Hot SEAL, Dirty Martini

by Johnson, Cat

  Eves wide, she sucked in a breath. “Oh my God. You read my journal.”

  It had been an accident, but yes he had. And all the adolescent insults aimed at him that she’d scrawled on the one page he’d skimmed before tossing it back down and going on with his day had only made him laugh out loud.

  The damn thing read like a prepubescent girl having a hissy fit, right down to the best line, where she’d called him a stupid mean caveman.

  He’d been holding on to the tidbits he’d read all day, waiting for the best time to use them against her. Tonight, after her ridiculous shirt comment, seemed like the perfect time.

  Clay cocked a brow. “Don’t leave it laying around if you don’t want me to read it. Besides, I thought it was your house notebook.”

  She planted her hands on her hips as her mouth twisted in ugly satisfaction. “I thought you said my renovation notebook was stupid.”

  He wasn’t about to admit to her the damn notebook had been useful, that one time at least. “It is stupid. But I needed the measurement for the space between the toilet and the tub and you were hogging the bathroom at the time—as usual.”

  She let out a humph.

  “You know, if you don’t want me to write how you’re a caveman, perhaps you shouldn’t act like one.” She paused for a second then drew in a breath before continuing, “And cavemen don’t wear loincloths. Tarzan wears a loincloth. Cavemen wear—I don’t know—like toga thingies made out of wooly mammoth skins or something.”

  His lips twitched in spite of himself. She really did like to hear herself talk, but he had to admit—although never to her, of course—her rambling could be kind of cute at times.

  When she finally stopped babbling to take a breath, he asked, “Are you done?”

  Eyes narrowed, she bit her bottom lip and he had to force his gaze off her mouth and the accompanying fantasy of what it would look like wrapped around his cock.

  Finally, she said, “Maybe.”

  “Good.” He spun on the tile floor in his sweaty socks and padded out of the kitchen, saying as he walked, “I’m taking a shower.”

  “Fine, but don’t hog the bathroom for too long.”

  He smiled again until he noticed his cock was already at half mast just from their bickering.

  This damn woman was going to be the death of him.

  TWENTY

  The lukewarm shower followed by a blast of cold water cooled his overheated body and overactive libido nicely, even though he had opted to forgo handling things himself. The walls in this house were, as he’d already learned, too damn thin.

  He should insulate. Provide some soundproofing. But that was a lot of work and expense for nothing since in less than three and a half weeks he’d have his privacy back. He could whack off whenever or wherever he wanted then.

  For now, he’d just have to deal with it—and with her.

  At least he was cooled off and clean, if not satisfied.

  Thinking two out of three wasn’t bad, Clay stepped out of the tub and reached for a towel. He ran it over his head, getting most of the water out of his hair before he tossed it onto the rack and reached for his toothbrush.

  He’d barely finished brushing his teeth when the soft knock came on the door.

  Frowning, he glanced around him for something to put on, even though he knew what he’d find. His choices were sweaty shorts and underwear he had no intention of putting on his clean body, and the towel he’d just used.

  Given those limited options he wrapped the towel around his waist, tucked in the end to secure it at his hip and pulled open the door.

  Tasha stood there, wide-eyed as her gaze dropped to his state of undress. Her cheeks colored as she yanked her eyes back up to meet his. That’s what she got for disturbing him in his own bathroom.

  “Yes? Can I help you?” he asked, his hand still on the door as he blocked the entrance.

  She held up the cell in her hand as if that would explain the need for this interruption. It didn’t. What was she trying to say in this bad game of charades?

  “Can I come in?” she finally asked.

  He lifted a brow and glanced at the steamy room he had no desire to be confined inside with her. “Why?”

  “I need to show you something.” She pushed past him without invitation.

  He closed the door once she was inside. He might be unhappy about this turn of events but he wasn’t stupid. This room was their sole sanctuary and the door its only defense against the cameras.

  There was definitely something upsetting her. He glanced at the cell in her hand but couldn’t see the screen. “What’s wrong?”

  Had she gotten bad news? Had the show been canceled before it even aired?

  Thank God he’d nixed Joanne’s initial offer that the show buy the house and he purchase it from them after production at their cost. He didn’t trust Hollywood folks as far as he could throw them. He’d stuck to his ground and the house was in his name and his alone so he’d be fine if the show was shut down.

  Tasha, however, would be out of a job. That could explain the look on her face.

  “I had nothing to do with this. I swear. I didn’t even know it was up until Jane called me.”

  Who the fuck was Jane? And what was she babbling about? “Tasha, what are you talking about?”

  With a huff, she thrust her cell at him again. There was a video cued up. He glanced at her, still confused.

  “Hit play,” she said, as her gaze skipped away from his.

  What was on here that she couldn’t even look him in the eye?

  He looked back to the screen. Her cell was one of those huge overpriced ones he’d never own until they started giving them away free.

  It was like a tiny television in his hand so he could see clearly the play button. He hit it with one finger and the sound came blaring out as the picture was set in motion.

  He heard music, and then a narrator as the show logo filled the screen. Then it was him on the web, close up and in living color. And of course, there was Tasha too.

  The video was a minute and a half of him and her fighting with each other, only it didn’t look anything like what had happened in real life. And he’d been there so he knew.

  Instead, they’d edited it so their bickering came across more like foreplay in a bad movie. He was in the role of the grunting workman, opposite Tasha as the bitchy housewife he’d have to tame.

  The whole thing was so ridiculous he let out a laugh.

  Finally, the show graphic and the narrator was back saying, “Home renovation has never been hotter. Hot House coming this September.”

  “Wow.” Shaking his head, he handed the phone back to her and saw her stricken expression.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said.

  “What are you sorry about?” he asked.

  “About that. That they posted it and didn’t get our approval. The way they edited it . . .” She shook her head looking distraught.

  He laughed again. “Tasha, you’ve been in this business longer than me but even I know they’re going to do whatever the hell they want, with or without our permission. I knew what I was signing up for. I just can’t believe they actually managed to twist us arguing all day into that. It’s ridiculous.”

  “It’s not totally ridiculous,” she hissed low in a whisper. “Clay, what if they heard us in here together? Or compared the camera feeds and figured out we were both in here at the same time? They could know and that’s why they edited that video like that.”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “Don’t say no. It’s possible.” Her voice held a tinge of panic as it got louder.

  “Check what time that video was posted.” He tipped his chin toward the cell in her hand. “It was posted yesterday morning. Hours before we—you know.”

  Her focus whipped to the screen and she visibly let out a breath of relief.

  “You knew Maria was going to play up how we always disagree on everything since she sent us that video from
the tile aisle and told us to fight more,” he reasoned.

  “I know, but I didn’t think they were going to spin it to be so . . . sexual,” she hissed the last word in a loud whisper. “And when I saw that posted, right after what we did, I thought . . .”

  “I understand, but you saw the time stamp. They don’t know and that . . .” He tipped his head toward the sink, the scene of their sexual crime. “. . . is never going to happen again, so we’re fine. Right?”

  Lips pressed tightly together, she nodded.

  “Right. We’re fine. Never gonna happen again.” She raised her gaze to his face, but not before skimming over his towel-draped hips and bare chest. “Sorry I bothered you.”

  “It’s all right. Thanks for telling me about the video.” Now he was prepared for the razzing he’d get if any of the guys found it.

  “No problem.” She swallowed hard and glanced at the door. “I guess I’ll head to bed.”

  He tipped his head. “Good night.”

  “Good night.” With one more glance back at him she reached for the doorknob and slipped out into the hall, closing the door behind her.

  He braced both palms against the sink and looked at his reflection in the mirror. Two nights of crap sleep showed clearly beneath his eyes and he had a feeling tonight wasn’t going to be much better.

  Three and a half more weeks. He’d just have to keep repeating that to himself. He’d get through this one day—and night—at a time, just like how he’d survived Hell Week during BUD/S.

  Retirement wasn’t supposed to be this hard.

  Of course, he’d never planned his retirement to include Tasha Jones and the cameras that came with her.

  With a sigh, he gathered up his dirty clothes from the floor and headed for his lonely bedroom.

  TWENTY-ONE

  “Why don’t you have a girlfriend?” Tasha hadn’t meant to ask it, but it slipped out.

  Apparently she had no control of herself when she was anywhere near Clay. Not in the bathroom. Not at breakfast.

  He’d obviously been out running last night, just as he’d said, but she still wasn’t convinced he didn’t have someone in his life he was hiding from the cameras. It would explain why he’d vowed they’d never repeat that one night in the bathroom.

  She wasn’t bold enough to ask if he had a girlfriend, so she’d broached the subject in a bit more roundabout way.

  His gaze whipped up to meet hers before it cut to the cameraman hovering nearby.

  Okay, in hindsight she had to admit it was probably a bad idea to start this conversation with the cameras around. It probably should have been held in the bathroom at night, but it was too late to take it back now.

  He frowned and asked, “Why don’t you have a boyfriend?”

  Tasha scowled at his avoidance of the question and how he’d turned it back on her. “I asked you first.”

  Clay blew out a breath as the furrow grew deeper between his brows. He was definitely not happy with her.

  He was silent for long enough she thought he might not answer. Not even looking at her, he remained hunched over his breakfast sandwich like it was the best meal he’d ever eaten, rather than mass-produced and wrapped in paper.

  Finally, he said, “My career made having a serious relationship difficult.”

  “Your career in the Navy?” she asked.

  After he leveled an angry glare at her, he shot another glance at the cameraman and said, “Yes.”

  “Were you deployed a lot?” she asked.

  His eyes widened. The man’s emotions were an open book, clearly written all over his face, and what she read told her he didn’t like this conversation.

  Why? It was an innocent enough topic. She was just trying to fill some dead air as they sat and ate before starting the workday.

  “You didn’t answer my question.” He stared at her, waiting, as if daring her to not answer after she’d pushed him to.

  “I was concentrating on my career. I didn’t have time to date.” Tasha shrugged but wasn’t ready to let his cagey answer go without a follow-up. “You don’t like talking about your time in the Navy, do you?”

  “Not true.” He glanced up at her from below dark brows drawn low. “I don’t like talking at all.”

  He went back to focusing on devouring his second Sausage McMuffin while she had yet to get through half of her yogurt and granola parfait.

  This conversation was going nowhere, as usual. He was closed off, distant and cold. Nothing like the man he’d been when he’d burst into the bathroom and rocked her body like it had never been rocked before.

  He must really hate the cameras. Or maybe, sex aside, he just really hated her. But that other night . . . That night he’d made her believe there was something deeper there between them.

  She nearly laughed at that. There had been something deep between them all right—his cock, buried deep in her. She needed to remember it was just sex. Nothing else.

  None of that mattered anyway, or at least it shouldn’t, because the only thing that was important in her life right now was making sure this show was a success.

  Still, the man was a mystery that he could look at her with such heat at night and then with such heated disdain during the day.

  Fine. She was feeling no love lost toward him this morning either. Maybe they were more alike than she thought.

  Tasha shifted gears before Maria lost her mind that they were eating in silence. “We should move in some stuff for the kitchen and cook breakfast here ourselves instead of getting takeout every morning. It would be much healthier.”

  “Go for it. Buy whatever you want, but send the bill to your boss over there. I’m not bankrolling your healthy eating.” Clay tipped his head toward Maria.

  Tasha cringed. Not only had he been rude, Maria hated when he acknowledged the crew. They, like the cameras, were supposed to be invisible. Non-existent. So the viewer forgot they were there.

  She’d heard other reality show stars say they eventually forgot the cameras were there after awhile. That had yet to happen for them on this show. Clay broke the rules and talked to or about the crew every chance he got. The editors were going to have a hell of a time cutting all of it out.

  But back to his answer . . . she’d figured he’d want to start moving some of his own stuff in since they’d basically finished work on the kitchen.

  “We probably don’t have to buy anything new.” She frowned. “Don’t you own anything yourself?”

  “Sure, I do.”

  That was a relief. He must have all his belongings in storage because there was nothing here at the house except for his seemingly bottom-less duffle bag that yielded an endless supply of T-shirts and shorts and not much else. She was beginning to believe he’d been homeless before the show.

  “Okay. That’s good. What do you have?” she asked, her notebook in hand so she could make a list of what they’d need to pick up.

  “A surfboard. Two, no three deep sea fishing poles. A weight set. My grandfather’s rifle. Ammo, of course. A tent. Um . . . Oh, and my knives.” Apparently finished, he took another bite of his sandwich.

  Given that list, she had a feeling he wasn’t talking about cooking knives. She sighed. “So no pots and pans?”

  “Nope. But I do seem to have somehow acquired a tea kettle.” Even the smile he flashed her seemed to have its own bad attitude.

  How could a man who had her writhing with pleasure at night be such an ass by the light of day? That wasn’t a problem she could solve, but the cookware issue was.

  “I’ll go get some stuff from my place for us to use.”

  He lifted his shoulder. “Whatever floats your boat, sweetheart.”

  Tasha resisted the urge to look at Maria and see how this conversation was going over with her. Instead, she moved on to the day’s work still ahead of them. “So, we’re going to choose the living room and hallway paint colors today, right?”

  “I am going to. Yeah.”

  She narrowed h
er gaze at him. “I’m coming with you.”

  “I’m making the choice,” he shot back.

  How were they back right where they’d started days ago? Arguing over everything.

  What an ass.

  She let out a breath. “Fine. Yes. As always you get the final choice. But can we at least bring home some samples and try out some colors other than white. Just like we did with the tile?”

  He raised his gaze to shoot her a glare. He didn’t have to say the words. They were clear in that one glance. He wasn’t going to put up with her throwing it in his face that she’d been right about the blue glass subway tile.

  Whatever. She’d keep her mouth shut, but when it turned out that he liked her color choices better than whatever boring old one he chose, she’d still get to feel justified, even if she couldn’t say it aloud.

  “So we’ll head to the Sherwin Williams store right after breakfast.”

  Frowning, he glanced up again. “That’s twenty minutes away. We can just go to Home—”

  Tasha opened her eyes wide hoping Clay would read her meaning and remember that Sherwin Williams had just joined on as a major sponsor and that a certain other large chain store was not to be mentioned on camera.

  After a second, his brows lifted and an expression of recognition crossed his face. “Oh. Okay.”

  With a loud exhale, he gathered up his sandwich wrapping into a ball and tossed it into the garbage bin that had become the only other living room furnishing besides the folding table and chairs.

  “Ready?” he asked, eyeing her still half-filled cup.

  With a sigh, she put down her plastic spoon and reached for the lid. The rest could wait in the fridge. Time for them to go fight over paint colors.

  She stood. “Ready.”

  Passionate at night. Pig headed by day. How could she want to sleep with him just as much as she wanted to slap him?

  Living with Clay was certainly proving to be an adventure and a mystery.

  TWENTY-TWO

  In spite of the strange yearning arguing over paint colors with Clay had created inside her, Tasha made it through another night without giving in to the urge to break out B.O.B., but only because of the bedroom cameras and the knowledge the walls in this place were laughably thin. But there were many more nights of frustration ahead of her.