by Seton, Cora
Her heart bursting with happiness, she flung her free arm around him and shouted, “Yes!”
As Remy held the woman he loved and promised to make her happy, he could hear applause and cheering in the hallway, and the excited chatter of nurses all saying, “She said ‘yes.’”
Remy couldn’t remember a prouder, happier day in his life. He knew marriage wouldn’t always be sunshine and roses, but he was a SEAL and all SEALs knew…
The only easy day was yesterday.
The End
Other Titles by Elle James
Take No Prisoners Series
SEAL’s Honor (#1)
SEAL’s Desire (#2)
SEAL’s Embrace (#3)
SEAL’s Obsession (#4)
SEAL’s Proposal (#5)
Lords of the Underworld
Witch’s Initiation (#1)
Witch’s Seduction (#2)
The Witch’s Desire (#3)
Demon Series
Hot Demon Nights (#1)
Demon’s Embrace (#2)
Tempting the Demon (#3)
Covert Cowboys Inc Series
Triggered (#1)
Taking Aim (#2)
Bodyguard Under Fire (#3)
Cowboy Resurrected (#4)
Thunder Horse Series
Hostage to Thunder Horse (#1)
Thunder Horse Heritage (#2)
Thunder Horse Redemption (#3)
Christmas at Thunder Horse Ranch (#4)
Deadly or Devil’s Shroud Series
Deadly Reckoning (#1)
Deadly Engagement (#2)
Deadly Liaisons (#3)
Deadly Allure (#4)
Connect with Elle:
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Yours for Christmas
A Smoke Jumpers novella
Anne Marsh
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Blurb
When Navy SEAL Zack Medina comes home to Strong, California for Christmas, he’s got more than a firefight on his hands. He needs to convince his estranged wife that ’tis the season to forgive…and that will take a Christmas miracle. Bree lost her heart three years ago to the sexy SEAL and letting him back into her heart—and her bed—would be a mistake. A really hot, impossibly sweet mistake…
About the Author
Anne Marsh writes sexy contemporary and paranormal romances because the world can always enjoy one more alpha male. She started writing romance after getting laid off from her job as a technical writer—and quickly decided happily-ever-afters trumped software manuals. She lives in Northern California with her family and six cats.
Chapter One
‡
Navy Lieutenant Zack Medina did not bake cookies. Or swap them. Hell, he didn’t even eat cookies, although that was both because his last deployment had been to the Middle East where cookies were in short supply and because he didn’t actually like sweets. So there was no good reason to explain why he was standing on the sidewalk outside a brightly lit bungalow in Strong, California. Stupid to hope if he knocked on the door, the woman who lived there would welcome him with open arms.
With—it was okay to be honest when his brain was clearly one-track—sex.
Hot sex, kinky sex, regular old missionary-style sex.
He wasn’t picky. Of course, he also hadn’t had sex since the last time he’d seen the bungalow’s owner, so he had thirty-six months of celibacy to break.
Instead of loving, he’d done plenty of fighting, pushing his body and his mind to the max. Coming home should have been a relief. He’d fought. He’d won. He’d come out in one piece. His truck ticked quietly, motor cooling after the six-hundred-mile drive from Coronado. The heat radiating off the truck was familiar, although there wasn’t a sand dune in sight, but the bungalow might be filled with hostiles. A wave of feminine laughter rolled out.
Jesus.
He’d stormed an Iraqi compound once, entering through the women’s quarter. A similar wave of joyful sound had hit him as he’d breached the doors, leading with his M4A1. His male ass hadn’t belonged in that happy space any more than it did here. He double-checked the Christmas card he held in his hand. The address written in the card matched the numbers above the door and it appeared that the cookie exchange at 124 Fourth Street on December 15th was in full swing. The card shed glitter onto his boots as he stood there, mustering the courage to engage.
The amount of blue and white glitter contained in the card defied the laws of physics. He sparkled like a damned vampire every time he opened the thing. He had glitter in his duffel bag, on the front seat of his truck and—he looked down—on the front of his jeans. Real smooth. Although it was only seven o’clock, the sun was long gone. The sky was dark and, up here where the mountains started, the stars were clearly visible. Like the Iraqi desert, there was no light pollution to cover up the constellations. He was no fucking astronomer, but he liked the twinkle-twinkle. Bonus light was always a good ace-in-the-hole, although the bungalow’s front lawn was a testament to either cheerful excess or a blithe disregard for the electric bill.
Animatronic reindeer raised and lowered their heads on the snowless lawn. Someone definitely had the crazy going on for Christmas. But this was one of the things he’d been fighting for, he reminded himself. He’d put reindeer on his lawn over his dead body—but he could plant a garden of gnomes, flamingoes or fucking Santa Clauses. Live and let live. Freedom of choice was a principle worth fighting for.
In order to reach the front door, he’d need to make it past the reindeer herd, a semi-deflated blow-up Santa waving a spotlight, fourteen candy canes strung with twinkly lights, and a crèche with Baby Jesus, who undoubtedly needed sunglasses and not frankincense or myrrh thanks to the electric glare.
“Ready to roll?” He addressed the question to Santa and not to the baby in the manger. God wasn’t on speaking terms with him anyhow. He had as much chance of an answer from the celestial department as he did from the red plastic big guy. Shoving the past to the back of his mind, he moved up the sidewalk, automatically scanning the shadows for possible trouble. Small California mountain towns weren’t usually terrorist hotbeds, but you never knew. The bad guys had to hide somewhere.
He took the steps two at a time and knocked hard. Again with the old habits. It probably wasn’t a good sign that he barely restrained himself from opening the door after he knocked. Or kicking it down. His mission plan for tonight included making friends and starting over, not taking prisoners.
The blonde woman wearing a reindeer sweatshirt over a pair of black cargo pants blinked at him when she pulled the door open. The reindeer antlers on her head slid forty-five degrees west as she considered his presence on the porch. Surprise.
“I’ve brought cookies,” he said gruffly, shoving his duffel bag at her. He’d stopped at Target and cleaned out the holiday display of Pepperidge Farm. Forty-two packages of crunchy goodness hadn’t seemed like overkill when he’d been standing in the aisle, overwhelmed by choices.
“Okay.” The woman grabbed the bag reflexively. Zack waited for her to step back before moving forward. See? All that work on his social skills had paid off.
“Are you looking for…” Her voice trailed off as she looked at him doubtfully. Maybe the doubt was because he was the only male in the room. Maybe she was understandably nervous about his size and his face. But he had an invitation. He’d paid his entry fee. Hell, he’d even gotten the holiday cookie with peppermint filling. Check, check and check.
“I’m looking for my wife,” he said.
The cookie-holding woman gaped at him as she processed his statement.
“Bree,” he clarified, just in case there was more than one unclaimed married woman swapping cookies tonight.
“Wow. You win in the newsflash department.” Blondie flashed him a thumbs-up. Christ, she looked like trouble. “She’s fixing the tree.”
He followed her pointing finger. A deliciously curvy woman bent over, her top half hidden behind an enormous Christmas
tree. Cupping her ass, running his hands over the soft globes…those all seemed like excellent ideas. She’d be sweeter than any cookie. She was definitely the prettiest sight he’d ever seen. He grinned and the woman who’d let him in muttered something that sounded suspiciously like men. Hey, he’d been out in the field for too many years and he wasn’t dead. That had to entitle him to a few minutes of staring.
And then Christmas tree woman straightened up, waving a half-used roll of duct tape over her head like a prize-winning boxer.
“Ta da!” The lights went on and they twinkled, lighting up her face with flashes of red, green and blue. She was…his.
His wife.
Bree.
*
Bree finished duct-taping the strand of frayed lights together. Buying a replacement set topped tomorrow’s to-do list—as hot as the local fire department was, she preferred to meet them under circumstances other than a raging house fire—but for now? Consider the problem MacGyvered. She’d been taking care of herself for years and she was, if she said so herself, darned good at it. Duct tape was a girl’s best friend. It occupied the place of honor right next to BOB in her toolbox. And, hey, both came in pink and zebra-striped.
“Mission accomplished!” She turned around to face the room, laughing. Okay. Screeching like a banshee, but who cared? These were her friends, they had cookies, and if she couldn’t be herself here, where could she be? That was the whole point of girls’ night.
Except…there was a man in her living room. He certainly hadn’t been there ten minutes ago, because no way she’d have overlooked him. For one, he was huge. He had to be pushing six-foot-three and he had the kind of shoulders linebackers only dreamed about. Holy. Moly. Unfortunately, since she’d broken her glasses earlier that afternoon, he was also more than a bit blurry. Pity. She squinted, trying for a better look. Given her relationship woes, she was firmly in the look-but-don’t-touch camp, so she planned on enjoying this spectacular male mountain planted in her living room.
Katie Lawson elbowed her. “Stop staring.”
Easy for Katie to say, since the attractive brunette had her very own SEAL tucked away in her bungalow and wasn’t lacking for attractive scenery in her life.
“Why?” Honestly, staring was okay and not at all rude, because the guy was a party-crasher. If she’d invited a man who looked like this, she would have remembered. And everybody would have RSVP’d a resounding yes.
Laura Carpenter popped up behind Mountain Man, making faces and pointing. Bree sucked at charades. She needed English. She could also do bad Spanish and some very limited German. Gestures? Not so much.
Mountain Man moved forward until he was only feet away, his features slowly coming into focus.
“Bree?” His voice sounded rough and raspy and her girly bits perked right up.
“That’s me.” She stared up and up. She was short. He was…not. Wow. He was gorgeous. His hair was growing out of a military buzz cut that emphasized the strong line of his jaw. He also came with brown eyes and several days worth of stubble that made her want to grab his head and run her fingers over the rough surface. What would it feel like…no.
Married. She was married. Sort of. Look but don’t touch.
“You don’t remember me?” His mouth curved up in a panty-wetting grin and, oh no, he was even hotter when he smiled. That was positively unfair. The music on her iPod segued into to a raucous version of Jingle Bell Rock and he winced. Maybe he was the Grinch in disguise.
“She’s blind as a bat without her glasses,” Laura added helpfully.
“Uh-huh.” He closed the remaining space between them. She retreated with an undignified squeak. It was one thing to fantasize, and another, completely off-limits, verboten act to touch. Her back hit the wall, she tipped her head back and…oh my. Mr. Big, Bad and Dark braced an arm over her head. He smelled gorgeous. His flannel shirt gaped open, revealing a U.S. Navy T-shirt. She dropped her gaze, taking in the whole package. Worn denim jeans and boots. Check and check. She knew this man. Granted, she’d never really expected to see him again because he’d had over three years to make a return move and he’d never done so. Thigh to thigh, with only inches between them, even she could see who this man was.
“Zack.” She reached up and touched his cheek. And…oh wow. She felt the rasp of his five o’clock shadow against her fingertips everywhere.
“You do remember me.” Satisfaction filled his voice and he moved impossibly closer. His hips pressed against her and, oh my God, seven (eight? nine?) hard inches announced just how glad he was to see her. How could he possibly be hotter than he had been all those years ago? He was, though, and her panties were wet. She couldn’t do this again.
“What are you doing here?” She shoved at his chest but he was rock-hard there too. He didn’t budge.
He looked down at her. “We’re married.”
Well…yes. That was true. Sort of. Even if they’d never had a marriage, they’d done the act itself. They’d swapped vows in a quickie wedding ceremony. For his first eighteen-month tour of duty, she’d even believed they could make the long-distance relationship thing work, until he’d come home on leave—and hadn’t so much as called her. The message had been crystal clear: she’d made more of their relationship than it was. Otherwise known as: Back the hell off, girl.
Which she’d done for his second eighteen-month tour of duty.
“So I think we should talk,” he continued, clearly winding up for the Let’s get a divorce or an annulment speech. The talk wasn’t unexpected—but she hadn’t planned on doing it face-to-face. Lawyer-to-lawyer, yes. Email-to-email? Even better. She hadn’t realized that ending a marriage required full body contact. Apparently, friendly divorces had all sorts of unanticipated benefits.
“I have a sofa. A really, really nice sofa.” Not that being pressed up against a wall by Zack was a bad thing. In fact, the problem was that her current position reminded her exactly why she’d ended up married to him in the first place. He was hot.
And she…was horny.
Thirty-six months was a damned long time for a sexual drought. If they were still married, did he have to put out? Because she was considering putting an end to her celibacy right here, right now on her living room floor in the middle of her annual Christmas cookie exchange.
Zack gave her a look she couldn’t interpret. However, she could interpret the looks she was getting from the Christmas cookie exchange participants. Laura flashed a thumbs-up and fanned herself energetically. Katie was texting like mad on her phone, which meant Bree’s brother, Joey, would likely be bursting through her front door sometime in the next ten minutes. The other women looked curious or lustful, but Christmas cookies were definitely no longer the focus of their attention.
Zack dropped his arm (disappointing), threaded his fingers through hers and towed her towards the front door. Given that she’d been imagining riding him like a cowgirl while having hot reunion sex on her living room floor, outdoors wasn’t where she wanted to be right now. It was cold. It was dark. And she really, really didn’t know this man even if she had married him in a fit of impulsivity she couldn’t quite bring herself to regret.
“Wait.” Despite the twenty (okay, thirty) pounds she’d gained since she last saw Zack, digging her heels in didn’t stop him from effortlessly moving her towards the door.
“Outside,” he said, his gaze taking in the women, the plates of cookies, and the Christmas tree. Honestly, she couldn’t tell which horrified him more. “We’re going to sort this out.”
“Bossy,” she muttered, but he had a point. She felt like an exhibit in a zoo.
Plus, she kind of liked his bossy streak, even if she had no idea what the this was that he wanted sorted. He’d clearly mastered the male art of speaking in cryptic.
“You must really like Christmas,” he observed as soon as they were outside on her front porch.
“Is there anyone who doesn’t?” Reindeer heads went up and down while the silence stretched o
ut between them. Wait. “Does that mean you don’t like Christmas?”
He shrugged, like Christmas was so far down his list of priorities that he hadn’t given it any consideration.
“I’m out of the habit,” he said, dropping down onto the top step. Since he was still holding onto her hand, she went with him. Huh. Thigh-to-thigh with him, her shoulder tucked against his, she had to admit the position was kind of nice, even if she had no idea what to say to him next.
“You must have questions.” He stared at the semi-deflated Santa on her lawn.
“Why do I have to drive this conversation?”
He shrugged again but, this time, this close, his arm brushed hers. She could feel all those hard muscles through his flannel. See? Coming out here was definitely dangerous.
“Because I’ll fuck it up?” he suggested.
Well. Okay. She’d cut to the chase because mentioning sex, screwing, or fucking wasn’t something her poor, deprived hormones could handle right now. “Divorce or annulment?”
Her voice didn’t shake. She sounded like a mature, sensible, friendly soon-to-be-ex-wife. That was good. If she was lucky, he’d never realize he still made her heart pound in ways that were as far from platonic as Tahiti was from Siberia.
His arm jerked, his fingers tightening on hers. “No.”
“No?” Was there another way to dissolve a marriage?
“I’m not dying just so you can have an easier split,” she said suspiciously.
“Christ,” he barked and she could feel herself turning red. Maybe she’d made an assumption or two. But it wasn’t all her fault. He was the one who’d gone away and then not come back. She was just trying to make this easy.
“I don’t want a divorce,” he said. “Or an annulment.”
She tried to tug her fingers free, but he didn’t let go. “Explain.”
