SEAL's Technique Box Set (A Navy SEAL Romance)

by Claire Adams

  With that, I’m done talking to him.

  I turn on the shower, hoping that the jolt of the cold water brings him back to a more tolerable version of himself, and I walk out of the room.

  It’s a miracle that neither of us got cut on the shards of ceramic plate scattered all over the kitchen floor.

  The dishes were nothing fancy, but that doesn’t make me any less angry. My only consolation is that it doesn’t take long to pick up the remnants.

  I can hear Dane in the bathroom.

  It’s unclear whether he’s singing or just talking really loud, but I could do without hearing that voice for a little while, so I walk over to the television, fully intending to crank the volume up and drown his voice out entirely.

  That’s when I hear what he’s singing.

  I step into the bathroom.

  “…Leila, Leila, Leila, Leila…”

  The guy’s a mess, but damn it, he’s my mess.

  He’s drenched and I know how cold the water is, but he’s just sitting there on the shower floor, arms open wide, eyes closed, singing my name.

  It’s pretty hard to stay mad at him.

  Chapter Twenty

  Rough

  Dane

  If the eyes are the windows to the soul, then the sunlight creeping through my window is hell.

  I don’t think I’ve ever been that drunk in my life.

  My only comfort from this massive hangover is the soft, warm body lying next to me.

  With my eyes as near closed as I can keep them while still managing to see what I’m doing, I lean over and kiss Leila on the forehead. She takes a deep breath and continues to sleep.

  I remember meeting with Wrigley yesterday.

  To say that I’m confident in trusting her to leave us alone would be a lie, but at least she put forward the lip service.

  I get up and stagger my way into the kitchen. Now would be the perfect time to have one of those coffee machines that starts brewing at a preset time, but that’s a luxury for a different morning.

  There’s a bottle of ibuprofen on one of the shelves in the cupboard, but I’m not ready for the physical effort it’s going to take to reach for it just yet.

  For now, I remove the old filter from the coffee maker and replace it with a new one. I don’t bother measuring the grounds I put in the filter.

  It’s a minute before I realize that a coffee maker requires water.

  I open the cupboard and grab the ibuprofen.

  There’s a stir in my bedroom, and I have wild and wondrous fantasies of Leila coming out here and offering to make the coffee while I’m allowed to lie down on the couch, but it doesn’t happen that way.

  As it happens, Leila comes out of the room, her hair beautifully messy and her eyes hardly more open than my own.

  “Morning,” she says, and plops down on the couch.

  The television is on a moment later, and I’m left with this herculean task to conquer alone.

  Somehow, I manage to put all the ingredients in all the right places and get the pot of coffee going, but there’s no way I’m going to be able to do much else if I can’t rein this fucking hangover in a bit.

  There’s a bottle of vodka in the freezer, but I have a feeling Leila’s not going to be particularly understanding of my situation. The last thing I clearly remember is the icy shower she dumped me into.

  Things must have worked out all right, though. Last night was the first night she slept in my room.

  “Hungry?” I ask her.

  “Meh,” she answers. I know that’s a clear signal one way or another, but I left my decoder ring in my other pants.

  “How about waffles?” I ask.

  It’s the perfect crime: I get to take a few swigs of vodka to dial back my hangover, and Leila’s pacified and distracted by waffles.

  “Meh,” she answers again.

  Oh well.

  I open the freezer and grab the vodka bottle before I even dream of touching the waffles.

  This is a covert operation.

  If I took the waffles out first, she’d be bound to suspect that I was up to something when I didn’t immediately close the freezer.

  The vodka is cold enough that I don’t taste it for a couple of seconds, just long enough for the worst of it to pass.

  I leave the bottle on the countertop. There’s no reason to put it back before I’m done with the waffles.

  “Butter? Syrup?” I ask.

  “I’m not that hungry,” she says.

  Myself, I’m fairly certain that if I were to try and eat something right now, I’d just refund it a few minutes later.

  “Okay.”

  The coffee’s done, but I take another swig of vodka before I bother doing anything with that information.

  “Hair of the dog?” Leila asks.

  I don’t know why I still try to get away with anything with Leila around.

  “Yeah,” I tell her. “I’m dying over here. This hangover is murder.”

  “I would imagine,” she says inscrutably.

  One more swig and the vodka goes back into the freezer, right along with the unopened box of waffles.

  “So,” Leila starts, “do you remember anything from last night?”

  “Yeah,” I tell her. “After the shower it’s a little fuzzy, but I’m sure with some minor discussion the rest of it will come back.”

  “Well,” she says, turning around on the couch to face me, “you begged me not to move to New Jersey.”

  “That sounds like something I’d do,” I tell her, pulling two coffee mugs from the cupboard. “That sounds exactly like something I’d do. I both love you and hate New Jersey.”

  “Yeah, that came up during our discussion,” she says. “Do you remember where the conversation went from there?”

  I’m right in that in-between area where the alcohol is starting to hit, but the hangover’s still overpowering it and I want to stick my hand into a running garbage disposal just to take the focus away from my throbbing head.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her. “It hasn’t come back to me yet.”

  “Do you think it’s going to, or do you just want me to tell you?”

  “Tell me.”

  I have both mugs filled with coffee before she considers responding.

  “It seems that you have a bit of a problem with Mike,” she says.

  This can’t be a good turn of events.

  “Really?” I ask. “What did I say?”

  “You said it was kind of messed up that you’re doing everything to keep your past relationships away from ours while I’m still hanging around with Mike.”

  “I said that?” I ask, not sure whether to be proud or nervous.

  “Yeah,” she says. “At one point, you called him a douche nozzle. It was a mean sentiment, but I have to admit it did get me to laugh.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “I think we need to talk,” she says.

  I bring her coffee as a peace offering, but it doesn’t seem to have the magical powers with which I had so intently tried to imbue it.

  “Mike is my best friend,” she says. “I get that you’ve got a little jealousy going on, but he and I have known each other for a really long time, and I can’t just stop being friends with him because you’re feeling threatened.”

  “Now it’s coming back to me,” I say.

  “We’re still talking about it,” Leila rejoins, and my devious plan to get out of having this conversation falls on its face.

  “All right,” I tell her. “Do you understand why I might be a little uncomfortable with that? Of the two times I’ve met the guy, the first time, I walked in on the two of you making out, and the second, he ignored my existence while engrossed in looking for a place for you to live.”

  “I get why you’d feel that way, but it’s not what you think,” she says.

  She explains how he was feeling self-conscious about the way he kisses and that he badgered her into giving him a capsule review. I just hap
pened to walk in at the wrong time.

  The story, despite its vague familiarity, doesn’t do much to ease my concerns.

  “Let’s not fight about this,” I tell her. “I get that he’s your friend. I’m uncomfortable with it, but I’ll just have to deal with that for now.”

  “Yeah,” she says, “you will.”

  And with that, we’re about to have our first fight.

  “How would you feel if I told you I wasn’t going to stop hanging out with Wrigley, despite your feelings?”

  I think it’s a pretty fair point.

  Leila disagrees.

  “It’s not the same thing and you know it,” she says. “I never had sex with Mike. That was the first and only—”

  “You’ve never had sex with him, but I guarantee you have stronger feelings for him than I ever did for Wrigley.”

  “I don’t find that hard to believe in the slightest,” she retorts. “I’m surprised you have any feelings at all the way you treat women.”

  “The way I treat women?” I seethe. “In what way have I ever treated you poorly?”

  “I’m not talking about me,” she says, “I’m talking about all the other ones that you drug in here in the middle of the night, never to return with the same one twice. Do you really think women appreciate that? How deluded are you?”

  “I never brought anyone home under false pretenses,” I snap. “Everyone involved knew exactly what it was before it ever happened.”

  “Yeah?” she asks. “Well, what is this?”

  I take a breath and steady myself.

  There are two options here. I could go for the quick, sharp response, and I have no doubt it would feel pretty great right about now, but on the same token, that approach would probably blow up the relationship.

  My other option is to try to calm this whole discussion and tell her that, despite how angry I am right now, I see my relationship with her as the most promising thing I’ve ever known.

  What I really need to do is say something, because she’s just staring at me now, forming her own opinions on how I really feel, and the longer I go without saying it, the less she’s going to believe whatever comes out of my mouth.

  I’m still not talking.

  “I don’t know,” I tell her.

  “Well, that’s good to hear,” she says, getting up from the couch and trying to make a break for her bedroom.

  “I love you!” I shout. “But you’re leaving and it’s not like we’re talking about some far off possibility, you’re leaving next week. How is that supposed to work? I don’t even know if I’ll be able to swing this place on my own. I want us to be together. Even sloshed out of my mind I was begging you to stay. That’s where I want this relationship to go. How about you?”

  The bad news is that she’s crying now. The good news? There is no fucking good news.

  “You’re right,” she bawls. “We should just end it.”

  And shit just got real.

  “That’s not what I’m saying,” I tell her. “I want to make this work. More than anything, I want to make this work.”

  “But you’re right,” she says, “it can’t. I’m taking that job. I have to. It’s what I’ve always wanted to do. You’re here, doing what you’ve always wanted to do.”

  “Leila, don’t do this. We can’t just give up on everything now. We’ve only been together for a couple of days and we’ve already fought more for this than most people do in an entire relationship.”

  She pushes past me and slams the door to her room behind her.

  I don’t know what else to say.

  I don’t know that there’s anything else I can say.

  I’m starting to wonder if I just conjured up my feelings for Leila as a way to distance myself further from Wrigley.

  Even though I know it’s not true, the thought takes its toll, and by the next breath, I’m walking back to the freezer.

  * * *

  Okay, so I’m not drunk, but I’m sure as fuck not sober either.

  I’ve been lying on my bed, pissed off and torn up for I don’t know how long.

  This isn’t how I want to spend what little time I have left with Leila, but I don’t know if there’s another option. She’s closing me out.

  I get it. Really, I do.

  It’s easier to leave if things aren’t going so well, but that doesn’t mean this has to be the end of anything.

  That’s when it hits me: I should probably be talking about this with her.

  I get up from the bed and take a moment to find my balance. I may be a little more inebriated than I thought.

  At least I’m nowhere near as drunk as I was last night.

  I set the bottle, which up until this point had been welded to my hand, on my dresser, and I open the door to my room.

  Guess who’s sitting on the couch, talking to Leila as she wipes tears from her eyes.

  I’ll give you one hint: it’s not me.

  “Hey, Mike,” I say. “Leila, are you all right?”

  “Maybe I should give you two a few minutes to talk,” Mike says, and gets up from the couch.

  “Thanks, Mike,” I tell him. “I appreciate that.”

  He nods and walks to the kitchen. He’s hardly giving us privacy, but now really isn’t the time for me to say anything about it.

  “I know what we’re both doing,” I tell her. “We’re finding reasons to be mad because we’re afraid of losing each other.”

  “It doesn’t seem like either one of us have had to look very hard,” she says, wiping her nose on her shirtsleeve.

  I smile at her.

  “I guess you’re right,” I say. “A lot is happening with both of us right now. Maybe this wasn’t the right time to start a relationship, but I don’t regret that we did.”

  Her eyes are so wide as she looks up at me.

  “I don’t regret it either,” she says. “But how are we supposed to keep going when we both know it’s all going to be over in a week?”

  We keep going because we care about each other.

  We’ll find a way to make it work.

  We keep going because we make each other feel things we’ve never really felt.

  “I don’t know.”

  Of all the possible combinations of words that could have come out of my mouth, that was one of the worst.

  “So what are we doing?” she asks, the tears again forming in her eyes.

  “We’re getting to know each other,” I tell her. “That sort of thing takes time.”

  “Yeah,” she says. “But that doesn’t solve anything. We don’t have time.”

  “We have a little,” I tell her. “If you’re not sick of me by the time you move, we can have more—I know I would like that.”

  “Why don’t you move with me?” she asks.

  And there’s the possibility I didn’t want her to realize.

  “Things are only just starting to turn around at l’Iris. Wilks is still finding himself as a chef. I can’t just up and leave Jim without anyone to help,” I tell her. “He gave me a chance and kept me on when anyone else would have just fired me on the spot. I can’t walk out on him.”

  “Then you’ll commute,” she says. “I found the place I want to move to. It’s got two bedrooms, one-and-a-half baths. It’s in a really good neighborhood and the rent is a fraction of what it is here.”

  “I don’t have a car,” I tell her.

  “I don’t have a car either,” she says. “How else are we going to do it, though?”

  “I have a car,” Mike says from the kitchen.

  “I’m sorry, Mike, but do you mind?” I ask.

  He scoffs and shrugs and I would very much like to put my fist through that tissue paper skull of his.

  It may sound really odd, given that Leila and I have been roommates for months now, but I don’t know if we’re really in the place, relationship-wise, where we should be living together.

  “Let’s take every day, one day at a time,” I tell Leila. “Let�
�s make the most of every moment while you’re here, and when you have to go—”

  “That’s it?” she asks. “And when I have to go, that’s it?”

  “That’s not what I said,” I tell her. “I don’t want there to ever be a ‘that’s it’ with us.”

  “What then?” she asks. “If things go well you’ll move, if they don’t, you won’t?”

  “I don’t know!”

  The words come out before I give them any thought. Leila just sits there, startled by the outburst, hurt by the words.

  “Okay,” she says. “Okay.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” I tell her. “I don’t want you to go.”

  “This is a once in a lifetime opportunity for me,” she says.

  “So is this,” I respond. “It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity for both of us.”

  “Let’s take it day by day then,” she says. “We’ll see how things are going when it comes time for me to move.”

  Contrary to all appearances, this is not what I want.

  More than anything, I want to just pick up and follow her wherever she wants to go.

  Maybe it’s ridiculous that I feel this strongly about a woman with whom I’ve only been in a relationship for a few days, but since I met her, we’ve gotten to know more about each other, and I sure as hell don’t want to miss out on learning everything there is.

  That’s what I want, but that doesn’t mean it’s going to happen.

  I’m used to the city.

  I’m not used to being in a relationship like this—one that lasts longer than just a few good lays.

  No matter how much I want to pick up, let Wilks stand on his own two feet—something he’s going to have to learn to do anyway—and stay with Leila, the truth is that I’m scared.

  I’m scared and I think she knows it.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Stars

  Leila

  The move is in three days.

  I got the apartment I wanted and it’s ready for me to move in and make it my own.

  Dane hasn’t said it yet, but I know he’s not going with me.

  Rather than spend this last parcel of time together feeling hurt or awkward, though, I’ve decided to make the most out of what time we have left.