by Anne Marsh
Vann drops onto the sand, back to a tree, doing an outstanding impression of not giving a fuck. His gaze quarters the water, though, and not because he’s admiring the boobilicious blonde.
“Hooyah,” Ro intones quietly, stripping cans off the plastic ring. We drink the first beer in silence and pour the last half of our cans into the sand. The ancient Egyptians had the right idea, setting their dead up with all the crap they’d need in the next life. If I’d had my way, B.B. would have travelled on with his Kevlar, his gun, and a fresh case of beer. There’s no reason eternal rest shouldn’t be one big, fucking party, right?
We sit and stare at the water, because there isn’t a script for remembering our dead. I’m pretty sure Vann’s got his own memories, and Ro watches both of us like he’s afraid we might flip out on him. He’s the mother hen—I used to joke it came with the job title of lieutenant commander. He’s never figured out how not to lead us now that we’re home and it’s okay. I can live with his concern.
Ro crumples up his can and lobs it at a palm. “I got an email yesterday.”
I fight the urge to snark him. Clearly he’s leading up to some unpleasant or momentous shit, and he doesn’t need me to point out that people get emails all the time. It’s like announcing there’s oxygen in our atmosphere or that Congress is fighting yet again.
“From a woman,” Ro continues.
Again? Not a news flash. While Ro has shown zero interest in dating, he’s not bad-looking if I’m being objective. If I were a girl, I’d probably be totally into him. Somehow, though, I doubt he’s trying to explain his plans to get laid.
“She knew B.B.,” he says roughly. “Really well. But she’s not Stacey.”
Vann looks up. “Are we talking know as in I said hello to him at the grocery store? Or know as in I banged the hell out of him?”
“She wants to talk to you,” Ro says to me, ignoring Vann’s question. Clearly, Unknown Emailer’s relationship to B.B. was more carnal than friendly. “She wants to hear about B.B.’s final moments.”
“Hell, no.” I hadn’t had anything to say to Stacey—so I definitely don’t have to explain what happened to the girlfriend. Or whatever she is. I’m not giving her what I couldn’t give his wife.
“How’d she get your contact info?” Because unless B.B. was fucking a Russian spy or a CIA operative, she shouldn’t have been able to get Ro’s civvie deets. That would only have been shared with family.
Ro looks uncomfortable, which is saying a lot. The man regularly cleans us all out at poker.
“From the Search and SEALs website,” he admits. When I don’t say anything more, he pulls out his phone and tosses it over. The man’s had the same password for as long as I’ve known him, so it takes me less than two seconds to hack in. A quick swipe, and I’m looking at his stuff.
“First email,” he says and leans back, digging his beer can into the sand.
I thumb open his mail app. He’s one of those super annoying people who deletes his email as soon as he’s dealt with it or moves it to some descriptively labeled folder, so it’s not hard to find the email. Jesus. That’s a baby picture. Of course, babies are pretty interchangeable, right? Bald, big eyes, usually resemble a prune. This one’s got those three attributes well-covered. I squint, trying to decide if it looks like B.B.
“You see the problem?” Ro asks.
“I see a baby picture,” I grunt right back at him. He’d better connect the dots here because… yeah. I don’t want to believe it of B.B.
Vann swipes the phone out of my hand. “Jesus.”
“That was not a virgin birth,” Ro says, looking pained. “But she and B.B. had a thing together, and now they have a baby. That makes the baby family.”
He doesn’t look happy, either.
Vann stares at the baby some more. “Does Stacey know about the baby?”
Ro thunks his head back against the palm. “Fuck if I know. Not like I’m going to call her up and ask her, right?”
I don’t have a vagina or girlfriends, but even I can picture the ensuing apocalypse.
“She wants to come out here,” Ro says, and he’s looking at me. “She wants to meet us, wants to hear what happened.”
I’m an asshole, but I don’t break promises. It’s why I generally try to avoid making them, along with any commitments longer-term than a few days. I’m also the only person who was with B.B. during his final moments, which means I’m the future star of that particular shit show.
“Not a good idea.” Which is an understatement, in my opinion. It’s not like Stacey will find out or magically show up at the same time, but it still feels like a betrayal, and I resent being put in that position. In about twenty years, Baldie Baby can revisit the idea, and maybe I’ll be more amenable. I can imagine telling the kid someday, but not the other woman.
“Stacey had miscarriages,” Vann volunteers unexpectedly. Jesus. I didn’t realize he knew those kinds of details about B.B.’s personal life. Vann looks uncomfortable—apparently he’s not entirely happy that he knows these things when the rest of us are happily ignorant—but he plows on ahead. “They’d been trying for a couple of years when B.B. was home.”
I don’t spend time thinking about babies. I’d make a lousy father. So it makes no sense that my head superimposes a few other features on the baby picture newly burned into my brain. Features that look a whole lot like Vali’s. It’s probably because her Mami keeps harping on grandkid potential—it’s in the air. Like the flu, or a really bad viral infection.
“I’m not talking to her,” I tell Ro and get to my feet. Suddenly, I don’t feel like drinking room-temperature beer on a beach. B.B.’s gonna have to go without this month. Apparently, I should have brought him a condom. Or lectured about safe sex and the birds and the bees when we had a down moment out there in the field.
Ro sighs like a girl and holds out my second beer. I ignore him and head for my Jeep. I’m not in a drinking mood. When I stand up, I’m not certain what I’m planning. All I know is that I need to get away. It’s childish, stupid—pick your adjective—but I can’t sit there and drink a beer to B.B. And by the time I’ve got my Jeep on the road, I know exactly where I’m going. To the only place—and person—who feels like home.
Yep. Vali. I wonder if she’s waiting for me. If she feels this pull between us. Guess there’s only one way to find out, so I head for her doing sixty and going all out.
T-1 days
VALI
“Cake testing,” Mami suggests. “There are some wonderful bakeries here in Miami. You could come up for the weekend, and we’ll go cake shopping.”
We’ve already had this conversation. Three times this week. Once she saw my “ring” and got a good look at Finn, she was onboard with my getting married to a former SEAL. I’ve lost count of the number of times she’s declared he must have a good character and that “every girl needs a hero.” It’s not that I have any objections to heroes—but Finn’s feelings for me are practically non-existent. We have insta-lust—and we’re not really getting married.
Coffee-flavored cakes. Buttercream, fondant, red velvet, and coconut. What’s on the inside may count most for people—but when it comes to wedding cakes, it’s up for debate. The average person has no idea that meringue is the chameleon on the cake-decorating world. It can be made to look so many different ways. Chrysanthemums, daisies, polka dots, ribbons of roses, fleurs-de-lis… the possibilities are endless.
I don’t have anything against cake. Spending an afternoon sampling taster slices would actually be tons of fun, even if I don’t need the calories. But she wants Finn to come with us—so she can “get to know him”—and I can’t imagine him trotting from one expensive venue to the next to devour teeny slices of taster cake. Does he even like cake?
I’d like to lick frosting from his abs.
I have a fixation on his abs. They’re delicious, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about them. If I had to pick my favorite part of Finn Callahan, his r
idged, toned abdomen would be a first-place contender. Along with his baby browns that twinkle wickedly when he’s thinking stuff he shouldn’t, the roguish mouth, and the impossibly tight ass. Part of me wants to hang up on my mother and call him. I bet he’d come over too. He plays it like he’s such a bad boy, and while he’s hot… he’s also kind of nice. He’s had my back since the day we met, offering quiet support. If I really did want to settle down, he wouldn’t be a bad bet.
No.
Those are my hormones talking. Okay. They’re not talking so much as they’re chanting Finn Finn Finn Finn. They want to get us laid again. And…
I’m not listening to my Mami.
She makes a noise on the other end of the line. She’s waiting for my answer. “Okay,” I blurt out, because old habits die hard. She’s my mother, and I’m used to agreeing with her.
Wait. Mami sails ahead, and I realize that I’ve just agreed to a beach wedding in Miami. And not just any beach—the beach at Fontainebleau. The resort’s just come out of a billion-dollar renovation, and its guest list typically includes presidents, rock stars, and the obscenely rich. The deposit required to hold a spot there probably approaches the GDP of a small country.
It would be romantic.
I have to give my Mami that. She truly does have my best interests at heart (even if it’s her interpretation and not mine), and she’s picked out a lovely venue. It’s easy to imagine the ocean, the palms, the way the white frosts the top of the waves when the breeze picks up like the best kind of meringue. It would be a gorgeous place to commit to a man like Finn.
The words rehearsal dinner, ocean-side cocktails post-ceremony, ballroom, and day-after brunch fly out of Mami’s mouth while I’m still sorting through my mental fantasies of wind and waves. I’m slightly suspicious that she waited until I was distracted and then sprang this on me, knowing I’d agree to anything. There’s no way on God’s green earth that I can afford the Fontainebleau, though, and I tell her that.
Naturally, she has an answer. “I’ll pay for it.”
“No,” I say automatically. I’m an adult with savings of my own—I’ll pay for my own wedding.
“I’ve been saving for years,” she says, and then she says the words that are the icing on the cake. “I saved money for both you and your sister. You’ll have a wedding for both of you.”
I like the idea of having a special cake to remember Bella. The thing is? If and when I get married, it needs to be about me and my man—but there’d be room for Bella, too.
“I can’t commit without talking to Finn first,” I say firmly. The groom’s buy-in is essential, right?
The problem, though, is that the C-word and I are in a committed relationship together. I live my life one day at a time—while my mother keeps trying to skip ahead to the future. If my life were a book, she’d thumb right over the chapters containing cancer like they were blank pages no one needed to read. Neither of us can erase them, but dwelling on them isn’t our choice, either. But where my Mami wants to skip ahead to her favorite parts of the story (marriage, grandbabies, and ginormous Christmas dinners), I just want to enjoy the happy sentences. The sentences I’m reading now.
She huffs, which is all the agreement I’m getting. “When do I get to meet him?”
This right here? This is the problem with lying. While there’s no reason she couldn’t meet Finn, I hardly think it’s fair to make him meet his faux mother-in-law. That wasn’t part of our deal, and I can’t imagine he’d be looking forward to it. Stalling is the order of the day.
“Let me see when he’s available,” I say.
Mami starts talking again, but I’m distracted. The rat-a-tat-tat on my door is a surprise. I’m not expecting anyone, and it’s not like it’s Girl Scout cookie season. The steep flight of stairs to my apartment deters most people, too. It’s cheaper and easier than a guard dog. I’ve left the outer door open, so when I turn my head, I can see Finn standing there on the other side of my screen door. He’s big and brawny and so damn gorgeous that my stomach hurts just looking at him.
I’m not a Finn expert, but something about the tight line of his jaw screams upset. My fingers tighten on my phone. “I have to go. Finn’s here.”
And something’s wrong with my beautiful man.
“Ask him,” Mami orders, and I’d promise her the sun, moon, and stars—from not one but two solar systems—if she’d just hang up and go away. Finn came to me.
That has to mean something.
He motions, silently asking if he can come in, and I nod. He’s always welcome here.
Finn enters. Shuts the door. Locks it. And then he turns and prowls toward me. Gently, he pries the phone out of my hand, taps the screen, and tosses it on my couch.
“I wanna see you,” he growls.
Somehow, I don’t think he’s talking about a date.
FINN
I shouldn’t be here.
Fuck me, but I know that.
I should have driven home, but instead my feet brought me here. Vali looks at me, wide-eyed, when I pull the he-man move, but she doesn’t say anything. Maybe my bad day is written on my face—it sure as fuck feels like it’s tattooed there. I make my move, advancing on her, slow and steady. I’ve taken beaches, cleared rooms this way, one foot in front of the other, hyper-aware of my surroundings because death could be coming at me and my boys from any one of a dozen different angles. Vali’s dangerous in a different way. When I’m around her, I can’t shut down my feelings, and what’s worse… I don’t want to. For the first time in eighteen months, I feel like I’m alive and it’s okay.
“Finn?” she whispers my name, and I hear the questions she doesn’t ask. What’s wrong with me? Why am I here? Should she be freaking out, or is my shit okay? She doesn’t back up, though. That’s one more thing I love about her. Vali holds her ground. She keeps what’s hers, and I’ll bet it just about killed her to lose her sister and her aunt.
I’m not hurting her. Not ever. She’s wearing a ridiculous pair of teeny cotton shorts and a baggy T-shirt advertising her loyalty to a sports team that’s racked up an appalling number of losses. Guess her bad taste in men extends to baseball, too.
I slide my hands over her cheeks, tunneling my fingers into the hair tucked behind her ears. She’s breathtaking. That’s got to be why my chest feels so tight, why I can’t breathe.
“Hey.” She tilts her head back, her cheek brushing against my hand. We’re so close now that there’s almost no space left between us, but I need it all. I tug gently, and she comes. Her thighs brush mine, her tits rest against my chest. When she breathes, I feel it.
“I had a shit day,” I admit.
She’s practically naked, and that’s a sign, right? I slide my leg between hers, the heat of her pussy burning me up. She’s so hot, so ready, and all I did was walk through her door. No tricks, no nothing.
It’s everything.
“Let’s make it better.” She reaches up, her fingers stroking over my chest, my shoulder, the curve of my throat. She toys with my dog tags as she waits for my answer, and that just reminds me how screwed up things are.
Sounds like a plan. I scoop her up in my arms. I’m sweaty. I should shower, should pretend I’m capable of romancing her like she deserves, but I’m desperate to be inside her. Everything will make sense then. Everything will be okay.
I carry her down the hallway. Her place isn’t big, so finding her bedroom is ridiculously easy. I should probably ask, but I’m talked out. Instead, I nudge her door open with my foot, pull back the covers, and set her down on the bed. She smiles up at me, and just like that I’m greenlighted. I make short work of my clothes, stripping them off and setting them in a pile on the floor.
She hesitates. “You want a drawer for that?”
A drawer’s a big commitment, and I kinda covet her real estate.
“Later,” I whisper roughly against her ear, drinking in her shiver. In the spirit of distracting her, I drop down onto the bed beside her and
go to work. Drag my fingers down her throat, over her shoulders, and then lower still. Her skin’s so fucking soft that it’s hard to imagine her heart could be even softer. That’s a no fly zone, though, so I trace the sweet line between her tits through her T-shirt, and she sucks in a breath.
“You’re not wearing a bra,” I growl.
She gives a little wriggle. “You absolutely sure about that, sailor?”
Hell, yeah. I fist the hem of her shirt, drawing it upward until it clears her head, and I toss it on the floor. Her belly is the sweetest, gentlest curve, and her tits are fucking gorgeous, the nipples tight, hard points. And since there’s no bra in sight, I’ve got an unimpeded view.
“Positive,” I whisper roughly, and she just gives me that Mona Lisa smile of hers as I palm her bare stomach. The moan she makes is my favorite song. Kinda like an anthem.
I move down, outlining her belly button, following the sweet curve that points me fucking home. Her throaty sighs encourage me, and I spread my fingers, drinking her in. The whole committed relationship thing seems way more plausible from where I am now. It’s not about my stupid bet with Xander—this is all about Vali, about us.
“You’d better say it,” I whisper, easing down her body. “Give me the words so I’m not misbehaving here.”
“You need directions?” Her question is part snark, part whimper, and all kinds of trouble because I’m not sure what I’m doing here other than trying to make us both feel better. One good tug and her shorts fly down her legs. I want to take my time and admire her thong. It’s bright red, and the front is completely see-through except for the small red bow that gives my tongue the perfect target.
Apparently, I’ve been looking too long, because Vali wriggles, trying to coax my fingers lower, and that’s not the kind of invitation I turn down. I plan on sinking my fingers deep in her pussy, just as soon as I’ve stripped her down. I sacrifice the thong for the greater good and pull it down her legs.
“Do me,” she orders. “Make us both feel better.”
