Saved by the SEAL

by Diana Gardin

  I’m frozen in place, because those eyes of hers have the power to hold me hostage. I don’t even blink.

  “Hey,” she says, her voice like satin as a slow, shy smile crosses her lips.

  She’s fresh, her face free of makeup. I try to keep my eyes on her face, but they act of their own accord, making a languid trek down her body. She’s dressed for the late-summer heat in a ribbed purple tank top that hugs her tight, lifted breasts and her slim midsection. Small white cotton shorts that send a zing of awareness straight to my cock leave miles of skin free for my amusement. When I pull my gaze back up her body, her eyes are wide, and there’s an adorable blush dusted across her cheeks.

  “Hey.” I clear my throat.

  “Um…come in.” She scoots to the side so that I can move my large frame in through the small doorway.

  I walk into the apartment. Expecting to be flooded with both good and not-so-good memories of Berkeley and the time I spent with her here, I let my gaze roam around the living room. Everything is decorated in shades of white and blue, with a beach theme. Navy-blue couch and oversize armchair, white wooden coffee table. Navy-blue drapes with vertical white stripes. Large white lamps on mismatched end tables with navy-blue anchors. It’s so kitschy and girly that I smile.

  But the expected flood of regret and memories don’t come. Instead, Greta steps into my line of sight, and my gaze shifts to her with focused intent. I set my bag down beside the couch and crook my finger at her.

  “Come here.”

  She doesn’t hesitate; she walks straight over and stands, tipping her head back to look up at me. Something inside me twitches happily at her willingness, and it takes a lot of willpower not to grab her and let my hands roam over all of that exposed skin.

  Instead, I cup her chin with one hand and brush feather-light fingers over her head wound with the other. “How is this feeling?”

  She winces as my fingers touch it, and I pull them away. “It’s fine.”

  One side of my mouth tips up. “Tough girl.”

  Grinning, she turns and heads through an arching doorway to the open-concept kitchen. “You hungry?”

  I wasn’t until she said that. Now, my stomach rumbles as the aroma of something delicious and homemade wafts under my nose. “Wow. Something smells amazing. What’d you make?”

  “Smothered chicken, garlic mashed potatoes, and corn soufflé.” She says it like she just made Hamburger Helper or something equally mundane.

  “Holy shit. You really cooked.”

  She shrugs. “Yeah. I cook a lot. It’s something I love to do.”

  Instantly, curiosity rushes through me, and I want to know what else she loves to do. I pull out a seat at the bar top facing her and watch as she works to prepare our plates. She piles one high with a mound of mashed potatoes and a huge piece of chicken, and my stomach growls.

  “You do? Huh. I didn’t know that. I guess we never really got a chance to get acquainted before, did we?”

  She shakes her head, sending cascades of that thick, dark hair rippling around her shoulders. I’m betting it would feel amazing tumbling around my fingers.

  Stop. Mind out of the gutter, Abbot. You’re here because she needs your help. Not your dick.

  “Not really. But…I’d like to get to know you better, Grisham.”

  Oh…fuck. When she says my name, something long and forgotten opens up inside my chest like an expanding balloon. Like a dragon, waking up after a long, restful sleep. I reply automatically, before I can think better of it.

  “I’ve wanted to know more about you ever since you first batted those long eyelashes at me a couple of years ago.”

  Wait…what? What the hell was I thinking, saying that out loud?

  My gaze stays glued to her face. I watch a myriad of emotions chase each other through her eyes, and a warm blush spreads over her cheeks. Her eyes widen, and her plump bottom lip disappears between her teeth as if on cue. I can almost count the different ways her body reacts to what I just said, and that’s only while I’m looking at her face.

  I can’t help the easy smile that creeps onto my own lips. It’s just too easy to tease her.

  “Do you not realize that you’re hot as the freaking sun, Greta? Any guy would want to get to know you better.”

  She drops her gaze to our plates and finishes filling them with food. It’s a physical thing…how much I want to get close to her right now and make her look at me.

  She slides a plate across the bar top toward me and brings hers around to sit beside me. She climbs up onto her stool and I reach out a hand and place it on her lower back to make sure she’s steady as she settles herself. The warmth emanating from her is addictive; I don’t move my hand right away. I hear her quick intake of breath as my hand smoothes across her shirt, cupping her tiny waist. I pull her toward me, and her stool scrapes against the floor. When she meets my stare under long, dark lashes, I grin.

  “Much better.” She clamps down on her bottom lip, and my eyes are drawn there instantly. God, she’s sexy. It takes everything I have to tear my eyes away from her mouth and focus on my food.

  I cut a piece of chicken and stick the bite into my mouth. “Oh…damn, girl. I haven’t had a home-cooked meal in…I can’t even remember how long. This chicken is delicious.”

  Her face breaks into a true, ungrudging smile that steals my breath away. “Thank you. That makes me feel good. Don’t you ever go home and have dinner with your parents?”

  I snort. “Yeah, occasionally if I can’t avoid it. But having dinner with my parents means going out or ordering in. My mom doesn’t cook.”

  She gasps, her fork frozen halfway to her mouth. “Never?”

  “Never.”

  “I mean…nothing? Like, not even grits for breakfast?”

  I burst out laughing. “Of all the things…grits? Is that something you have to have? My parents are both originally from Illinois. So no grits.”

  She nods, quick and passionate. “Oh my word, yes. I need my grits. And I like to make ’em with plenty of butter. And cheese…ohhh, yeah. Definitely cheese.”

  Still laughing, I wipe my mouth with my napkin. “Well, aren’t you just the cutest southern girl.”

  We eat in silence for a few minutes before I think about what she said and start laughing all over again. She smiles over at me, her face shining with pure light. I reach over and brush her cheek with the back of my hand, because I can’t not touch her in that moment. Her pupils dilate at the contact, and I can see the breath hitch with a quick rise in her chest. I’m lost in the deep blue of her eyes for a moment, and the connection between us pulls taut.

  “Grits.” My voice is hoarse with lust as I chuckle, shaking my head.

  “You won’t be laughing in the morning when I make them for you.” She fires it right back at me, which causes my grin to grow.

  “No, I’m sure I won’t. But I do like the idea of you cooking for me again in the morning.”

  I wait for it…and there’s the blush.

  This is going to be a really entertaining night.

  After dinner, it’s still pretty early, so we settle onto the couch. Greta sinks into the cushions on one end, and I settle down in the middle not too far from her. My body lists in her direction, itching to move closer, but I don’t want to crowd her.

  This isn’t a date, I remind myself.

  “Want to watch a movie?” she asks. Her voice is like velvet. I just want to wrap myself up in it.

  Her mouth pops open in a yawn, and I laugh. “Are you sure you’ll make it through a movie?”

  “If I don’t, my knight is here to wake me up in exactly two hours.”

  “Knight, huh?”

  Her head tilts to the side, and she looks at me. Really looks. “Didn’t you save me on the beach today?”

  “Anybody would have.”

  Her bright blue eyes don’t falter as she answers, “No, they wouldn’t have. But you did.”

  A hard lump forms in my throat. Swallo
wing it down, I tear my gaze away from hers and hand her the remote. “Movie night is lady’s choice.”

  One side of her generous mouth tilts up in a crooked smile. I want so badly to lean in and taste it, but instead I lean away from her and zero in on the TV.

  “Why, thank you, sir.”

  I glance at her again, and we both burst out laughing.

  It feels good, laughing. Growing up, laughing and having a good time were discouraged by my strict dad. I was taught that hard work is what pays off, not goofing off and having a good time. His harsh hand was always something I feared, and I never felt safe enough to laugh around him at all.

  I laugh with my buddies sometimes when we’re at work, trying to break a tense situation. Or when we’re out having a few beers. But this is really laughing…letting go. Being loose. It’s light, and for some reason, it makes me hopeful.

  It feels different. It feels good.

  We start watching a movie about a man and a woman who go back to their hometown for a funeral after being high school lovers. I’m not supposed to like it because it’s a chick flick. But I find myself drawn into the story, wanting to know what’s going to happen with the couple now.

  Midway through, I have to stand up and stretch my leg. I can’t sit for long stints like this anymore without feeling like I need to walk, exercise my good limb a little bit. It’s something I’ve had to do ever since the explosion. I stand, flexing, trying to be as casual about it as I can.

  I can feel Greta’s eyes on me as I walk to the counter and do a couple of standing knee flexes. Knowing she’s watching me sends a flush of embarrassment creeping up my neck. The last thing I want is for her to see me as weak. Or as less than what I was before.

  When we first met, I was whole.

  But I came back from the other side of the world with a piece missing. My imagination runs away, weaving the tale of what she must think of me now.

  When I return to the couch, she reaches over and places a hand on the thigh of my leg that was partly amputated. My muscle tenses under her touch, the skin of my neck heats. I reach down and grab her hand in mine. It’s warm and soft, and I squeeze it gently as I look over at her.

  “Does it hurt?” she whispers.

  I shake my head with a small smile. “No.”

  “Did it? Hurt? I mean…when it happened?”

  I don’t answer for a minute, and she misinterprets my silence.

  “I’m sorry, Grisham…I didn’t mean to…just forget I asked.”

  Her hair forms a veil around her face as she looks down at her lap. I lift her hand to my chest and tug until she looks at me.

  “Please don’t ever apologize for asking honest questions. People never do that. They stare and they wonder, or they obviously try not to stare when I know they really want to. No one, even my family and friends, comes right out and asks about it. My dad has actually never even bothered to have an honest conversation with me about what happened. Not once.”

  She nods. Her face is certain; there’s not a hint of hesitation there. “I want to know.”

  I sigh and lean my head back against the couch cushions. Going back to that night…it’s not something I ever willingly do. I had to talk to a therapist about it, and I opened up as fully as I could. I think the talking helped, but it’s hard as hell to revisit what happened.

  “An RPG hit our convoy as we were on our way in as support for a unit of Rangers. The hum-vee in front of us took a direct hit, but we caught a big portion of the explosion. It hurt, Greta. It felt exactly the way you’d imagine it would feel to have one of your limbs literally blown off your body. But when you’re out there…in a situation like that, you can’t focus on the pain. You have to focus on living. On surviving. So that’s what I did. I focused on living and making sure my men were out of danger. And then I don’t remember anything else until I woke up in Germany.”

  She sucks in a loud, hissing breath through her mouth. “I can’t imagine. How did you adjust to having a prosthetic?”

  I smirk at the memory of waking up in the hospital. “When I realized the leg was gone from the knee down, I was pissed. Really fucking pissed. I thought it would completely change my life. And it has…but prosthetics are really, really good these days. There’s a lot I can still do. I probably won’t be able to be active duty much longer, but I’m going to get to finish out this year with my team at least.”

  She nods. “And then what?”

  Shrugging, I close my eyes briefly. This is something I worry about a lot, but I don’t want anyone to know how much. “I don’t know.” As much as I attempt to keep it locked tightly away, my uncertainty bleeds through in my tone.

  She turns her legs toward me, the right side of her face leaning against the couch. I open my eyes and stare right into hers. “You’ll figure it out, Grisham. I have faith in you.”

  I give her a small smile. “You don’t know me well enough to have faith in me.”

  She squares her shoulders and lifts her chin.

  Ah. This girl has a stubborn streak. And I bet it’s a mile long. For reasons still undiscovered, the thought makes me smile.

  “I know enough.” Her lips pull into a tight smirk, her eyes shining brightly as she holds my gaze.

  The urge to kiss her is so strong I can’t deny it. It’s like I’m a poor fish caught on her line. With every sentence she utters, with every smile she so freely gives, she’s reeling me in slowly, and I can’t wriggle free. I don’t even want to.

  I lean in, and I see her lips part the slightest bit as she readies herself for my kiss. Her grip tightens in mine, and I use my other hand to grasp the back of her neck. The heat radiating off her skin scorches me, and all I want to do is drown in the flames. Her gaze darkens, and I know her expression mirrors the pure, inescapable lust in my own. Our eyes are locked and loaded, and all I have to do is close the remaining inches between us.

  Greta’s phone vibrates on the table. I close my eyes for a moment in frustration just as she jumps backward and reaches out to grab her phone.

  She gives me a guilty glance as she checks the number. “I have to answer this. It’s my dad.”

  I nod as I try to get control of the burning fire raging inside of me. Why is everything so…much with her? So much more?

  I’ve kissed more girls than I can count. When I want to do it, when I feel it’s right, I just do it. There’s never much buildup or thought. It’s the natural order of things. But with Greta, everything feels like a big fucking deal.

  I zone out for the few minutes she’s on the phone with her father. When she hangs up, she looks disgruntled.

  “My father wants to see me.”

  “Now?”

  She shakes her head. She’s agitated, or irritated. I’m not sure which. I remember briefly that her father was the man who assisted in Berkeley’s rescue last year when an enemy of her boyfriend’s brother kidnapped her. Greta’s father is some kind of security specialist. He owns his own company that Berkeley’s boyfriend, Dare, now works for as his right-hand man.

  Greta doesn’t seem thrilled about the impending conversation with her father. If I had to guess, I’d say they aren’t close. Either that, or Greta has an issue with him.

  We can start a club. The I Can’t Stand My Father club.

  “In the morning.” She flops back onto the couch and trains her eyes on the movie.

  I reach for her hand again, gauging her expression. She’s trying really hard to keep her face blank.

  “I don’t want to talk about him.”

  I nod, rubbing small circles with my thumb on the back of her hand. “Then we won’t.”

  We watch the rest of the movie in silence. I can’t stop thinking about how drastically different her headspace is now from where we were when our faces were inches apart.

  And on top of that, the movie has a terrible ending. The main character dies, and the girl has to go on without ever knowing what could have been.

  Fucking chick flicks.


  4

  Greta

  Greta.”

  I don’t recognize the soft voice calling my name, but I know its smooth, deep timbre makes me want to squeeze my eyes closed tighter and snuggle down deeper. A low rumble reaches my ears, a male chuckle. And then the soft brush of rough fingers against my forehead forces my eyes to fly open.

  “Hey,” whispers Grisham. He’s leaning over me, his face directly above mine. I can feel the hard lumps of his thigh muscles tensing under my head, and the memory of the evening comes rushing back in the form of moving pictures in my mind.

  “Grisham,” I murmur in a voice heavy with sleep. “What time is it?”

  “It’s only eleven. You fell asleep near the end of the movie. I just wondered if you wanted to sleep here or if you want to go to your room.”

  I struggle to sit up and Grisham’s hand is there, cupping my head and helping me to lean against the back of the couch. I swipe at my eyes.

  “If I haven’t been asleep long, why am I so wiped?” I groan, flopping back against the sofa cushions.

  “Because you have a concussion.” Grisham scoops me into his arms and stands. “I’m making an executive decision. Lead the way to your bedroom.”

  A sleepy smile tugs at my mouth as I look up at him. “I like the direction of this decision.”

  And then I promptly turn tomato red, because where the hell did that come from? I’m blaming the head injury for my forward remark.

  But Grisham only smiles down at me, his green eyes darkening a shade and flaming with something even darker. “Be a good girl.”

  I tell him which room off the short hallway is mine, and he deposits me on my bed.

  He kneels down on the floor beside me as I roll onto my side to face him. He places his chin against his folded hands as he stares at me.

  “So,” he says. “I’m going to wake you up in a couple of hours. You’ll probably be pretty out of it, but I’m going to use a flashlight to check your pupil dilation, okay? Then I’ll let you go back to sleep.”