The SEAL’s Instant Family

by Leslie North

  Nicole blinked in surprise. “Me?”

  When Zak and Holly had been dating, Zak had never wanted to be within ten feet of her, as if he expected her to flip out at any moment and go for his throat. It had been pretty funny, actually, the way he seemed so terrified of her. She figured a lot of it was the “mom” look that she had perfected—as her ten-year-old son could attest. The mom look was a great weapon against anyone with a guilty conscience.

  And if some of it was the brass knuckles she had “innocently” shown Zak, mentioning that she always kept them in her purse, well…that was their little secret. Nicole was from New Jersey. She knew how to take care of herself, along with everyone else that she kept under her wing. And while Holly was strong and tough and fierce in her own right, she also had a big heart that left her vulnerable to getting hurt. Nicole wasn’t going to let that happen on her watch.

  “Yeah.” He nodded toward the trash bags. “You mind?”

  She glanced over at her friends. Holly gave her an exaggerated shrug, but it was Charlotte’s soft nod that convinced her. She was curious—and the Mom in her couldn’t stand to have trash bags just standing around. She strode over, balancing a bit precariously on her high, skinny heels as she dragged one of the full, heavy trash bags into the alley. As a mother and a business-owner, Nicole’s wardrobe tended towards both practical and professional, but her one indulgence was her shoe collection. The bright red power heels she had on today were one of her favorite pairs, a celebration gift to herself after the salon had exceeded their sales goals last year. They probably hadn’t been the best choice of footwear considering the weather—or the fact that she was now hauling out trash bags—but they always made her feel like Wonder Woman. And besides, if she had to give Zak a couple of good hard kicks, she’d wanted to wear something that would leave a mark.

  Zak followed, the back door screeching shut behind him. “Look, I get it, okay?”

  Nicole stood and dusted off her hands. “Get what?”

  “Why you don’t want me and Holly to get back together. I get it. I’m a screw up. But I can do better.” Zak crossed over to her. “I’m serious about this, Nicole. I’m going to get my shit together, be a good dad, a good man for Holly. But she loves you, and she trusts you and Charlotte more than anybody. I’m not going to get anywhere if you’ve already made up your mind about me.” Zak met her gaze, all smiles gone. “All I’m asking for is a second chance.”

  Nicole swallowed back the bitter taste in her mouth. She knew someone once who didn’t believe in giving people second chances. Not that she ever tried for one, but still. Never thought I’d end up like him. “Okay. It’s up to her,” Nicole said quickly when his expression brightened. “You two need to talk this out, together. And you’ve got a lot of proving yourself to do before I’ll believe you’re anywhere close to being ready to be a father. But I won’t stand in the way.”

  Zak flashed her that playful grin again, something relieved and excited in his expression. “Thanks, Nic.”

  She forced herself not to smile back, jabbing a finger at him. “Do not call me that. I hate that nickname.”

  Zak laughed. “I know. Holly told me.”

  Nicole shook her head, shoving at the rusty, squeaking back door as she went back into the bar. Holly and Charlotte were waiting just inside, Holly grabbing the door to help hold it open as Nicole entered. Holly started to say, “Is everything okay—”

  There was the sound of a car door closing, and Nicole heard Zak call out, “Hey, man. This is a surprise. What are you doing here?” Something in his voice had alarm bells ringing in the back of her head. She heard fear in it.

  The blasting sound of the gunshot was sharp and fierce, and unmistakable. Nicole spun around, heart hammering in her chest. She saw the alley, gray and shimmering in the rain. The dumpster, lid open, and the trash bags scattered on the ground in front of it. And Zak, sprawled across one of the bags—blood seeping from his chest, turning his faded gray T-shirt a deep, ugly crimson. She saw the man standing over him, holding a gun.

  For a second, she thought Zak might still be alive, but the man with the gun fired again, twice, and Zak’s head jerked back. Something in his body just seemed to go still. Nicole had never seen anyone die before—but she just knew he was gone.

  Behind her, Holly cried out, wordless and horrified, as Nicole teetered back. She leaned too hard against the door, and it creaked open, hinges screeching. The man with the gun turned wildly. He was thin, wiry, small. Dark eyes were sunken deep in a rat-like face, half hidden behind stringy dark hair. He looked like anyone she might pass on the street—nondescript and normal, in jeans and a battered leather jacket. She wouldn’t have guessed she should be afraid of him. Wouldn’t have guessed he was a murderer. For a moment he looked shocked. She thought she heard him mutter, “Shit.” And then he aimed.

  For a second, all she could see was the gun, the dark barrel aimed at her. Her heart thudded in her chest, too loud.

  Michael. It was immediate and instinctive, the need for him. He’d protect her, he’d keep her safe. All these years, and in that moment, with the gun pointed at her, her ex-boyfriend was the only one she thought of when she needed someone to protect her.

  Then Nicole threw herself back as there was another echoing gunshot, the sharp thud of a bullet landing in the doorframe right where she had been. She felt Holly and Charlotte right beside her as the three of them shoved the door closed with all their strength.

  Holly was breathing hard, on the verge of hyperventilating, her eyes glassy and huge. Nicole wondered how much of this she was even taking in, or if she’d gone into a state of shock. Obviously reaching the same conclusion, Charlotte wrapped around Holly like a protective blanket, hugging her tight and murmuring words of comfort in her ear, tucking her head against Charlotte’s shoulder to make sure she didn’t look out the window again.

  Nicole, meanwhile, swung into action, looking around desperately for something to shove in front of the door. Another shot, and another, as the window next to her shattered.

  “Stay down!” Nicole ordered Charlotte, who immediately pulled Holly down to the floor. Nicole dug in her pocket for her phone. She had to force herself to dial 911. Not Michael. “McKinley’s Bar,” she said, when the 911 operator picked up. “Washington and West 12th Street. A man just shot someone and he’s still shooting at us.”

  “I’m alerting the police. We have a patrol car in the area.” The operator’s voice was calm and steady. “Please stay on the line.”

  Nicole nodded, looking to her friends. She hated to pull Charlotte away when it was clear Holly needed the comfort—but their safety had to come first. “Give me a hand, Cha“Right.” Charlotte’s face was deathly pale, her eyes huge behind her pink-rimmed glasses. But she nodded and scrambled over to one of the heavy wooden tables, her sneakers squeaking against the damp floor as she pushed. Nicole hurried over to grip the front of the table, and together they managed to drag it in front of the door.

  Another peel of gunshots shattered the mirror over the bar, and splintered one of the front windows. Holly was curled up on the floor, sobbing. Charlotte knelt down beside her, wrapping her arms around their friend. Nicole sat down with them, tangling herself around them both as if she could shield them from harm. As the seconds passed like hours, she held on tight, silently praying that help would come soon.

  Then, thankfully, there was the wail of sirens. Nicole could’ve sworn she heard rapid footsteps running away, and then the sound of a car peeling out. She let herself close her eyes and finally breathe as the police cars screamed to a stop in front of the bar.

  Grab your copy of

  Protecting The Single Mother

  Available 04 April 2021

  www.LeslieNorthBooks.com

  BLURB

  Retired Navy SEAL, Clint Backwater, enjoys his solitary life as owner of the Ask Questions Later gun range. It’s the kind of place you find because you know a guy. So when Leila Ortiz, a petite woman wit
h a “baby on board” sticker on the back of her car—and an 18-month-old boy in her arms—shows up at the range, panicked and desperate for a gun, he knows something is wrong. Having grown up in the foster system, Clint has seen what happens when you let yourself get too invested—things get messy, people leave. He made himself a promise to never get emotionally involved again, but the former SEAL in him feels the tug to help this woman and her child.

  Leila’s ex-husband is being released from prison early on good behavior and she found out too late. He was supposed to serve five years, not two, and Leila is unprepared to protect herself and her son. She promised him they’d never run again—they’ve made a nice life for themselves and the last thing she wants to do is leave it all behind.

  When Clint refuses to give Leila a gun without lessons, she agrees to return to the range to learn. At first, Leila won’t say why she’s so desperate for protection, but when the threats from her ex escalate, it becomes clear what she’s afraid of.

  Clint is a loner. Always has been, always will be. So when Leila and her little son enter his life, it hits him—hard— maybe being alone isn’t what he needs. Still, having his solitary life disrupted when he invites the little family into his home is a bit tougher to take than he thought. With Leila and her son in danger, though, he’ll do whatever it takes to keep them safe—even putting up with stray toys and changing a diaper or two.

  But the biggest danger might be to his heart, when it starts to look like the safest thing for Leila and her baby might be to leave her problems—and her budding relationship with Clint—behind.

  Grab your copy of Guarding The Single Mother (SEAL Endgame Book One) from

  www.LeslieNorthBooks.com

  EXCERPT

  Chapter one

  A quiet day on the gun range was a good day on the gun range.

  At least that was usually Clint Blackwater’s philosophy. Today, though, as he wandered around the small showroom of his business, Ask Questions Later Firearms and Training, he couldn’t seem to shake the restlessness inside him.

  If he was truthful with himself, he’d have to admit that his skittishness had nothing to do with the slow day at the range and everything to do with the approach of the one-year anniversary of his retirement from the military. Since joining the Navy right out of high school and undergoing training to become a SEAL, he’d always been a busy guy. Busy, but solitary. Relationships weren’t really his thing, platonic or otherwise. Loved ones, in Clint’s experience, had a tendency to disappear. When he’d been in the military, surrounded by his team and other colleagues every day with privacy at a minimum, he’d thought he’d appreciate the quiet peace of being alone.

  Now, though, he was lucky if he talked to six people a day, and sometimes things were a bit too… silent. Not that he was a recluse or anything. It was just living by himself out in the Nevada desert meant his penchant for self-sufficiency came in handy, even if it was lonely at times.

  Today, his buddy, Devin, was there to talk to as he checked the inventory of ammunition and firearms and accessories for the umpteenth time. Ask Questions Later provided him with a livable income between the sales of stock and the fees he charged locals for using the gun range and for shooting lessons, but he wouldn’t be making the Forbes 500 list any time soon. That was okay. After seeing the worst humanity had to offer during his stint in the SEALs, and prior to that as a kid growing up in the foster care system, Clint was fine with making enough to get by. He didn’t need to be rich. He didn’t need much of anything—and he liked it that way.

  Clint moved from display case to display case, noting the stock in each, while doing his best to ignore Devin chatting loudly on his cell phone. To call the other man a “buddy” was probably being generous. Devin was more like a guy who Clint talked to when he came in to shoot. They sometimes shared a meal at Ritzi’s Diner in town. That was about. Still, it was more than Clint did with most folks these days.

  He finished up marking down the sixteen boxes of .45 caliber bullets in front of him, then moved to the next glass-topped case, giving Devin some serious side-eye as he did so.

  “What do you mean she won’t go out with me?” Devin whined into his phone. The guy was pretty typical of the sort who came into the gun range. A wannabe cowboy with a Stetson on his head and a holster strapped around his waist. Nevada tended to be a haven for Mavericks and outlaws, due to the wide-open spaces and the mind-your-own-business attitude of the local law enforcement and residents. It’s what led to things like Las Vegas and the Mustang Ranch and dudes like Devin who fancied themselves Billy the Kid reborn. “I’m everything she said she wanted in her online dating profile.”

  Clint gave a snort and shook his head. Devin was harmless enough. Clint had run into lots of guys like him in the military. Gungho to preserve life, liberty, and the American way—as long as it didn’t push them too far out of their comfort zone. But everyone had their own comfort zone, Clint supposed. As a SEAL, he’d been accustomed to facing danger the likes of which most people couldn’t imagine. But internet dating, like Devin? Not a chance.

  He shuddered at the thought of connecting with a total stranger and trying to make small talk.

  The sound of a car door slamming echoed through the quiet store and Clint peered through the sunlight streaming through the glass front door. Outside, a dust-covered black SUV had pulled up. Or backed up, would be more accurate. Through the hazy glass he saw a “Baby on Board” sticker in the back window.

  Probably another local dad wanting some away time from his wife and kids.

  Clint turned to head back behind the counter. He’d just about made it when he heard Devin behind him saying, “Uh, I think my dream girl just pulled into my life.”

  Cringing, Clint gave his buddy a disgusted look over the corny line and was just about to rib him about it when the bells above the door jingled and in walked said girl.

  Or woman, to be more accurate. A woman with a baby.

  Huh. Okay. Clint narrowed his gaze a bit, focusing on her as she stepped closer and moved out of the stream of light that silhouetted her from behind. Twenty-five, he’d guess, so about ten years younger than him. Wavy dark hair, golden bronzed skin. Large dark eyes that were scanning the shop nervously.

  She’s scared.

  The thought hit Clint out of nowhere, considering he’d never seen her before in his life, but he’d bet his business and everything he owned that he was right. His instincts had been honed on the battlefield, and retirement hadn’t dulled them. After all, you couldn’t afford to get careless when you owned a gun shop.

  His conclusions were only confirmed as she moved closer to the front counter and met his gaze. There were shadows in those pretty brown eyes of hers, deep and dark and dangerous. Then there was the fact her nails looked chewed to the quick and her hands shook slightly as she bounced her cute baby in one arm. A boy, from what he could tell from the blue jeans and baseball hat on the kid’s head. Maybe a year, year and a half old, Clint guessed.

  “Welcome to Ask Questions Later Firearms and Training,” he said, his words emerging a bit rougher than usual because of the odd constriction in this throat. Not nervousness. Not adrenaline. Attraction. Clint swallowed hard and crossed his arms. “How can I help you today?”

  The woman took a deep breath and checked behind her once more before saying quietly, “I need to buy a gun.”

  Oh God.

  The last place Leila Ortiz ever thought she’d find herself was in a gun store. She wasn’t an aggressive or confrontational person by nature. Just the opposite in fact. But circumstances—and the fact that the Federal Bureau of Prisons had screwed up her contact information—meant that she and her son needed protection in a major way, and they needed it ASAP.

  She eyed the man behind the counter and did her best to look as confident as possible. She couldn’t match his defensive posture, not with Thomas in her arms, but she could mimic that blank, closed-off stare he was giving her. “I’ve heard that Glocks a
re good for women to use. I’d like to see one of those, please.”

  “A Glock, huh?” The guy narrowed his gaze on her then stepped forward. Leila stepped back automatically before she stopped herself. Years of abuse had taught her it was easier to retreat than to stand her ground, but that had all changed the day Thomas had been born. Now she had more than herself to think about. Now she had her son to protect. He looked her up and down. Not in a sexual way, more in a what-the-heck-are-you-doing-in-here way. She checked him out too, again out of habit. If attacked it was best to have a good description for the cops. Short, light brown hair. Blue eyes. Maybe five-ten, five-eleven max, with a muscular build. A hint of a tattoo on his left bicep peeked out from beneath the sleeve of his dark blue T-shirt—a snake perhaps, wrapped around a knife? Weird.

  Leila shook off her errant thoughts about the man. She didn’t care if this dude had Daffy Duck and Wily Coyote inked all over himself. She needed a gun and fast. Her ex was coming back to town and no way would she allow him anywhere near her or their son. He’d lost his parental privileges the day he’d beat her up so badly she’d ended up in the ER with two broken ribs and a bruised collarbone. That had been the same night she’d discovered she was pregnant with Thomas. Talk about the good with the bad. She stepped up to the counter once more and set Thomas atop of it. He was eighteen-months old now and weighed nearly twenty-five pounds. Good for Thomas, not so good for her when she had to hold him for extended lengths of time. Leila was strong, but her usual workouts had not prepared her for handling a squirming kid in her arms for hours at a time.

  “Unless you think there’s another firearm that might work better for me,” she said, doing her best to focus on the important conversation at hand and not the fact that her baby was currently grinning and cooing at the man behind the counter. “I don’t really care as long as it works.”