Saved by the SEAL (4 page)

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.

G
reta.”

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.”

I sit up again. “I didn't get you a blanket and a pillow.”

He pushes me back down with gentle hands. “Greta, you need to relax now. I can get it. Just tell me where the stuff is and I'll make a bed on the couch.”

“No.”

He arches one eyebrow. “No?”

I shake my head. “I don't want you to sleep on the couch. Will you sleep in here?”

I'm not sure what goes on in his head then, but it looks like a war. I adjust my prior request.

“On the floor. You can make a bed on the floor. Look at all these pillows on my bed. I think I can spare a few for you.”

He smiles, gazing into my eyes as he nods his head. “Okay. I'm good with sleeping on your floor.”

I tell him where the linen closet is at the end of the hall, and he retreats to grab a few blankets. After spreading them out across the floor, along with the pillows I offered, he leaves again to grab his bag and use the bathroom across the hall.

When he returns, my breath gets trapped somewhere between my lungs and my throat. Because Grisham isn't wearing a shirt. And Grisham without a shirt on is like watching a Greek god walking amongst us normal folk in the flesh.

I can't avoid staring. A white-hot heat lances through my core at the sight of his rock-hard chest, oceans of abdominal muscles that clench and flex as he moves through the doorway, and astounding absolute masculine beauty.

But it's not only the ripped perfection that has me staring. It's the scars that mottle his torso: clear evidence of a man who's been through something horrendous. They're littered among the beautifully drawn lines and epically graceful script of several tattoos along his chest and shoulders.

His eyes burn into mine, and I don't care that I'm staring. I'm pulled to my feet by some unseen force and drawn to him like a magnet. He stands there, watching me with rapt attention as I approach.

Halfway to him, I snap to my senses.
What am I doing? Am I really just going to attack him like a rabid fox?
Instead of stopping where he stands, I squeeze past him in the doorway, creating a path to the bathroom.

As I pass, the tips of my breasts through my shirt brush ever so slightly against his arm and I squeeze my eyes shut tight. Just that small, galvanizing touch was enough to send piercing shards of desire spiking through my body. It's a match to a gasoline. It's not just electricity or attraction that I feel for Grisham.

It's pure, primal
need.

I freeze, trying to regain just a single ounce of control. And then he speaks. And his voice is enough to melt me where I stand.

“Greta.” His voice is rough, like nails dragging across concrete.

It incites a shiver that starts somewhere deep inside me, some deep, dark place I've never explored. My body responds to his voice like an instrument only he knows how to play. Heat rushes to my core, starting an ache between my legs that pulsates with my racing heartbeat. My nipples harden instantly, straining against the material of my shirt. My mouth fills with saliva, and I swallow without pulling my eyes away from him.

For just a second, his expression is tortured. And it makes me wonder whether his body is reacting to me the way mine is to him. Everything about this man is hard, beautiful, and scarred. His eyes are dark, an eclipse that has shadowed their usual glow.

Could it be possible that he wants me, too?

Then he schools his face, donning an unreadable expression as he averts his eyes and clears his throat. He walks stiffly toward his palette on the floor.

I watch him only for an instant before I flee for the bathroom.

Locked inside, I lean against the counter, my chest heaving with every breath. If Grisham had made a move, if he'd taken even a step in my direction, I would have thrown myself in his arms. But that's obviously not what he wanted. I was like an animal in heat, and he turned away. Embarrassment colors my face as I lean over the sink with trembling limbs.

What the hell, Greta? You've gotta get it together. You're acting like a complete idiot, and he's going to think you're a total psycho. Don't have any illusions about this guy. He was never yours and that isn't going to suddenly change now.

My body has never betrayed me like that before. Never have I lost control of myself around a guy. Grisham does something to me that no one's ever done before, and that fact scares the shit out of me. I can't control it.

But I have to control it.

I splash some cool water on my face, brush my teeth, and take a deep breath before opening the bathroom door and trekking back across the hall to my room.

Grisham is lying on top of his blankets, his hands laced behind his bed as he stares up at the ceiling. I steal across the room and climb into bed, pulling my covers up to my chin. Reaching over to the nightstand, I yank on the lamp chain, leaving us in darkness.

My breaths are just starting to even out when Grisham speaks again.

“So how long have you been surfing?”

I shrug before I realize he can't see me from his position and in the darkness. “I think I started when I was around twelve. We actually lived in Georgia until then. When we moved to Lone Sands, it was because my father was retiring from the army and this was where he'd always wanted to retire. He and my mom were fighting a lot, and I needed an escape. I found it in surfing.”

He's quiet for a moment. “My mom and dad always fought a lot, too, but they didn't give me the relief of a divorce. I don't think my mom could ever find the strength to leave him. She should have.”

His voice is bitter on the last sentence, and I find myself wishing I could see his face, read his expression. “Divorce is awful, Grisham.”

There's a pause before he answers me. “Some marriages are worse.”

I mull that over for a bit.

“We should surf together sometime,” he says.

Smiling, I agree. “We should.”

“But only if you can stay on your board. No more visits to urgent care.”

Giggling, I throw one of my extra pillows at him. I hear his soft grunt as it makes contact. Then I laugh aloud as he tosses it back.

“Better me falling off my board than you. I wouldn't be able to save you. I faint at the sight of blood.”

“Seriously?”

“Well, mostly my own blood, but yeah. It's not pretty.”

His laughter stalls. “I'm pretty sure there's no moment in existence when you aren't pretty.”

Warmth surges through me at his compliment, and I'm at a loss for words. I replay the nicest thing a guy has ever said to me repeatedly as my breathing evens out once more. When I feel my eyelids growing heavy, I turn on my side and whisper down to him.

“Good night, Grisham.”

His response is immediate. “Good night, Grits.”

When my eyes open again, the sun is streaming in through my apartment window. I stretch, and then sit up. The first thing I do is search for Grisham on the floor. The pillows are neatly stacked by my nightstand and my blankets are folded just as adeptly.

I climb out of bed and scurry to the bathroom to check my hair and brush my teeth. When I emerge, I venture down the hallway, through the kitchen, and into the living room.

Grisham is sitting on the couch, a mug of coffee in his hands. His profile is to me; I expect the TV to be on, but it's not. He's sitting in silence. Thinking?

“Grisham?” My voice escapes in a tentative squeak.

He turns toward me, aiming a beautiful smile my way. “Good morning, Grits.”

I put my hands on my hips. “I'm going to make you some. Then you won't make fun anymore.”

“Hey,” he protests, “I'm not making fun. But the nickname fits, and I'm not dropping it unless you ask me to.”

He waits, but I turn for the kitchen, hiding my smirk. I don't want him to ditch my new nickname, and he knows it.

He follows me. “I made coffee.”

Sniffing the delicious aroma, I whirl on him. “Thanks. So, you didn't wake me up last night.”

His eyes widen. “Damn. I knew you were sleeping heavily, but I didn't think you'd completely forget. I woke you up every two hours, Greta. Just like I said I would.”

Surprise pulls my expression into confusion. “You did? I had no idea.” Then I'm filled with apprehension. “Did I say or do anything stupid?”

He smiles, coming closer. When he's standing directly in front of me so that I have to look up at him, he taps my nose with his index finger. “You were completely adorable in sleep. Just like I'd expect you to be.”

My skin instantly heats at his nearness. My breathing comes faster, and I'm reminded of how out of control I was last night. It isn't just his looks that do this to me. It isn't just the fact that I know exactly what sort of sculpted masterpiece is hiding beneath his clothes. All of that turns me on, sure, but it's everything that encompasses Grisham. It's his tenderness juxtaposed with his rough and manly job. It's his beauty, which directly opposes all of his scars. It's his consideration, taking care of me when it isn't his job to do so.

Blushing scarlet, I turn around and begin pulling out pots and pans. “Well, thank you for doing that, Grisham. You must be exhausted this morning. What time did you get up?”

He shrugs. “I'm always up at five. Old habits die hard.”

“I haven't seen five o'clock in so long I can't remember what the day looks like at that hour. What do you do that early?”

“I work out, usually. And make coffee. And then I go to work. How do you like your coffee?”

He meanders over to the full, steaming pot and I watch the view from behind. His low-slung jeans are hanging exactly right on the tight cut of his hips, and his plain white T-shirt hugs his sinewy biceps deliciously.

I need a fan.

He turns around and quirks an eyebrow at me, totally catching my stare-fest.

He gives me a slow, sexy smile. “Coffee?”

“Oh. Um…give me about an inch of half-and-half at the bottom. And a teaspoon of sugar.”

He makes a face. “That's sweet.”

I shrug. “I like sweet.”

He loses all trace of a smile, and his expression grows so intense, so scrutinizing that I want to take a step backward. I don't, though. I just stare right back.

“Grits…you know that I'm not sweet, right? I'm…damaged. In more ways than the obvious one.”

I'm struck silent by his comment. We don't break eye contact as he waits for my response, and I finally give him an honest one.

“I only know what I can see, Grisham. I see a guy who pulled me out of the ocean when he hadn't been in the water in months. I see a guy who took me to the doctor and found my number to check up on me the same night. I see a guy who, when he realized I was going to be alone with a concussion, showed up on my doorstep with a duffle bag and a smile. If that's not sweet…I don't know what is.”

I drop my gaze, studying the countertop. But the fact that he doesn't even know how awesome he is…it gives me the courage to look him straight in the eye when I speak next. “You've been through a lot, Grisham. So you have a story. We all do. It doesn't mean you're not good enough for someone else.”

He averts his eyes. His voice comes out in a ragged whisper. “You don't know what you're saying, Greta. You don't want…this.”

He gestures toward himself.

Still keeping my eyes locked firmly on his face, I shrug. My attitude screams “carefree” but my heart is hammering a violent rhythm in my chest. “Why don't you let me be the judge of what I want?”

“There's no room in my life for a partner. Not anymore. I've dedicated myself to saving other people…to making sure they're safe from harm. I gave up the illusion that I could do that any other way than alone a long time ago.”

It feels like I've been punched in the gut. If Grisham really feels that way, that he needs to be alone in order to fulfill his purpose in life, then I'm just setting myself up for a broken heart. This broken, beautiful man has dedicated his life to making sure other innocent people have one. How can I take that away from him?