her long, curly blond hair over her shoulder. “I know. I brought him a smoothie.” She indicates the drink in her hand. “He always needs a pick-me-up at this time of the day, and he didn't have time to make one this morning.”

She suddenly turns crimson, and I give her a slow, knowing smile.

“He didn't
have time
? Were you keeping him
busy
?”

She swats at my hand, giggling as she heads toward the lounge. “Oh, shush.”

I sit down to continue eating, and when Berkeley returns she perches on the side of my desk.

“So, how's the new job going?”

I sigh happily. “It's good. I thought I'd get to see more of my dad, but he's a pretty busy guy. I'm keeping busy with all of this, though.” I gesture toward my desk and computer.

Berkeley smiles. “And…how are things with Grisham?”

My mouth drops open. “What? What are you talking about?”

“Don't play dumb, my friend.” Rolling her eyes, Berkeley crosses her arms over her chest. “I saw you two together at the cookout. It was adorable. You were all shy and covert flirty, while he was all ‘can't-keep-his-eyes-off-you.'”

“Really? You thought we looked…” I can feel my face heating, but it's not embarrassment that causes my blush this time. It's hope.

“Girl, he wants you bad. Like,
bad.
And he's Grisham, so he'll right it as long as he can. He's a good guy, you know? He won't push you. Especially after everything he's been through.”

I'm soaking in every word she says like a thirsty sponge. Any tidbit of knowledge she has about Grisham is precious to me. She's known him for a long time, and I trust her judgment. If she thinks Grisham's into me…

“Well, I thought he sent me flowers this morning.” I sweep my hand toward the jug of roses sitting prettily on my desk.

Berkeley's whiskey-colored eyes widen. “Did he?”

Shaking my head, I frown. “No. And there was no note, so I have no clue who would have sent them.”

Unable to help herself, she moves closer, inspecting the flowers. The designer inside of Berkeley inspires her to begin arranging them, turning them this way and that in the vase. Her face lights up. “You have a secret admirer!”

Just the thought makes me cringe. “No, I don't.”

“Yes, you do!” she says, clapping her hands. “And as soon as Grisham finds out, he'll probably go all alpha-male on your ass.” She continues arranging the flowers, but then she frowns. “You only have eleven. Your secret admirer got gypped.”

I don't care about how many flowers there are. But I immediately lock on to her comment about Grisham. I consider him for a minute. I think of the sexy, colorful tattoos covering his chest and shoulders, of the single-minded determination in his eyes when he's teaching me a combat move. I think of the way he saved me from the ocean the day he came back into my life, and the way he growled when he was horsing around with his buddies at the cookout. A flare of heat rises inside of me, and I close my eyes briefly.

“I think he's already an alpha male.”

Berkeley laughs. “Maybe he is. But the thought of another guy going after you is going to make him plain old crazy.”

I'm flooded with liquid want, and I squeeze my knees together.

Time for a subject change
. “Did you know he's teaching me to fight? Well…to defend myself, at least. My dad wants me to learn how to for this job.”

Berkeley nods. “Dare told me. How's that going?”

“We've only had one lesson so far, but it went really well. Grisham's a good teacher.”

“I'm sure he is,” she says with a knowing grin. “I like you two together. I hope you guys make it happen.” She snaps her fingers. “Hey! Let's get everyone together for drinks tomorrow night. Sound good?”

I nod. “Sounds good to me. Want me to ask Grisham?”

“Hell yes, I want you to ask him. And make sure Mea comes, too. I hardly ever get to see her anymore now that she's getting ready to open her own yoga studio.”

“I think she's a ways from the ‘opening' stage. She's still planning. But yeah, she's been super busy with it. I'm proud of her.” And I really am. Yoga is something Mea is passionate about and really skilled at teaching. She's going to have a kick-ass studio once she gets it off the ground.

“Me, too. Anyway, I've gotta get back to my own job. When Dare comes out, will you let him know his smoothie is in the freezer?”

I walk with her to the doors. “See you tomorrow night, Berk. Text me what bar you want to go to.”

She gives me another quick hug before stepping out into the sunshine. “Will do!”

As soon as she's out the door, my phone dings again. When I glance at it, a big smile crosses my face at the sight of Grisham's name.

The line of text is so casual and flippant, but it stems big feelings inside of me.

Did he just officially ask me out on a date?

I don't want to jump to conclusions. This could just be a friendly fast-food meal between friends, right? We've had dinner together before. But something about this text just feels different.

I miss him. I haven't seen him all week. The fact doesn't surprise me at all. In a short time, Grisham has become a part of my day. I expect to hear from him in some capacity, and if I didn't, I'd be heartbroken. So then will getting closer to him when he's made it known he isn't ready for a relationship be a stupid move?