Sweet For A SEAL

by Anne Marsh

  “At least he’s practical?” Even Marlee sounds doubtful, though.

  “While he gets my car out of the ditch, I admire his kittens, and then we talk about his job. Then one thing leads to another—” both Marlee and Ava snort, which is a feat considering our upside down positions—“and I scale him like a tree.”

  “I’ve seen Finn,” Ava observes. “I don’t blame you. He’s gorgeous.”

  He is, which is why I come clean with the truth. “It’s been a while since I dated. Like, longer than before I moved to Angel Cay.”

  Marlee turns her head. She’s got to be the only person I know who’s coordinated enough to do yoga with head gestures. “Define dated.”

  “Or is that code for had an orgasm?” Now Ava looks interested.

  I hate discussing my sex life—I’d much rather be having sex. I hate breast cancer. I hate being unsure of my new body. I hate guys who are clearly into boobs and will know the difference between a real pair and my fakes. None of which matters, because Finn hasn’t actually asked me out. He helped me out of a jam, which I appreciate.

  “I’ve been flying solo since B.C.,” I say. B.C., or Before Cancer. That’s the event horizon dividing my life, the marker. If life is a beach, cancer is the place where I drew a line in the sand and dared the waves to erase it. And when the waves did, I re-drew it. I’m not quitting now.

  “Is this a lack of opportunity thing,” Ava asks, “or is it an I don’t feel like riding the horse thing?”

  Ava doesn’t judge, and I’ve never appreciated that more. If I announced plans to take vows and move to a nunnery, she’d help me sell my stuff to raise funds for the poor and then she’d drive me to the front door herself. Likewise? If I needed help staging an orgy, she’d volunteer as my right-hand gal. She’s all about what her friends need.

  I had a perfectly normal sex life before breast cancer decided my family should earn frequent flyer miles with the doctor’s office. Afterwards, I was tired. I was sore. I didn’t feel sexy, and I had a million good reasons to avoid jumping into bed with some random guy. It’s frustrating because this shouldn’t be so hard. It’s healthy to want to have sex.

  It’s been months. I’m supposed to be normal now. I’m supposed to be living my life, grateful for my second chance to be alive.

  And yet I still can’t let go of the past.

  I’m tired of pretending that everything’s fine, that nothing’s changed about me but my cup size. That I’m not missing people and their absence hasn’t emptied me out inside. I’m alive, but some days it only feels like I’m half here, no matter how hard I try.

  We move through the next sequence. Planks are vicious. For long, wonderful, muscle-burning seconds all I can do is concentrate on the painful quiver in my arms and the ache in my midsection. I count and hold and that’s all.

  “But you’re fine,” Marlee says quietly when we collapse onto the sand. Yoga always looks so serene and peaceful, yet I always end up with shaky legs and sweating. At least it counteracts some of the two million calories I ingest at work.

  Ava lies back on the sand, squinting up at a palm tree. “Go out on a date. You don’t have to have sex or wild monkey sex. Just a meal and some drinks with a penis-owning member of the human race. Can you do that?”

  She makes it sound simple.

  I flick sand at her. “Of course. And just for the record? I’ve got nothing against wild monkey sex. If your penis-owning member of the human race is hot, I’m down with it.”

  It’s like eating dessert first, before you eat your vegetables. I’m not ready for a long-term relationship, but I’d like something sweet.

  “Lack of opportunity,” Marlee muses. I can practically hear her flipping through a mental Rolodex of men.

  “You need a starter man,” Ava announces.

  I have no idea what that means.

  She looks at my blank face and grins. “An easy guy,” she explains. “Someone who isn’t complicated. Someone fun and undemanding who will put out if you want him to. Good in bed is a must.”

  “You want her to call an escort service?” Marlee reaches for her phone, probably ready to research and produce a rental man for me ASAP.

  Ava’s own dating life is screwed up beyond belief, but she’s fixing mine whether I want it fixed or not. “She’s already got a guy on the hook. Use Finn,” she says, winking at me.

  The thing is? Finn fits the bill. He’s gorgeous, he’s funny, and I’d bet every dollar I own that he’s good in bed. Phenomenal. The kind of guy you reminisce about for years and who sets the orgasm bar impossibly high for everyone else. Granted, he doesn’t seem to possess a filter and he says whatever comes into his head, but I just want to borrow his penis. And possibly several other parts of his mighty fine anatomy.

  “Dating him would be one way to get my Mami to back off.” The words come out part laugh, part serious, but the truth is… she would stop sending me dating possibilities if I had someone of my own.

  “Hot hook up sex,” Marlee encourages. “Just to make sure everything’s still in working order. Think of it as practice for later. You wouldn’t run a marathon without doing a few sprints or three-milers, right?”

  “Mami wants me to get married,” I admit.

  “So?” Ava is ever practical. “You’re the one who has to say ‘I do.’ She can want, but it’s your call.”

  She’s not wrong. It’s just that Mami’s lost even more than I have—a sister, a friend, a daughter. It’s not so much a question of replacing them—that’s impossible—as it is of filling in the holes created by their absence. Of giving herself something and someone else to live for. I don’t blame her for wanting to see me married. Wanting to see me happy.

  I brace myself for the feedback. “If I agree with you, are you going to be my procureress?”

  Marlee laughs and flips me the bird. “You’ll find your own guy. I’m just saying that maybe someday you will want to get married or have a long-term relationship—and you don’t go into that cold. Practice makes perfect, and you can practice on Finn.”

  “What if he’s not interested?” Shoot. I can hear myself caving.

  Ava eyes my new tatas. “Boyfriend’s got eyes.”

  Sometimes I like to take a moment to just breathe. In and out, sinking into the familiar rhythm I took for granted right up until the day the doctors called it all into question. Letting Tía Mina and Bella go was like that, a long moment of watching for the next breath that never came. It seemed so simple, and yet it was the hardest thing I’d ever done because there was nothing I could do to hold my sister to me. So now I breathe for her, letting the rich scents of chocolate and vanilla fill my lungs.

  Bella would have loved Bee Sweete. The building reminds me of gingerbread, the outside a delicious gold color with white curlicue trim. There are two stories, which means I have an apartment above my shop and a balcony from which I have a ringside seat of the nothing that happens in Angel Cay. It’s fabulous, and the slow pace is fine since I do most of my business online. I also stock my candies in the Key West shops that the cruise ship guests visit when they’re in port, which is a win-win situation.

  Bee Sweete has a small commercial kitchen tucked behind its even tinier storefront. I keep a pair of elaborate wrought iron tables and chairs on the sand outside the door beneath my very own palm tree. If you tilt your head and squint, you can even see a slice of the Gulf of Mexico through the buildings while you eat.

  In addition to the candies, I sell teeny pots of sweet puddings and flans made from pureed fruits and topped with golden caramel and mint leaves. There are trays of custards flavored with vanilla scraped from beans, egg yolks, and sugar. When it gets hot out (which is almost always in the Florida Keys), I sell fruit ices and sorbets, mango and ginger with the tart bite of lime. And anything that isn’t frozen goes into the stack of pretty pink boxes and ribbons I keep by the counter. Look good, taste good. That’s my motto.

  The bell on the door tinkles, and I step out of t
he kitchen to greet my first customer of the day. Captain Benny comes in every morning. He looks older than he probably is. He’s as grizzled as Methuselah and walks with a noticeable lurch in his step. Part of that is because he got shot in ‘Nam—and part of that is because he’s three quarters of the way to drunk, even though it’s not yet noon. He’s willing to admit to the first reason, but the second is apparently a state secret. Or so he told me, and I pretended to believe him. His eyes are even older than his face, but he’s always got a smile for me, and a girl can’t have too many smiles in her life, even if the smiler makes zero sense most of the time.

  I pull out a box and grin right back at him. “What’ll it be today, Captain?”

  He’s just picked out his treats when the door opens again and my shop shrinks. Finn is standing on my doorstep.

  The captain leans in to greet the new arrival, and I’ve got to hand it to Finn. He doesn’t flinch. The captain is none too sweet smelling, and that’s before he drank himself halfway to silly this morning. He’s a good man, but he has his issues, like we all do.

  “Good morning, Captain,” Finn says, saluting. The captain salutes right back.

  “Vets get free candy,” he stage whispers loud enough to be heard at the other end of Angel Cay. In case Finn needs proof, he points to the hand-lettered sign I constructed with a Sharpie and printer paper when it became clear the captain owned nothing but his pride. VETS EAT FREE.

  “Good to know.” Finn prowls toward the counter as I box the candies and then holds the door for the Captain, who shuffles out with his loot. The sound of a delivery truck backfiring on the street makes me jump. I’ve lived too long in Miami, because the sharp crack immediately makes me wonder who’s shooting. The sound is gun-loud, entirely out of place on peaceful Angel Cay, and I’m embarrassed to admit that it startles me.

  Oye. I’m not the only one who notices. Finn freezes. His fingers tighten on the door, the bell vibrating like mad as some inner tension communicates itself from Finn’s white-knuckled grasp. When he doesn’t let go, I start to worry.

  “Finn?” I ask.

  He doesn’t move.

  “Are you okay?” I hate being asked that question myself, swore I’d never do it to anyone else, but… he doesn’t look okay. I lift up the counter and step toward him. Bee Sweete is small. Downright tiny, in fact. It takes me precisely two steps to reach Finn and touch his arm. I can’t quite keep myself from admiring his arm—he’s rock hard and warm. Wherever his head is, his body’s right here. Ava’s words pick this moment to replay through my head. Practice on Finn.

  And I totally would, but he seems to have checked out.

  His eyes are open though, looking around the store. “Finn?”

  He sucks in a deep breath. “Yeah?”

  His voice comes out rough and low.

  “You’re okay,” I tell him and then—stupidly—I pat his arm.

  “You got a place where I can wash my hands?” He still sounds hoarse—and a million miles away. I’m not going to ask him where he is in his head. Sometimes, when shit’s gone wrong or gotten broken, you just don’t want to talk about it. Instead, I curl my fingers around his and tug him into the back. He lets me.

  Silently, I point him toward the sink, and he runs the water, meticulously washing his hands. Front, back, and then each knuckle one by one. Then he does it again. While he does that, I get him a glass of cold water.

  I don’t usually make small talk. I love a good conversation and have plenty to say, but I don’t need to fill in the silence with an endless stream of babble. And Finn can usually outtalk the both of us, but he’s still trying to pull himself together. It’s awkward and weirdly intimate, which explains why I throw myself into the conversational breech.

  “How do you know the captain?”

  There’s a long pause, and then Finn shuts off the water. “He lives in a shed on our property.” The ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “But only when it rains. He’s more of an outdoor man. He doesn’t like walls.”

  The captain is a vet. An old guy. And he’s homeless. I mean, I’d kind of figured that out for myself, but now I’ve got confirmation. I open my mouth because there has to be something I can say, but Finn tears off a piece of paper towel, dries his hands, and starts talking again.

  “He’s happiest that way. Some guys never come home all the way, and he won’t go without. We’ve got his back.”

  Something tells me that Finn knows what he’s talking about. “If I can help, tell me.”

  He nods. “Does he come here often?”

  I feel my mouth curve in a smile. “Every morning, like clockwork. The captain has a sweet tooth.”

  “Did you make that sign just for him?”

  I haven’t known too many people who’ve served in the military, but that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate what they’ve done. “You think he doesn’t deserve something sweet after serving our country?”

  Finn winks at me, clearly feeling better. “He deserves everything,” he says, and his voice rings with heartfelt sincerity.

  “So you didn’t come here for the free chocolate?”

  He smiles. Slowly. He’s definitely got his groove back now. It’s like despite whatever happened out there in my shop, wherever he went, he’s back in charge of himself.

  “I came to ask you out on a date,” he says.

  My hormones cheer, and I shoot them a much-needed reminder. Just a date. He’s not inviting you to get naked right here, right now. Which would be a massive health code violation, not to mention uncomfortable because my kitchen floor is made out of this very hard slate tile. And since my job requires a kitchen, I really can’t afford to have sex right here.

  “No answer?” He prowls toward me, all lazy grace and that loose-hipped, confident male swagger makes me melt. He’s effortlessly sexy and in control again. How does he know how to move like that? “You said, when you’re ready to go the distance, come find me. Here I am.”

  Exit lines always sound so much better when they’re said at the end of an encounter.

  “I’m ready and willing,” he announces.

  And so am I. It’s just… it’s been a while. We’re in the kitchen. Frankly, I was imagining something a little more romantic. Possibly flowers. Definitely alcohol.

  “What did you have in mind?” Shoot. I asked that louder than was strictly necessary. My voice bounces off all the stainless steel in my kitchen. His grin grows wider. God, he’s cocky.

  And I like it.

  “Because I’ve got a great imagination.” Health code violations, I remind myself. Hot SEAL, my libido counters. Yeah. We know who’s winning this debate. I reach over and dip my finger in the bowl of dulce de leche sitting on the counter.

  “Vali…” He croons my name.

  He definitely needs to learn who’s in charge here. The caramel is sweet and thick; it clings to my lips as I push my finger into my mouth. Slowly. His eyes darken, following my finger’s movement.

  “Tell me that’s a yes,” he groans.

  I should take pity on him, right?

  “Come here.” I crook my finger, and he moves silently, swiftly across my kitchen floor until his thighs press against mine. He places his hands on either side of me, caging me between hard, tattooed arms. Dios. Now I’m the one who’s speechless.

  He lowers his head until his mouth brushes mine. “Close enough?”

  Silently, I reach up and run my dulce de leche-covered finger over his bottom lip. He’s so hard on the outside, but his skin here is soft. His lips part beneath my touch, and that’s all the invitation I need. I push in, exploring the tender skin. Today Finn’s what I make him. Today he’s sweet.

  “Vali,” he groans around my finger, and then he sucks me in deep. The sensation is so good. It’s like my finger becomes a substitute for every other part of my body, sensation rushing to where he licks and pulls. I’m just getting into it, sinking into the rich, warm feeling when all hell breaks loose, and not in a
good way. It sounds like some joker’s taken every pot I own and clanged them together. Repeatedly.

  “Holy. Fuck.” Finn shoves away from me, tensing, his eyes surveying the room as he pushes me behind him.

  “Phone.” I point to my cell doing the Macarena on the stainless steel countertop. He hands it to me with another muttered curse. If I started a swear jar, he’d have my retirement funded in weeks.

  Sounds like a great plan.

  I look down at the phone in my hand and clear my throat. “It’s my mother.”

  “Good to know.” Finn looks relieved. He went someplace in his head thanks to that noise, and I’m betting it wasn’t his happy place.

  It’s rude to read my text when he’s standing right there, but Dios. “She wants to hook me up with a lovely orthodontist. His mother goes to the same mass as Mami, and Jason loves kids.”

  Finn blinks. He still doesn’t understand how fast my mother works. After all, she’s already lost one daughter—she’s learned to value time and skip the filler crap.

  “Jason?” he asks.

  “The orthodontist.”

  The poor guy should probably go pick out a ring and save himself some time. My mother’s skipped the first date. Actually, she’s skipped the next fifty dates, the proposal, and the wedding. She’s already standing by my bedside in the labor and delivery ward of South Miami Hospital’s Center for Women and Infants.

  “I love her, and I want her to be happy,” I say, and I mean it. My Mami is amazing—I just wish she hadn’t made my future her own personal mission. I wish I could make her happy without producing a fiancé. “But I wish she would stop trying to set me up.”

  Finn nods, and it’s not a flirtatious tell-me-more nod or a I’m-listening-to-you-because-I’m-polite nod. It’s a heartfelt dip of his head, like he’s totally been where I am. I wonder briefly which loved one has given him grief about his dating life, but asking seems way too personal. So I go for the truth. “I don’t need a date—I need a fiancé.” The words fly out of my mouth. Crap.