Navy SEAL Series Boxed Set

by Odette Stone

  “What do you think?” It was strangely intimate to be lying next to him. Which made me nervous.

  “Too hard.”

  I scrambled up to a sitting position. “We need a softer bed.”

  The salesperson beamed. “There is a memory foam mattress right over here.”

  I lay down on the next bed.

  “I don’t know. This one feels a bit too spongy.”

  Jackson stood next to the bed. I patted the bed. With a look of resignation, he lay down beside me. “Yup.”

  “How about this one over here,” the salesperson pointed at the next bed. “This is a nice pillow top.”

  The bed felt soft. I sighed with comfort. I felt the bed move as Jackson lay down beside me. “What do you think?”

  “Not bad.”

  I smiled at the ceiling. “Do you think you could sleep on this bed?”

  “Yep.”

  Anticipating a sale, the hovering salesperson said, “Are you a side sleeper or do you prefer to sleep on your back?”

  “I sleep on my side,” I said. The salesperson waited for Jackson to answer.

  I turned my head. “And you?”

  “My back.”

  “I have the perfect pillows for you both.” The salesperson rushed away.

  I studied Jackson’s profile. He had such strong features. My friends would go bananas over this man. I could hint that he was a serial killer and they would still be scrambling over each other to get to him.

  “Here we are,” the salesperson handed me a pillow. “This is specially designed for the side sleeper.”

  I tucked it under my head and rolled over on my side towards Jackson. The salesperson held out a pillow towards Jackson. “This is for the back sleeper.”

  I held my breath, wondering if he’d swat the pillow away. With a sigh, he tucked it under his head.

  The salesperson walked a discrete distance away.

  I lay curled up on my side. Even clothed and in a public store, it was strangely intimate to be lying next to this man in a bed. I felt dwarfed by his presence. We were two opposite ends of a spectrum. Next to my petite frame, he was massive in size.

  He glanced at me and our gazes locked.

  I broke the silence. “Usually when I meet Matt’s friends, they bore me to death with their insights on their favorite wine,”

  “What are you saying?” he murmured, his eyes never leaving mine.

  “Attempted murder and bed shopping is a lot more fun.”

  His smile sucker punched me. My breath caught in my throat. No one had the right to be that attractive.

  “Were you attacked before?”

  His words shocked me. “Excuse me?”

  “Right before you fainted, you said, not again.”

  A wave of pain flashed through my body. I hated talking about my parents. “My parents died when I was 15.”

  That wasn’t a great explanation, but it was the best he was getting from me.

  “Okay.” His eyes studied me.

  “It was a bad situation.”

  “I’m sorry I scared you.”

  My breath let out of my lungs in a rush. “That’s okay.”

  We looked at each other. I swallowed and then the words blurted out of me. “They were killed by a home invader.”

  He winced. “Were you there?”

  “Yes.”

  In two short conversations, this man had somehow persuaded me to confess my virginity and my most traumatic life event. I had no idea how he managed to do that, but it was intimidating as hell.

  “So what do you two think?” the salesperson asked from the foot of the bed.

  I shot off the bed. “We’ll take it.”

  I ended up buying the bed, the frame, and linens. I watched as Jackson and the sales guy loaded everything into the back of the truck. Jackson moved with ease. He didn’t seem injured. What treatment was he receiving at the hospital? Did he have some disease? What kind of medical treatment was he getting? He appeared fit and healthy. There was no visible injury.

  Back at the loft, I inwardly fretted about how we would get the mattress upstairs, but Jackson easily carried everything up.

  “I stuck your sheets in the wash,” I said from the doorway of his bedroom.

  Jackson was on the floor of his room, putting the bed frame together.

  “Thanks.”

  “Do you need any help?”

  “I’m good.”

  I hovered. Part of me wanted to bolt, the other part of me wanted to stay.

  “How did you two meet?” His question came out of nowhere.

  “Me and Matt?” I frowned. “He came into the art gallery that I work at.”

  “Did he ask you out?”

  “No. But we ran into each other at a party about a month later and he asked me out.”

  “When did you get engaged?”

  “Just after Christmas.”

  “And you started dating a year ago?”

  I lifted my chin. “Yes.”

  “Did you buy this place together?”

  “Kind of.”

  He glanced up at me.

  “I bought it. Matt fell in love with it.”

  “But you don’t love it.”

  Did this man have x-ray eyes into my soul? How could he possibly know that?

  “I’m still getting used to this place. I used to live in my granny’s place, but I’m sure this is going to be fine.”

  He gave me a quick glance. As far as looks went, that one was pretty benign, but it still made me feel defensive.

  I took an even breath. I had no idea why I was balking at his benevolent responses. He wasn’t overly scrutinizing me, yet I still felt judged.

  “I thought it was a good idea. Plus Matt said that this place would have great resale value.”

  “Sure.”

  “Are you dating anyone?” I deliberately steered the conversation towards him.

  A long beat. “No.”

  “Any kids?”

  “No.”

  “Oh. Well okay.” I turned to go. Just as I was about to cross the threshold, he spoke.

  “Do you want kids?”

  I looked over my shoulder and debated how to answer. I wanted a baby and to be part of a family. The sooner, the better. But this was a huge point of contention between Matt and myself. I wanted to start a family right away. Matt wanted to wait. “I want kids very much.”

  Green eyes met mine. Studying me.

  I couldn’t understand his look, and that made me feel awkward. “What about you? Do you want kids?”

  He shrugged and turned away. “Probably not a good idea.”

  I stared at his back. What did that mean? Why did he think he shouldn’t have kids? I wanted to press him because it was my innate nature to convince everyone that they needed children, but I refrained. Maybe men didn’t typically want children? With a maturity I didn’t feel, I changed the subject.

  “Come and go as you please. I left a key on the island for you. Will you be here for dinner?”

  “You don’t have to cook for me.”

  “I cook every night. It isn’t any bother. Just let me know.”

  “Will Matt be home?”

  “Yes.” My fingers crossed behind my back. I would do my best to get Matt home for dinner.

  “Can I bring anything?”

  “No.”

  “Thanks, Emily.”

  There he was repeating my name in that deep, gravelly voice. Face aflame, I turned and fled.

  Chapter 5

  After Jackson left, I crept into his room with the washed linen to make up his bed. The room still felt empty. I dragged in a small table for a nightstand. Then I added lamps and a throw blanket and I stocked his bathroom with fresh towels, soap, and shampoo.

  Matt texted me back.

  Matt: Sorry. I forgot to tell you about Jackson.

  When was the last time Matt talked to Jackson? What was their relationship? Why had he invited his childhood friend to visit? How lo
ng was he staying? I chewed on my lip, debating on what to write.

  Me: How long do you think he’ll stay?

  Matt: I don’t know. Maybe a few months?

  In disbelief, I stared at my phone. Jackson was going to move in with us for a few months? I took a few deep breaths. It’d be fine. This would be fine. Matt would come home tonight, and he’d explain everything to me.

  Me: Okay. I'm going to make dinner for us all tonight. Will you be home?

  Matt: Sure

  A few hours later, dinner was almost ready, and there was no sign of either Jackson or Matt. Not wanting to eat dinner alone with our guest, I pressure texted Matt.

  Me: Are you on your way home?

  Matt: I'm leaving in 5 minutes.

  A knock sounded on the door.

  “Come in.” My voice echoed across the loft.

  Jackson wore a baseball cap and a t-shirt that looked damp in places. In his big hand, he carried a small paper bag. His glance took in the entirety of the loft and the stairs. He was looking for Matt. He stopped on the other side of the island. His eyes observed the simmering pots on the stove behind me, but he didn’t speak.

  “No formality required. You don’t have to knock.”

  His response was deadpan. “I thought it’d be safer.”

  At my expense, the man had cracked a joke. It took me a moment, but I started to laugh.

  “Is Matt here?”

  “He texted that he’s leaving the office in a few minutes.”

  He put the bag down and pushed it towards me.

  “Oh.” My breath hitched in my throat. I opened the bag, and the most beautiful scent wafted out. Inside was a delicate little blue ceramic pot with a perfect jasmine plant inside. I buried my face into the tiny white flowers. “I love the smell of jasmine.”

  He cleared his throat and avoided my gaze.

  “Thank you so much,” I said. “That’s so thoughtful.”

  “Would you mind if I took a quick shower? I was working out.”

  “Of course. Please make yourself at home.”

  He took the stairs three at a time. All power and smooth movements. I watched as he walked along the long hallway. When he got to his room, he turned on the light and stood there, taking in my homey touches. My heart thumped in my chest. Despite his wary nature, something was driving me to make him feel welcome.

  Why did I care if he was comfortable here?

  I rushed around to put the final touches on the roast chicken meal. Without warning, Jackson now stood next to the island. I jerked when I saw him. Usually, I could hear Matt coming from a mile away. This guy was a Ninja. His messy hair was wet and he exuded a fresh, clean scent.

  “Thanks for fixing up my room.” His eye contact was steady.

  I wanted to, but I couldn’t hold his gaze. “You’re welcome. Just let me text Matt real quick and see where he’s at.”

  Me: Dinner is ready

  Matt: Almost done. Go ahead without me. I’ll get there asap.

  I took a deep calming breath. This was fine. Matt frequently ran late, but he knew about Jackson. He’d be home for dinner.

  “Matt’s running late. Let’s start. He should be here soon.”

  He gave a short nod and helped me carry food to the table.

  “Please sit,” I gestured to a seat.

  The lone burning candle in the center of the table had felt like a festive gesture before, but now it felt like a cheap seduction ploy.

  “This looks good,” he spoke.

  “Would you like some wine?”

  “Just water.”

  “We have beer.”

  Long pause. Thinking. “Water’s good.”

  We sat down and I passed him dish after dish, marveling at the sheer amount of food he put on his plate.

  For a few moments, we ate in silence.

  “This is good.”

  “Thank you.”

  The silence hung heavy between us.

  I racked my brain to make conversation. “So, what do you do in Virginia?”

  “I'm in the navy.”

  My friend Julie was going to have a shit fit. She loved military men. “Are you a sailor?”

  “Navy SEAL.”

  I had an amusing vision of a group of men walking around with baby seals on their t-shirts. Maybe they specialized in marine wildlife? Or seals? Did the navy have an animal conservation group as part of their regime? Maybe they trained seals to work with them? I looked at the huge man across from me, trying to imagine him talking to a baby seal. The image was kind of cute. “What does that entail?”

  “We perform combat missions in sea, air, and land.”

  I blinked at the words combat mission. Another less fun vision of a seal with a bomb strapped to its slick little body crossed my mind. They did that in World War II. They used to strap bombs to dogs and send them over to the enemy to blow up their tanks, and the dogs blew up with them. Who even came up with something so cruel? I was so upset when I saw that on the history channel that I cried.

  “With seals? You do combat with seals?”

  A peculiar look crossed his face. “SEAL is an acronym for sea, air, and land.”

  “So you don’t work with seals?” I needed confirmation. I couldn’t like this man if he hurt seals.

  He stared at me for a long moment and then shook his head. His chin dropped to his chest, and I realized that he was shaking with laughter. He looked back up at me, his whole face changed as he laughed. “I'm so sorry. I shouldn’t laugh.”

  “Sorry. I don’t like the military or anything to do with fighting. No offense.”

  He smiled at me. “No offense taken.”

  I cleared my throat and tried to be serious again. “Doesn’t navy meant boats and water?”

  “We specialize. We’re part of the navy, but we also engage in the water, in the air, and on land.”

  “You fly a plane?”

  “No. I jump out of them.”

  “Oh.” I had a vision of him running and leaping out the back of a plane. The thought made my heart want to stop.

  “That sounds scary.”

  “It’s a rush.”

  I did not understand this mentality. There were two kinds of people in this world. The ones who did all the adrenaline seeking adventures like rock climbing and sky-diving and then there was the other group of people that stood on the ground with their hands over their mouths, watching in horror. I was definitely in the second group. The less adrenaline I had rushing through my body, the better.

  “How can you even make yourself jump out of a plane? Doesn’t that go against everything your mind is telling you?”

  “We learn to control our responses to things like fear and pain.”

  I had no idea what he meant by that. “How can anyone control their body’s response to that?”

  “We’re trained to become comfortable in uncomfortable situations.”

  This morning I had been so scared I had passed out. My fear had overtaken my body.

  “So I guess you don’t faint when you get scared.”

  “No.”

  Our eyes met over the table.

  “I’ve never fainted before.”

  “I’ve never had anyone faint in my arms before.”

  My face got hot. I was breaking records today for the number of times I could blush.

  “So, what do you do?” He broke the tension between us.

  I hated this question. People got so judgy about careers. It was an automatic way to size someone up. I had dreams, even if I didn’t have a big fancy career like some of my friends. Besides, I liked what I did. “I work part-time in an art gallery.”

  “Are you a painter?”

  Surprise rippled through me. Most people asked me which art gallery. And then they wanted to know what I did for the art gallery. Was I a curator or a collections manager? Did I do marketing and fundraising? No one ever wanted to hear that I was just an assistant. And they never asked me if I was one of the artists.

>   “I like to paint but just in my spare time. At the gallery, I help sell the work of real artists.”

  “Did you paint the paintings in the loft?”

  I felt embarrassed to admit that the art on the walls was my own. “Yes.”

  “You seem like a real artist to me.”

  No one since my grandma had ever called me a real artist. This man could have no idea how much his words had just impacted me. I shook my head. “No. I just do that for fun.”

  Green eyes studied me.

  “Would you like some more food?”

  “No. I'm good.”

  We finished our meal in silence. It wasn’t awkward, but it wasn’t entirely comfortable either.

  He stood up. “I'll do the dishes.”

  I stood up too, picking up my plate. “No. That’s fine.”

  He took my plate from my hand. “You cooked. I’ll clean.”

  “Let me put the food away.”

  I carried my wine glass into the open kitchen.

  Now we were both in the space behind the island. Every time I turned around, he was within touching distance. I had a distinct desire to flee and had to focus on putting the food away while he loaded the dishwasher. He filled the sink with soapy water and started to wash. He gave me a look when I picked up a tea towel.

  “I know where everything goes. It’ll just be faster if I help.”

  In silence, we washed and dried dishes together. I tried to think of something to talk about, but I could only focus on how big he was next to me. I was used to my routine. I didn't know how to share my space with a stranger. My shy, inner self seemed to come out in force in his presence.

  He drained the sink as I put the last dish away. I handed him the dish towel so he could dry his hands.

  “Thank you for dinner.” He sounded sincere, but his expression was unreadable.

  “You’re welcome. I'm sorry that Matt wasn’t here.”

  “Does he frequently work this late?”

  I gave a little smile. “Yeah, he does. There’s no break for a junior lawyer. They try and work them to death.”

  I watched as he folded the tea towel perfectly, before hanging it on the towel rack.

  He didn’t respond. He redefined a man of few words. Any less talking and the guy could qualify as a selective mute.