Still Her SEAL (ASSIGNMENT: Caribbean Nights Book 10) (9 page)

Since he’s wearing his incommunicado Mountain Man face and he’s driving, I amuse myself by fiddling with the radio in his Jeep. Naturally, he has no stations programmed. This comes as no surprise, since I can all too easily imagine Ro driving in silence, communing with Mother Nature and the road like some kind of Zen SEAL. I stop at the first country music station I find and dial that sucker up until it’s probably audible in Miami.

And then, yes, I sing along. The day’s sunny, I’ve got the ocean on both sides of me, and a hot, grumpy man taking me places. What’s not to enjoy? Plus, I’m a really bad singer, and we both know it, so there’s the marital torture factor as well. I might as well bust his chops while I still can. Therefore, I yodel enthusiastically, completely failing to match Carrie Underwood’s gorgeous voice in any respect. She sings about lost love in those familiar, smoky tones, and I do my worst to drown her out. There’s something liberating about enjoying something I do so badly. Since there’s zero possibility of my making a success of the song, I have permission to let loose and groove on. I sit cross-legged on the seat, beating out a random rhythm on the dashboard, and right now there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.

The Florida Keys are a string of sandy pearls laid over the Caribbean, one imperfect, lopsided, gorgeous island threaded to the next on a thin ribbon of causeway. One minute we’re surrounded by palm trees, and the next we’re cantilevered out over the water and it’s like flying through the sky without any worries about crash-landing. Although Ro meticulously sticks to the speed limit, it doesn’t take long to go from my rented bungalow to the law office on Angel Cay.

Angel Cay is one of those places that sneak up on you, no matter how much you’re expecting or looking for it. One minute, we’re on the causeway, ocean spinning away on either side, and then we’re back among the palms. Houses the colors of Easter M&Ms stretch away on both sides of the road, covered with lacy white woodwork and more palm trees. We pass a bakery that I make a mental note to revisit soon. Bee Sweete smells amazing and looks better—and today is definitely shaping up to be a needs-sugar kind of day.

Our destination turns out to be just past the small private marina bristling with sailboats tucked into a string of pastel-colored bungalows with second-story wraparound porches that practically demand you curl up with a book or your Kindle and drowse away the afternoon. The law office is a two-story building the color of lemon macaroons. Black shutters frame the windows and there are chairs and terracotta pots of baby palm trees set out on the steps. A traveler’s palm waves cheerily from the itty-bitty yard between the porch and the street, as if anyone who comes here really needs the welcome and a discreet sign announces the law practice of Ava Hays. Apparently, my new lawyer is a chick.

Ro pulls around back, clearly familiar with his destination, and parks the Jeep. Alrighty then. Guess it’s time to go in and get this over with. When he kills the engine, the music stops abruptly. I’m left belting out the chorus without accompaniment, but whatever. I finish as I hop out—I’m not going to sit there like a princess and wait for him to help—and he meets me halfway. This is actually one of those blessings in disguise, because my flip-flop catches in my maxi dress, and I’m in the process of going airborne (followed by asphalt-borne). His big hands close carefully around my arms, steadying me. My hands smack instinctively against his chest, grateful for the softer SEAL landing.

God. He feels good.

My fingers curl into the sun-warmed cotton of his T-shirt, my hands relaxing as my brain catches up with the adrenaline-induced nerves zinging through me. See? All safe. Nothing bad here. I suck in a breath. Exhale.

I should step away.

“You okay?” Ro dips his head toward mine, his eyes performing a quick visual inspection. Nope. There’s nothing wrong with me. No battlefield injuries, nothing gruesome, not one single thing wrong. I happy-hum and lean a little closer. This feels like old times, like we’re that stupid fucking red balloon still soaring up into the sky with no idea that happily ever after isn’t an actual destination and that everything’s going to come crashing down to Earth sooner rather than later.

Am I okay?

You know what? I think that’s open for debate. I pat his shirt carefully and force myself to step backward.

Ro nods and then discreetly checks his watch. Yes, the man has a schedule. If he really were the balloon, he’d have filed a flight plan and every inch of his upward trajectory would be monitored. I’m pretty sure our marriage is the one and only impulsive act of his life. Go home, or go big, right?

“Our appointment is in five minutes,” he announces, as if I couldn’t have guessed. First of all, he told me. Second, he added the time and date to my phone. Third?
Of course
we’re here with time to spare. With Ro running a SEAL team, I’m amazed that there are any enemy insurgents left in the Middle East. It just goes to show you that planning and good intentions can’t solve everything.

His hand cups my elbow as we go up the stairs. I’d like to tell you that I jerk away, because I’m a modern woman. I don’t. While I can certainly climb a few steps on my own, I’m pretending. His hand is warm and solid. As long as he’s touching me, nothing bad happens in the Hindi-verse. I’m safe and loved and he’s always going to be right
there
.

He slips his hand away to open the door and I step inside. Playtime’s over. The office is as tasteful—and well-guarded—as you would expect. There is plenty of island-style dark rattan furniture and historical prints of the Florida Keys. Everything that’s not brown or white is green. I think I read somewhere that green is a soothing color, and I’ll bet Ava Hays, JD, has delivered plenty of unhappy news.
Family practice
is really code for
demolitions expert
, and she specializes in blowing relationships apart, in bringing them down with well-engineered precision. Just in case the color scheme fails to calm any rampaging beasts in her waiting room, she maintains her own personal Cerberus, a frighteningly put-together middle-aged man wearing a linen suit and expensive dress shoes. After he makes a discreet call to check on Ava’s availability—as if the woman we’ve come to see is the Great and Terrible Oz—he leads us into the inner sanctum.

There should be a paint color called
Highly Successful.
It’s a tasteful, elegant silver-gray, and that color covers the wall and is echoed in the expensive rug on the floor. The first surprise is the collection of action figures perched on top of the law books on the shelves. They’re a splash of welcome color in all the serious.

The second surprise? The lawyer herself. Ava comes across the room to meet us. She’s built like a model, all sleek, polished lines and cheekbones. A sheet of dark red hair falls around her immaculately made-up face and pools on her shoulders. Naturally, she’s gorgeous. I wonder if that’s an asset or a liability in her line of work. I mean, if someone’s sitting across from her, listening as she explains exactly how their life is about to implode, do they hate her because she’s beautiful? Or are they just grateful that she’s on their side?

Huh. I contemplate that while she greets Ro with a hug. Nope. I don’t have an easy answer. I’m still drawing a blank as she organizes us into the duet of chairs parked in front of her desk, then sinks back into the seat of honor. It’s really more like a throne and I mentally park a crown on her head. From there it’s a short leap to shooting a new lingerie line with a royalty theme. I’m debating between a little tiara and a great big honking crown trimmed with ermine when Ro passes his hand in front of my eyes.

“Focus,” he growls.

“You’re no fun,” I sigh, rummaging in my bag for a pad and pencil.

“News flash,” he says. “You’re the fun one in this relationship. I’m more the Grim Reaper.”

Well. Fuck
me
. Usually, I’d tease him to explain, because I know firsthand that Ro has a fun side, but he’s looking grim and closed off, so I let it go. For now. As he makes the introduction, I sketch frantically on the piece of paper I fished out of my bag. I’m not losing this idea, not now, and Lawyer Woman’s name is written on a little bronze placard if I’m really not paying attention.

Ava crosses her arms on the pristine surface and surveys us. I’m pretty sure she could not only give a police sketch artist all of our pertinent details, but she could draw the picture as well. She’s just that kind of person. Then she gives me a big genuine smile, damn it. I really don’t want to like her.

“Give me just a moment to enjoy this,” she tells me. “Mr. Perfect isn’t quite so perfect.”

“Take all the time you want.” This is a lie, because I’m already itching to leave. Ro slides my drawing away from me. “And that’s mine.”

He gives me a level look. “Time to focus, sunshine. Besides, I’m pretty sure Ava here is about to tell you that I own half of your stuff, which makes this part mine.”

Uh, no. “What are you, Solomon with the sword and the baby? You can’t cut a drawing in half,” I bitch.

“Watch me,” he says, and I think he might do it. I look at Ava, hoping she’ll be Team Hindi or at least anti-destruction.

Ava just pinches her nose, gives her head a little shake, and then snaps into hyper-focused business mode. It’s both scary and impressive. There’s no doubt at all in my mind that she killed it on her law exams. I take advantage of her show to pry my drawing out of Ro’s hand. I can probably recreate it, but why take chances?

“Ro tells me the two of you got married six years ago here on Angel Cay.”

I think about it, running dates. “Yeah. Sure. We did.”

She nods. “And you used a local justice of the peace.” She rattled off a name. “He returned your marriage license to the county Clerk of Court, who filed and recorded it. I’ve obtained a copy. Step one is proving that your marriage exists.”

She produces a piece of paper from a folder on her desk. Wow. It’s kind of impressive that we already have a file. Instinctively, I lean forward to look at the document in her hand. What I remember is the romance of it all, of standing there on the beach beside Ro, my hand in his, as we made promises to each other. I mean, I understood that marriage was a contract—but now it seems terribly black and white. Ava’s not done with us yet, though. She removes a second, larger set of papers from the folder.

“And my understanding is that both of you want to dissolve your marriage?”

“As quickly and quietly as possibly,” I lie. The
quick
part is certainly true, but
quiet
? Yeah. Not so much. A loud, messy divorce could be exactly the sideshow that the network embraces—and extends my contract for.

Ro makes a rough sound next to me.

I turn to look at him. He stares back at me impassively. “What? You disagree?”

“There’s nothing quiet about you.” He states this matter-of-factly.

“I can be quiet,” I argue. Probably a little too loudly, because Ava sighs. Loudly.

“Okay, children. Let’s focus on what we need to do. We prove that your marriage exists.” She taps the first, smaller stack of paper on her desk. “Then you prove that your marriage is irretrievably broken. One of you also has to have been a resident of Florida for the six months prior to the filing of your dissolution petition, and then you file.”

“We’re broken.” I nudge Ro in the side, harder than necessary. He grunts something that Ava and I decide is an affirmative.

Ava looks at me. “What are you requesting from Rohan in this divorce?”

Other than his absence? “Nothing.”

Ava just shakes her head. “Both of you need to think about this. You’ve been separated for almost six years, so you can make a case for separate property, although in many instances, the fine state of Florida requires an equitable distribution of assets.”

Ava runs down the list of shit we can fight over and I get it. Rohan’s been busy building a life here, and we can put a dollar value on it. Hello. I’m doing fine—I don’t need to take his stuff and I say so. Ava sighs, like she’s this close to lecturing me about the proper way to clean out your ex in a divorce. But Rohan and I aren’t fighting. This doesn’t have to be a war. The only thing I want is a few juicy pictures.

“Rohan?” Ava turns to him. Yep. He feels the same way, because he pokers right up when it’s his turn.

“What?”

“You need to decide if there are assets you want.”

“I’m not taking her money.” He doesn’t hesitate. Probably irritates the hell out of him that he has to say even that much. That it’s not crystal clear he supports his wife and not the other way around. He’s built something amazing down here with Search and SEALs, but the small petty part of me wonders who has more cash sitting in the bank.

“Okay.” Ava examines both of us, before nodding. “You want to split your assets based on who brought what to your marriage. Anything earned or acquired after your separation remains with the earning spouse. We’ll hammer that out in the financials, but the last question for today is who’s filing for the dissolution. Since it’s been almost six years and you filed in New York previously, we’re starting over here. One of you files—the other responds.”

Ro stretches out his legs, the heels of his boots hitting Ava’s pretty hardwood floors with a determined thunk. “Hindi here started it—she finishes it.”

What are we? Five? Still, I nod reluctantly, because Mountain Man is clearly not budging and I have to pick my battle.

Ava makes a note on her tablet. I can’t tell if she’s on Ro’s side because she knows him from somewhere or if she’s just glad we’re getting on with the business. Since I’m guessing she bills by the hour, I can’t see how she’s motivated to speed our shit up.

Then she drops her bombshell. “So Rohan has twenty days after you file to respond.”

“Wait. What? We just agreed on everything.”

Ava looks from Ro to me and back again. “He can respond faster, but it’s up to him.”

“I want to do this quickly,” I argue. “Not camp out in Florida for three weeks.”

Ava gives me a calm-down smile. “Because Rohan is the Florida resident, you don’t have to stay here. You will have documents to sign, and you’ll also have forty-five days to provide certain financial documents and affidavits. There are some additional steps after than, so you’re looking at a minimum of three months.”