Secret Daddy Surprise - A Secret Baby Romance (Once a SEAL, Always a SEAL Book 4)

by Layla Valentine

  A voice pierces my paralysis.

  “Garrett?” Valerie says. The sound floats through the door. “I see your feet. You can come in.”

  I feel like a fool. She must have been watching me, standing here. I push the door inwards and see Valerie. Dylan is cradled in her arms, feeding. Valerie is propped up against two pillows, half sitting and half lying down. She looks sleepy; her wavy blond hair spills around her face in all directions.

  “Did the crying wake you?” she asks. Her voice is laced with drowsiness.

  She looks beautiful.

  I step further into the room.

  “I—yeah…everything okay?” I ask.

  “This is pretty standard,” she says sleepily, glancing at the clock. It’s four-thirty. “I can’t believe he slept this long, actually. Usually he’s up around one or two.”

  “Can I…can I help at all?” I ask.

  She laughs a little. “Not unless you have breast milk flowing out of your nipples, no.”

  I make a joke of feeling through my T-shirt. “Nope,” I say. “I’m all dry.”

  Valerie laughs, then asks, “Did you sleep all right? How was the couch?”

  I don’t want to let her know how uncomfortable it was, so I tell a small white lie. “Good,” I say. “Thanks for letting me stay.”

  Dylan makes a gurgling sound, then gives a little cough.

  “Garrett,” Valerie says, “could you grab that blue blanket, off of the dresser?”

  I’m happy to feel useful. I spin around so that I’m facing the dresser, and I spot the blue blanket. Crossing the room, I retrieve it and bring it to the bed. It’s only once I’m standing beside the bed and Valerie’s reaching for the blanket that I realize I’m just in my T-shirt and briefs. My jeans are out by the couch.

  I see her look me over quickly before taking the blanket and attending to Dylan. She’s wearing a pink cotton nightgown, and the soft curve of her shoulders reminds me of the times—in this very room—that I kissed her neck, shoulders, and collarbones.

  I clear my throat. She seems flustered, too, judging by the pink in her cheeks. Silence stretches on as she pats Dylan’s cheek. I back up a few steps, making my way to the bedroom door.

  As I reach it, she looks up. “Thanks,” she says.

  I slip through the door, out into the hallway. I close the door behind me and walk a few steps down the hallway so that she won’t see my feet. Then, I pause, and run my hand through my hair.

  Well, if there was any doubt in my mind about what I feel about Valerie, it’s now been settled. I’m still attracted to her.

  Very, very attracted to her.

  And if the look on her face as I approached the bed was any indication, she’s still got the hots for me, too.

  I walk back to the couch, wondering what it all might mean. Can Valerie and I possibly navigate a romantic relationship, now that we’re parents together?

  Hooking up has always—always—been just that for me. Physical attraction, sex, and then goodbyes. Or no goodbyes, if I can pull it off. I’m skilled in the bedroom, and I’m also skilled at making my signature middle-of-the-night exit. I’ve actually never been involved with a woman for this long. Valerie and I have slept together twice, now, and here I am—on her couch.

  This fact alone is way beyond the norm for me. Add in the child, and shit…I feel like I’m an astronaut who just landed on an unexplored planet.

  I lie down on the couch and stretch out. To do this, I have to lift my legs so that they’re up at an angle, and the couch’s arm hits my straight legs mid-calf. I pull the blanket that Valerie gave me up over my chest. The blanket stops at my ankles, leaving my bare feet exposed.

  Hazy, pre-dawn light is filtering through the living room window. The room around me is turning grey. Curious about what time it is, I reach for my phone. I see that it’s quarter to five, and I can’t help but notice that I have three new messages from Clint. Ignoring the messages, I set my phone down on top of my folded jeans once again.

  I haven’t told Clint that I’m in San Antonio, not Austin, where his target is. I’m sure he has tracking software on the phone he gave me—he always seems to know where I am. The messages are probably about my sudden drive. I don’t know what I’m going to tell him, so I don’t even bother opening the messages. Right now, I can’t think about Clint. I have enough on my plate without worrying about my employer.

  I don’t think I’ll be able to fall asleep, especially in this position, but I close my eyes anyway, to try.

  A few minutes later, the sound of laughter makes my eyes pop open. I swivel my head to the left and see Valerie standing in the living room, holding her hand over her mouth.

  “Oh my gosh, Garrett…my couch is way too small for you!” Valerie says. Her voice is hushed.

  I smile. “Only by a foot or so,” I say.

  She shakes her head, still laughing. “I should have known. What are you…like, six two?”

  “Six three,” I say. “It’s a hassle, mostly.” I move so that I’m sitting. “Did Dylan go back to sleep?” I ask.

  “Yeah.” Valerie has thrown a grey sweater wrap around her, and now, she ties the belt. “I was thinking about making a cup of coffee,” she says. “I know it’s early, but I don’t think I’ll be able to go back to sleep.”

  She bites her lip and looks at me. Though she’s covered up with a sweater, her legs are still bare. I feel my eyes wander for a minute over her figure. I can’t help it. It’s not often that a beautiful woman is standing in front of me, half-dressed and bathed in the silver light of a not-yet-risen sun.

  “Want to join me?” she asks.

  I’m standing before she can finish the question. “Yeah,” I say. I reach for my pants. “I guess I shouldn’t run around your place in just my skivvies, right?”

  “I’ve seen it all before,” Valerie jokes.

  I pull my pants up over my hips anyway. Valerie leads the way over to a small kitchen area. She has two barstools set up by a narrow window. The window is dressed in ruffled, yellow curtains. The barstools are also painted a bright, sunny yellow. I take a seat in one as she pulls out a bag of coffee and filters. While she fills the pot with tap water, I watch her work. I think she feels my eyes on her, because once in a while, she glances up at me.

  I lick my lips. I’ve never been in this position. I’ve never gotten to know a woman well enough to sit in her kitchen with her in the morning. I sense that the small talk of the night before is behind us. I want to open up to her, but I’m having trouble knowing where to start. I keep opening my mouth and then closing it.

  “Do you take cream?” she asks.

  I shake my head.

  “Sugar?”

  Again, I shake my head.

  She reaches for two mugs out of a high cupboard. Her pink nightgown rises up high on her thighs. Setting the mugs down, she eyes me.

  “You don’t talk much, do you?” she asks. Without waiting for my response, she turns to the refrigerator and starts pulling things out: a container of creamer, a stick of butter, a bag of bread, and a jar of jam.

  When I speak, my voice is quiet. “In the SEALs, we were taught that words are slow. Ineffectual. We were taught to read our teammates’ nonverbal cues.”

  As I talk, she stops working. She’s been moving fast, but now, she slows down, and finally stops all together.

  She looks at me.

  I keep talking. “Watching your teammate is like watching a part of your own body in action. It’s like when you play sports, or run. You don’t have to ask your leg what it’s about to do. Movement would take forever if the leg had to tell the arm what it was going to do next. We were trained to move. Quickly. Fluidly. As one.”

  She’s facing me, but on the other side of the counter. She unties the bag of bread slowly, as though she’s afraid a quick movement might scare me right out of the kitchen. The coffeemaker makes a hissing sound as hot brown liquid starts to flow into the waiting pot. I can smell the rich, nutty fra
grance of the fresh brew start to fill the room.

  “So…you’re in the Navy?” she asks carefully. “The SEALs?” she reaches into the bag and pulls out a slice of bread.

  “Used to be,” I say.

  “What…what happened?”

  “I served for five years,” I say. “During my fifth year, two missions went wrong, one after the other. The first one was a bomb that killed my whole team—nineteen men. I was stationed by the door, and the only one to survive. Then, a helicopter I was in got shot down. Again, I was the only man who lived.”

  “The only one…out of how many?”

  I swallow. I rarely talk about the helicopter crash that ended my career.

  “Four men died in the bird. I was lucky to escape.” I hear my voice quiver slightly as I recount this. “One of the four caught inside the helicopter was my best friend, Cole.”

  “I’m—wow, Garrett…I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

  She’s poured out two mugs of coffee, and she sets one in front of me, now. The steam rises up, and it smells delicious. The fragrance of toast joins it, and I see that she’s placed two slices of bread into the toaster oven.

  I’m deep in the memory of my losses. I don’t talk about those two missions, and just the act of speaking about them has flooded me with memories.

  “After the first bomb strike that killed my teammates, the Navy sent me to a psych ward to process my ‘survivor’s guilt’, as they called it. Once I was rehabilitated, by Navy standards, I was placed on a new team. Within the first two weeks with the new team, I started to find my rhythm. My new teammates learned to trust me, and we started to move as a unit—multiple limbs with one heart and mind. It didn’t hurt that Cole was on my new team. His friendship helped me earn respect with the other SEALs. I was just starting to think that I might get through the pain of losing my first team, when the helicopter crash occurred.”

  And again, I was alone.

  Valerie seems to be at a loss for words, now. She’s looking at me with those green eyes, deep pools of sadness. I don’t want her to be sad, but I also find that I want her to understand me a little more.

  “Within the Navy, death is a part of the deal. We put our lives at risk on a daily basis to protect our country, and each other. Every SEAL has to occasionally carry the burden of losing a brother or two—or possibly a whole team, if the situation is…extreme. I felt like I had come to the end of my rope by that point, though. Sitting at Cole’s memorial, I felt like there was only one option left. Returning to service would mean risking my sanity. I didn’t know if I could handle seeing another brother die. The only option was to leave my SEAL career behind. When I brought it up with my higher-ups, they supported my decision.”

  The toast pops up. Valerie reaches for it and starts spreading butter onto the golden-brown bread, her eyes still glued on me. I see the glimmering of tears there, so I wrap my story up—too much doom and gloom.

  “I was given an honorable discharge,” I say. “The President signed my papers himself. He thanked me for my service, and said that the government couldn’t ask me to subject myself to more loss.”

  I remember that day so clearly. I felt like my life was ending. I didn’t understand why. It wasn’t until years later that I realized that leaving the SEALs was like losing my identity. I didn’t know who I was; I felt alone, purposeless.

  “Your family must have been so proud,” Valerie says.

  I shrug. “I was raised in the foster care system. I’ve been pretty much on my own since I was sixteen. I don’t think my last foster family cared about the discharge… We didn’t stay in touch.”

  I’m staring down at the counter. I can’t look at Valerie right now. Not when I’m this open, this exposed.

  Though it’s an odd feeling, in a strange way, it feels good to open up to her. I press on.

  “That’s why I think it’s important for me to be involved in Dylan’s life,” I say. “I want to give him what I never had.”

  She’s quiet, and finally I feel brave enough to look at her. When I do, I see a look of love in her eyes that makes me feel so safe.

  “Garrett,” Valerie says softly. “I can’t imagine how painful that must have been… Witnessing those deaths, and then losing your career—I’m sure that after the experience of foster care, the SEALs felt like a family to you.”

  I feel relieved that she understands. It wasn’t just the survivor guilt that was hard. It was also walking away from the only thing that made life worthwhile to me. I’d grown up wanting to be a SEAL. It mattered. And then, it was gone.

  Many people would assume that I’d feel relieved to leave the Navy for good. But I can hear it in Valerie’s voice. She gets it. I reach for the plate of toast that she’s sliding my way.

  “I can’t imagine walking away from teaching,” she says.

  “Is that what you do?” I’m glad to change the focus to her.

  “Yes,” she says. “High school algebra.”

  I grin. It feels good. “I was a terrible math student,” I say. “I was a smart kid, but I never did my homework. The teachers used to get so frustrated.”

  “I bet they did,” Valerie says. “As a teacher, that’s one of the toughest things to witness—a child with potential, who seems to be throwing it away. I see a few kids like that every year. Right now, I have a student named Alex…actually, he reminds me a little bit of you.”

  She holds her coffee to her mouth and blows on the steaming liquid. All the while, she maintains eye contact.

  I clear my throat. I haven’t touched the toast, yet, or the coffee. There’s something else I need to get off of my chest, first.

  In the quiet cocoon of the kitchen, I feel like Valerie and I are the only two people in the world. It’s so quiet at this five o’clock hour. Now is the time to say what’s on my mind.

  “I know that I’m not good at this,” I say. “But I’m glad that we’re…talking. I haven’t…” I clear my throat. Suddenly, I feel self-conscious. I knew this would be hard. I press on. “I haven’t really—you know, being around civilians after spending so long in the Navy—it’s not easy.”

  Valerie laughs. Her eyes twinkle. “I am a civilian, aren’t I?” she says.

  I nod. “And…I guess, what I’m trying to say, is…I might not be good at the whole dating thing.”

  She laughs softly again and then sips her coffee, still eyeing me over her cup.

  I wait anxiously for her to swallow.

  “I’m not exactly a dating expert, either,” she says.

  She sets down her coffee, then leans her hands against the countertop.

  “But, Garrett…I’m pretty sure we’re not dating. We’re in a weird spot; I’ve got to admit it. There’s Dylan—but besides that, you and I don’t know each other that well.” She shakes her head. “We’re not dating,” she says.

  Now, we’re getting somewhere. I feel myself starting to get my feet on the ground.

  “Okay,” I say. “I want to get to know you, Valerie.”

  “And I’d love to get to know you.”

  “Dating…it’s not out of the question, is it? Once we spend some time together?”

  She blushes. I love it when I make her blush.

  “I wouldn’t say it’s off the table,” she says. “Let’s just see how things go, okay?”

  She looks so beautiful. I feel so relieved that I’ve told her about my past. It’s like a huge burden has been lifted off of my shoulders. Filled with this sensation of levity, I lift my coffee and take a sip. It’s hot and strong—just like the woman standing in the kitchen across from me.

  Now that I know where I stand with her, I feel the hint of a challenge building up inside of me. It’s a sensation that I love. I’m going to get to know her. I’m going to open up to her, so that she knows me. And, after that, I’m going to see if she’ll date me.

  It’s a mission I don’t want to fail.

  Perhaps the most important mission of my life so far.

&nbs
p; Hopefully, Cole knows how to give relationship advice, because I have a feeling that now, more than ever, I’m going to need his nudges from beyond the grave.

  I bite into the toast as I think about the mission I’m embarking on. Silence settles over the kitchen. It’s a comfortable, peaceful quiet. It lingers for a few minutes. Then, down the hall in Valerie’s bedroom, Dylan starts to cry.

  Chapter 13

  Valerie

  “Did you grab the new container of wipes off of the dresser?” I ask.

  Garrett pats the diaper bag over his shoulder. “Got ’em. You have his pacifier?”

  Shoot. I forgot the pacifier.

  Garrett’s already heading back to the bedroom. He’s read my expression—something that he is crazy good at—and is going to retrieve the pacifier.

  I bounce Dylan in my arms. “Your daddy will get your pacie,” I coo. Dylan grins and gurgles back at me. “Your daddy’s good at remembering things, isn’t he?” I whisper. “Better than your mommy.”

  Garrett emerges from the bedroom, pacifier in hand. He holds it up so that I can see. I smile.

  “I think we’re ready,” he says.

  We head for the door and Garrett reaches for the keys to my car. We step outside into the sun. It’s the perfect day for a picnic: sunshine, blue skies, and a lovely breeze.

  Garrett locks the door, then leads the way down the stairs. He’s a sight to see: tall, dark and muscular, he’s wearing army green cargo pants, a tight, black T-shirt, and a black baseball hat. His athletic frame and muscular bulk make him look like a bodyguard or pro athlete, but his bad-boy look is completely thrown off by the pink, paisley diaper bag hooked over his shoulder.

  I smile as I walk down the steps behind him.

  He’s become SuperDad over the last few days, since he showed up on my apartment steps—getting up in the middle of the night to feed Dylan so that I could have the first full night of sleep that I’ve had in four months, running to the store for diapers when we ran out, making funny faces so that Dylan laughs.