Her One Best SEAL (ASSIGNMENT: Caribbean Nights Book 6) (18 page)

For someone who planned on knocking up his girl, I’m suddenly completely and utterly without a plan.

“Did you know about this?” Ro asks Finn. They talk as if I’m not here, and I’m too woozy to give a fuck. No. I didn’t share the details of my personal life, excuse me very much. This make-a-baby plan was between me and Marlee.

“She wants a baby,” I say, counting the tiles on Marlee’s bathroom floor. I’m up to fifteen before anyone replies to that bombshell.

“Mission accomplished,” Ro announces, and reality hits again in a rolling, nauseating wave.

He’s right. My part here is done. If I’m lucky, Marlee will let me hold her hand in the delivery room, and then I’ll make holiday appearances in the baby’s life—we’ve discussed this—but my job will be over. I’m the baby daddy, but I’m not Marlee’s man. We’re friends, and friends help each other out. In fact, that’s probably where she is right now—with her girlfriends—and that’s why I found her place empty when I rushed over after she texted me a picture of the unused pregnancy test followed by Wish me luck.

Me she writes. Not us.

I’ve made a mistake. A horrible fucking mistake. I don’t want to be the super sperm donor—no matter how much I love being friends with benefits, I want more than that. I want to be part of an
us
with Marlee. With Marlee and the baby we’ve made together. Agreeing to knock her up, to give her the baby she wanted more than anything, was too easy, and now that things are harder, more complicated, I’m lost.

“So this wasn’t an accident?” Ro releases his death grip on my neck, and I sit up carefully. If I black out now and bash my head on Marlee’s granite countertops, it will take that much longer to find her.

“On purpose,” I grunt, and Ro and Finn nod like a pair of bobbleheads.

“Are you—” Ro looks pained, but he’s always been the leader of our unit, so he’s the first to man up and take charge here, too.

“Together? No.” I inhale, exhale, and take a second look at the stick. “But I’d like to be.”

“We’ll help,” Finn announces, but I’ve got news for him. This is no mission by the books, no easy fix. I’ve screwed up my chances and there may be an entirely different SEAL team trying to take my beach. What if Roddy comes back? What if
he
’s who she wants after all?

“I don’t think she wants me.” I sound pathetic.

Clearly, Ro agrees with my internal critic because he backs up a few paces. Ro’s like me. He always has a plan. The words
no
and
can’t
aren’t in his vocabulary. “We’ve got your back.”

“It’s gonna be okay,” Finn pronounces with complete disregard for reality. He curses when Ro punches him in the arm hard enough to leave a bruise. “What? That’s what people say in situations like this.”

Good. Then maybe he can pony up some more wisdom, because I’m all out. “How is it gonna be okay?”

I am officially desperate. SEALs are not known for their interpersonal relationship skills. We’re awesome in bed, we can rock your world sexually, but we’re not keeper men. We’re rarely home, we’d rather not discuss emotions, and most of the time our work’s off-limits, too. That leaves sports, politics, and not a whole lot else. And yet here I am, asking Finn and Ro for relationship advice. Finn’s probably my best bet, since he’s been Mr. Monogamous with Vali for the last six months or so.

Finn puckers up and hits me with his best fake French accent. “You just gotta
kees
the girl.”

So. Not. Helpful.

Kissing got me into this mess—so calling for more liplocking isn’t going to extract me. Not that I have any objection to kissing Marlee.

“She only wants me for my sperm.” My stomach free falls as my brain confirms the validity of my statement. I give
friends with benefits
a whole new meaning. “It was just a favor for a friend.”

Finn squints at me. “Is this one of those new relationships?”

“It’s gonna be one of the
good
ones,” I tell him. Then I cross my fingers and run for the door.

I drive precisely the speed limit to
Papelier
. Not that I want to take my time, but Marlee needs me in one piece. The Mini-Us needs me in one piece, or so I hope. I’m enlisting to be part of a new team now, a team of three, although I don’t know if Marlee’s gonna want to accept my enlistment oath or not. I hope she does, because my chest and my head are full of emotions, and pride is only the tip of that iceberg.

I got smart and texted Vali. She’s the one who told me that they were down at Marlee’s store, so that’s why I’m here. The place looks pretty busy, which means it must be a cruise ship day. The Captain, a homeless veteran who lives on Search and SEALs’ property, is standing watch on the street outside. I salute him and push open the door.

Marlee’s store is like her. It’s colorful and mysterious and full of all these intricate, strange, funny bits and pieces. Until I met her, I lived in a world where pens came in black, blue, and red. Not like I need a pen that poops glitter, but the option makes me smile.

Marlee’s at a little table in the back of the store. Her head’s bent over a pile of paper crap she’s attacking with scissors. Little pieces of ribbon and sticky tape adhere to her arms, her gorgeous legs, the floor. For a moment, I’m distracted by all the silky, bare skin on display. Marly’s wearing a pair of denim overall shorts and a crop top that flashes her curves. She doesn’t look pregnant.

She looks like Marlee.

Happy.

And maybe, just maybe,
mine.
That’s my end goal here, although the happy part is the most important part. Still, if I’m lucky, if I get this right, if I beg, maybe I can convince her I’m her one best SEAL, the man who gets to join her team and fight for her (and with her, under her, and alongside her because I’m open to any and all prepositions) forever and ever. I want a lifetime tour.

I stride toward her, weaving my way around the tourists and the endless, fragile, precarious displays of stuff to buy. Knocking over her store won’t win me any bonus points. Happiness floods me the closer I get. Marlee’s smiling and humming, waving her hands (and the scissors) as she snips and cuts whatever it is she’s working on. Vali’s parked next to her, a big grin on her face as she nods along. There’s an empty spot next to Marlee.

“This seat taken?” I ask, already pulling it out and dropping down onto it. Mission rule number one? Confidence. Doesn’t matter that my heart’s pounding like I just spotted a tripwire. Doesn’t matter that there are a million and one ways this could go wrong. I’m here. She’s here. Now I have to make magic happen.

She turns to me, and I try to read everything into that simple gesture. She’s looking for me, at me, and the smile she gives me isn’t the one she reserves for strangers. Maybe I haven’t blown this.

“You’re here,” she says, sounding genuinely thrilled.

“Always,” I promise her.

She blinks, because that’s not the answer she was expecting. She wants to know what I’m doing here in
Papelier
, while I’ve moved light years ahead. I slide an arm around her waist, pull her into my side, and brush a kiss across the top of her head. Yeah. As if we’ve been married fifty fucking awesome years and this
hello, I love you
moment has been our daily theme song, the music familiar and unforgettable and still capable of making my heart beat kick up in anticipation.

“What exactly are you doing here?” She takes a second shot at her question while I can’t help but notice she’s sort of shuffled the papers in front of her and has her arm curved protectively over the pile. She has a secret.

“I’m trying,” I tell her.

“To do what?”

Honestly? This conversation stuff is impossible. I’m never going to get it right, and there are so many things bottled up inside of me that I feel like a two-liter bottle of soda some young punk has shaken and put back on the shelf. Up until a few minutes ago, I thought I wanted to avoid relationships and emotions entirely. I was dead certain about that. I’m a SEAL, a sniper, a watcher. And those things haven’t changed—they can’t. They’re part of me, and I’m fine with that. It’s just that now I want to add something more to my repertoire, and perhaps I should have enlisted in the goddamned Army because I absolutely want
to be all that you can be
.

But with Marlee.

She makes me want to be more for her.

Is this how Finn felt when he watched Vali march out of his life when she thought he might have fathered a baby with one of his one-night stands? Ashamed and regretful and yet so fucking hopeful that she could somehow look inside his head and his heart and read for herself what she meant to him?

“Vann?” Marlee pokes me—gently—in the arm. Right. She’s asked a question and I’ve gone deep into my head. Silent. I’m in a fucking card store. Perhaps I can just go around and collect a half-dozen cards that say what I need to say.
I love you. Be mine. Let me stay, let me in, let me be yours.

My feelings about Marlee go so much deeper than words. What I feel for her is more than my undying appreciation for her amazing curves and even more amazing spirit. She’s resilient, joyful, and a fucking miracle. I love her.
I love you.
I try the words out in my head, a kid on a beat-up bike with training wheels. Will she believe me? Will she even feel the same way?

I slide my hand over her belly. She doesn’t feel any different yet, but there’s a new person, a piece of us and something else entirely new, just there below the surface. I can’t wait to meet him or her.

“I saw the stick thing,” I tell her. “Congratulations.”

She sighs. “You suck at surprises,” she informs me.

“I do not. I’m the king of ambushes. I can infiltrate enemy lines. And we’re not gonna talk about my precision parachuting abilities.”

Two of the women browsing the nearby card display turn and stare at me. They’re probably afraid I’m about to go crazy in the middle of the store. Or maybe they’re the crazy ones, because they give me the up-and-down and inch closer. Is the ambush thing actually
hot
?

“Well, Mr. Sneak Attack from the Rear,” Marlee says, “I was making you a card. I was going to surprise you with the news.”

She slides her hand off the pile of dismembered paper bits and nudges something toward me. It’s a card. A half-done, slightly sticky, not-quite-glued-together card that announces
Congratulations, you’re a…

I can’t remember the last time someone sent me a card. SEALs aren’t big on Christmas card lists or cleaning out the Hallmark store in anticipation of life’s milestone events. Maybe we should, though. There’s more to life than brothers, guns, and battles. More to life than training so that we can protect and defend, even if the people we’re defending are our Marlees.

I’m pretty sure I’ve got sand in my eyes. A ginormous fucking bee. That’s why they sting. “You still can. I promise to act surprised.”

She laughs and shifts in her seat. “We did it. We really did it.”

“Yeah, sweetheart.” My voice is hoarse and strained. I’m sure I don’t sound enthusiastic enough or happy or… just enough. There has to be a better way to tell her how I feel.

I have an idea. I rummage through the piles of paper on the table—this card-making crap is the most inefficient process ever—and snag a few prime pieces for myself.

“What are you doing?” She leans against my arm, which doesn’t increase my efficiency any, but I’m not complaining.

“Making
you
a card. Don’t look and it’ll be a surprise.”

She promptly screws her eyes closed, which is so cute that I’d really rather carry her off somewhere and see if we can put a twin inside her to go with baby number one, except that’s not possible, is it? She’s already knocked up, and I have to get this right.

My skills are rusty, because it’s been a really fucking long time since kindergarten (the last time I made a card), but I cut and paste while Marlee watches me. Pretty sure most of the goddamned store is watching, too. I fold and trace and cut. I haven’t done this in years, but some things you don’t forget. And when I’m done, I sign my name (which feels fucking stupid, because she knows it’s from me and I’m sitting right next to her), close the card, and hand it to her. Her eyes fly open, and I wonder if she cheated and watched me anyhow. Pretty sure there was some iPhone action happening in the store, too.

“Oh, my God,” she announces in a voice loud enough to be heard from the street. Our audience sighs and murmurs. I feel like an Olympic skater who just finished a routine. Landed on his ass some, too, but that last jump was a triple-quadruple-million-point something with an unpronounceable name and now it’s time for the judges’ scores. Is the Russian judge gonna mark me down just on principle? Will I get enough credit for my last attempt to make up for all the time I spent with my butt planted on the ice?

She opens the card, and there are my three words in three-D.
I LOVE YOU.
I’ve even worked in a couple of bonus hearts just in case the message isn’t perfectly clear. Or colorful enough.

Her eyes widen and she traces her fingertips over the hearts. That soft, seeking touch penetrates somewhere deep inside me, as if the construction paper is a portal to somewhere special. The smile that starts in her eyes and spreads to her mouth, however, is all the special in the world.