Still Her SEAL (ASSIGNMENT: Caribbean Nights Book 10) (6 page)

Ro’s still far too hot, and somehow he’s an even better kisser now than he was six years ago. Has he practiced? It seems likely. I mean, come on—hot, built US Navy SEAL? He thought he was single, and I have no one to blame but myself for that. Yes. That stings. I’m a little dog-in-the-manger about my not-ex-husband, but I’m not admitting that out loud.

I need to focus on the next step in the Keep Hindi Gainfully Employed plan, and that does
not
include imagining all the women Ro’s slept with since we split up. That’s not productive.

I think about it for a minute. “Ro knows we’re still married.”

“So what does he do next? Or is he going to wait for you to take the lead?” Lilah taps her fingers rhythmically on the hardwood. She claims it helps her focus, but I’ve heard more than one writer threaten to duct tape her fingers together. She got a manicure once with acrylic tips and emptied out the entire writers room. Rumors abounded that two of them had nefarious plans to waylay her with a pair of nail clippers.

“
Wait
is not part of Ro’s vocabulary,” I tell her dryly. I don’t feel like sitting still any longer, so I pop to my feet and prop the back door open. There’s a too-skinny gray cat that prowls around our bungalow. He has a funny face, his head too large for his body, and he’s indicated a willingness to consume my food. He’s particularly partial to take-out sushi and chicken salad, although we’re working out a Fancy Feast compromise.

He’s also a big fan of eating under the cover of darkness, so I’m generally not allowed to approach him when the sun’s up. He watches me from beneath a palm tree as if it’s entirely my fault that the world is so brightly lit and determined to expose him. His need to hide is trumped by his need to find a mate, however. As soon as the sun goes down, he starts howling. Lilah has suggested that my next lingerie line include fur of the feline variety; I’ve countered with an offer to import female companionship for my lonely boy. In the end, it really won’t matter. In the three days that I’ve been camped out here, I’ve been allowed to touch him precisely once. I’ve apparently used up my quota for the foreseeable future too, because I haven’t been allowed near him since. He hangs back at a safe distance.

“You know you can’t keep him,” Lilah says from behind me.

“It’s not up to me.” I open my sandwich up, so Yowly (yes, I’ve named him) can pick out just the parts he likes. Butter tops his list of favorites, but I’ve discovered he’s not a fan of lettuce or carbs.

“Is too,” Lilah counters, much to my surprise. I nudge the plate out onto the top step and wait. Maybe I could build a duck blind.

“I don’t need a cat,” I tell her and I almost mean it.

“I didn’t mean the
cat
.” She sets about opening her next diet soda. “That husband of yours isn’t half bad.”

Yowly pokes his head out from beneath a low-lying palm branch and then hesitates. “I think he heard you.”

Lilah waves a hand dismissively. “Hello, not the topic of discussion. We’re on men, not felines. Why not keep Rohan?”

“Because—” I pause. When we broke up, I had a list of reasons why our split was Actually A Good Thing, but it’s true I haven’t looked at it recently. In fact, right now I’m having a hard time remembering exactly what my objections were to the married state in general and Rohan MacCarthy in particular. And while I’m sure that the bullet points will all come flying back to me if I spend much longer in his company, right now the only thing that comes to mind is that he’s hot.

Really, really, fantastically hot.

Which means one thing.

“He’s been unattended property for the last six years. If you left a really gorgeous Coach purse sitting in a shopping cart, would you really expect to find the bag waiting for you when you remembered it? You don’t think someone else would pick it up and take it home, thinking
score!
”

Lilah grins. “And our handbag-stealer is busy thinking
She didn’t cherish the ever-loving fuck out of this, but I will
?”

“Don’t tell me he hasn’t dated.” And by dated, I really mean got naked with some other girl.

Lilah rolls over and grabs her tablet. For someone who gets as much done in a day as she does, she does a surprising amount of it while horizontal. She claims it’s an energy-saving technique. I tell her to save it for the bestselling self-improvement book she’ll write some day.

“I don’t need a slightly used SEAL,” I insist. “Plus, I like to know where my man’s been.”

Yes, it puts me into stalker territory, but I mean it in the nicest way possible.

“So Google him.”

Lilah makes everything sound so easy. Got a question? Look it up on the all-knowing Internet. Not just because you’re curious, but because once you have the information, you can make an informed decision and move on. She’s the member of my team who told me that I should come down to the Florida Keys for my divorce, because it was quicker to get officially uncoupled here than it was in the fine state of New York. Lilah likes having a plan and next steps. Not just because it’s part of her job as my assistant and photographic nemesis, but because she’s just made that way. She would never, ever hop in her car and drive off on an unplanned road trip.

I totally would.

In fact, it’s pretty much what I did after she dropped her everything’s-easier-in-Florida bombshell on me. I sprinted out of the studio, headed for home, grabbed some clothes, and drove. Lilah, being good at her job, was in the front seat waiting for me when I emerged from my brownstone dragging two suitcases.

Lilah waggles her fingers. “Let us consult the all-knowing Google.”

Thirty seconds later, I have come to several conclusions. First, the man turns out to be more
terra incognita
than the lost continent of Atlantis when it comes to social media. He has a Facebook page—for Search and SEALs. He doesn’t tweet, doesn’t Bing, doesn’t Ning, Flickr, Instagram, or ever seem to feel the need to talk with a virtual pal. Search and SEALs, however, is all over the place. It’s a business! It’s a rescue foundation for slightly used and worn out military working dogs! It’s the best goddamned thing to ever happen to national security!

I’d like to pretend that Ro’s just got a big head, but the testimonials on Search and SEALs’ website are impressive. I don’t think you can bullshit four-star generals into blessing your business endeavors. Plus, there are animal pictures. The cute kind that makes you spend your entire lunch hour surfing from one fuzzy, happy face to the next. Thank God they don’t have puppies. Honestly? Ro’s success comes as no surprise. Ro’s the kind of man who serves his country, earns medals, comes home, and then does it all over again as a civilian. He’s a bona fide hero—a decent, hard-working, world-saving, do-gooder.

“You should treat him like a dog,” Lilah says decisively.

I love her like the sister I never had (hello, only child), but this is unexpected even for her. I swear she’s the most contrary person I know, and she has plenty of competition.

“I thought you were advocating he was a keeper?”

She nods happily. “Absolutely.”

I think about that for a second, but nope. It doesn’t compute. “I’m seeing a conflict there.”

Yowly is slowly edging closer to the steps and his breakfast. I’ve invested in a case of Fancy Feast and clearly the way to his heart is via his stomach. He looks at me when he gets close and then makes his usual decision to lunge for the plate. At this rate, he’ll let me touch him by Christmas.

“A wounded dog.” Lilah holds her hands over her head, which makes me reconsider the whole love-her thing because the woman must have some serious abs to hold a position like that.

Maybe she’s not really speaking English? “Give me more words.”

“Don’t chase him. Wait for him to come to you—because he will. Reward him for good behavior.” She shrugs, slowly lowering her upper body back down. “It’s simple.”

“This is how you make a man fall in love with you?” Lilah and I are friends, but we’re not terribly close. We’ll bitch about our lives or squee over the good stuff, but I’m actually not sure how often she dates or who. Given her wounded dog strategy, it’s possible she
doesn’t
date.

Because that strategy sucks.

And strategies aside? There’s no way our marriage could work for real. Reason number one million and seven? I’m not a nice person. Ro entirely, really, un-fucking-believably
is
. Behind his grumpy exterior, that is. It’s not like smiles and social skills are actually hero prerequisites.

Lilah gives me a Cheshire cat smile. “Try it.”

My phone vibrates in my hands, followed by a riff of music from one of those sharks-circling-all-you-can-eat-people-buffet movie scenes. If you know anything about sharks, you know that most of them aren’t actually interested in people fare. Apparently, we taste like shit and then there’s the issue of the packaging. Wetsuit tastes as bad as you would expect, and sharks aren’t fans. Still, there’s that sickening thrill when you’re bobbing up and down in the water and see those fins, right? And in the movies, people top the delicacy list. Agenting can be damned similar, although as the client, I’m usually the human in the boat—and not in the water.

My instinct is to shove the phone under a pillow and pretend I never heard it.

Yes… yes, that
is
juvenile and immature. The shark-stalking-people music rings out again, and I give up with a sigh. Lilah’s laughing at me from her perch, because she knows exactly who’s calling me. My agent is relentless, and usually I’m grateful.

“Hey,” I say, punching the talk button.

Dorrie is blazingly efficient, so she skips any kind of greeting or inquiry about the weather, the Florida Keys, or the general state of our lives (we cover that in our weekly emails), and gets straight to business.

“Give me an update on Operation Boost the Ratings.”

We both know that the network will be making decisions soon about which shows to keep and which to cancel.
Lingerie Stars
is up for renewal, but Dorrie can’t get them to commit to a number of episodes. She’s pushing for more at a higher pay rate, but she says we need to give them a taste of why viewers will be watching in in ever-increasing numbers to watch. When she suggested putting me on a dating game show and double-checked my divorce paperwork “just to be safe,” my mixed-up marital status was revealed—and she decided it was an opportunity.

“I’m in the Florida Keys as ordered.” I resist the urge to snap off a
ma’am
. We’re both playing for Team Hindi and our paychecks are cut by the same network.

“Have you tracked down the Mr.?”

“He has a website. It’s not like he’s herding yaks in Outer Mongolia.”

Dorrie snorts. “We could work with that, too. So you’ve found him, but have you told him?”

Unfortunately, Dorrie is not only driven and really good at her job, but she knows me far too well.

“I have.”

Dorrie waits all of two seconds for me to follow that statement up before she asks her next question. “And what did he say?”

“Jesus, Dorrie. He was surprised, okay? And he’s feeling a little cranky about the whole thing. He said his taxes are gonna be all messed up.”

There’s a surprised beat of silence on the other end. Yes, my not-ex is more concerned about his relationship with the IRS than with me. I don’t need Dorrie to point out that this is slightly unexpected. But he’s moved on with his life, right? I’m just a technicality now, an unfiled piece of paperwork that slipped through the cracks.

“He sicced his dog on me,” I tell her, only slightly exaggerating. I mean, I definitely hit the sand and had doggie paw prints on my back. That counts. “Lilah filmed the whole thing.”

Dorrie hums. You can always tell what she’s thinking by her choice of tunes. Today’s selection is
Flight of the Valkyries
. “Are you hurt? Dog bite? Bruises?”

See? She does care about me. That, or she doesn’t want her star, money-making player hurt. If Hindi sits out a season on the bench, no one on Team Hindi will be making bank.

“Hindi? Did the dog eat your tongue? Did the big, nasty SEAL?”

“What? No. Ro would never hurt me. He didn’t even realize who I was.”

Which still stings, if I’m being honest.

Dorrie gives a bark of laughter. “I can’t wait to see the tape.”

I flip her the bird, even though she can’t see me. “You’ll have to wait for the next one—my ex got his hands on Lilah’s camera and deleted it.”

Dorrie runs through my schedule for the next two months and mentions a couple of promotional ideas she’s pitching to a national retailer. It’s all exciting and still slightly surreal. Yes, I fucking love the idea of middle America doing their weekend stuff in my underwear. Wait. That sounds downright filthy, but you get the idea. I made it. You wear it because you
want
to. Not because we’re related or we’re friends. You can’t put a price tag on that.

After I end the call, Lilah gives me a look from her upside-down position on the couch. “You think he’ll come around?”

He’ll come—it’s going to drive him crazy, this not-divorced mess. Ro’s never met a problem he wouldn’t try to fix.

“Wait for it,” I advise her. “He’ll be here. I’ve made a mess and he’s gonna want to clean it up.”

Lilah raises her eyebrows. “So now he’s Mr. Clean too?”

I give my attention to my mood board. “He likes his shit orderly.”

There’s one of those
speaking
pauses as Lilah digests that. Then she turns her head and looks around my messy bungalow.

“Wow,” she says dryly. “That explains the love at first sight thing. He hadn’t had a chance to see the Hindi Effect up close and personal.”

So I’m not the neatest person on the planet. Possibly, I’m the messiest. We can’t all be perfect like my ex-SEAL, and frankly, I’m not interested in trying. There are all sorts of possibilities in chaos. For instance, when I shift, the squares of fabric jumble together and I start to see how they can work for my next season. That pink and that yellow don’t belong together, but now that they’re cohabiting in my lap, they look right together. Kind of like Ro and I did.