Big, bad-assed, and gorgeous. That pretty much summed him up. And even in her depressed state she hadn’t failed to notice.
Brittany hadn’t been happy to learn that her brother had decided to become a SEAL—the secrecy of the Teams was everything she was fighting against—but she couldn’t deny that his friends were built and nice to look at. They seemed to live by the mantra “work hard and play harder.”
What she hadn’t expected was that the golden-boy player with a capital “P” who’d walked into the house that day would be just as nice on the inside as he was outside.
Or so she’d thought.
She’d been sitting on the beach, wondering if it had been a mistake for her to come, when he’d sat down beside her and started talking. If nothing else, John Donovan was easy to talk to. He was so easygoing, so happy and laid-back, it made her problems seem a little less dire. A little less impossible to overcome. He helped her break things down. Focus on the things she could control and not the things she couldn’t. But most of all he made her laugh.
Insta-crush was probably an understatement. Puppylove? Worship? Maybe a little of all three. He was like catnip—utterly irresistible even when you knew he might not be good for you. He was so far out of her league, but she convinced herself that he’d seen something in her.
When he wasn’t at the base, he was with her. For three incredible weeks.
Her brother tried to warn her, but she was twenty-two and thought she knew everything. She really believed that she and John had a special connection.
She was so certain of their connection right up to the point that she saw him on the beach—at that same BBQ where the picture had been taken—with not one but two women.
As she’d said, player with a capital “P.”
Hurt, humiliated, and knowing she couldn’t stay there any longer, Brittany had gone to her brother’s room to write him a good-bye note. She hadn’t meant to spy, but the paper was right there on his desk. It had “confidential” stamped all over it, which basically made it like catnip, too. Brandon was being transferred to Hawaii and recruited for some kind of secret SEAL team.
Her brother had come in before she could finish reading it and accused her of spying on him to get her job back. Furious that he would think that of her, she’d lashed out at him, telling him that at least she hadn’t lied and betrayed her entire family, including their dead parents. He started to say something. Thought better of it. And then told her maybe it was better if she left.
They hadn’t seen each other or done more than exchange a yearly phone call since that day. She should have done something. Shouldn’t have let it go on that long. But she was stubborn, and now... was it possible that it wasn’t too late?
Thanks to the picture, she had a way to find out.
Four
John resisted the urge to fish his phone out of the trash bin he’d tossed it in for a good three hours. Now, twenty-four hours later, with the account restored and still with no response, he could finally throw it back in again and congratulate himself on a job well done. His answers to her photo question must have convinced her of his—Brand’s—identity, and she’d taken his warning to heart.
He would be celebrating more if he didn’t feel so bad about lying to her about Brand being alive. He was only trying to protect her, but he doubted Brittany would see it that way when she learned the truth. He hoped to be a long way away when that happened. Preferably on an op on the other side of the world.
Who was he fooling? Antarctica wouldn’t be far enough. She’d track him down and kill him—which he probably deserved.
Well, he might have to pay the piper one day, but fortunately, that day would not be today. Today he’d gotten rid of her, which was plenty of reason to celebrate. John was doing his best to do exactly that while sitting at thebar of his favorite hangout with a few of his housemates, waiting for Marta. He’d promised her a makeup date after having to cut their sauna party short the other night.
But he might have been going at the celebrating a little hard and had a few too many of Alexi’s vodka shots. Most of the bar had had too many of Alexi’s vodka shots. Their group had grown with every chorus of cheers. But the next time his housemate yelled out a toast in Russian (they never seemed to be the same—they could be toasting goats for all he knew), John lifted a pint glass of beer instead.
He was pretty buzzed, but not too buzzed to notice that itchy feeling at the back of his neck.
Someone was watching him.
He did a quick scan of the bar, his eyes snagging on that someone immediately. A woman was standing by the door staring at him in wonder and disbelief. He was used to expressions like that on women, but this wasn’t that kind of wonder.
He blinked, trying to clear his vodka-hazed vision. He must be more drunk than he realized, because she sure as hell looked like...
Their eyes met, and shock punched him in the gut. He caught the flash of emotion behind the trying-to-be-unflattering-but-doing-a-piss-poor-job glasses and knew he wasn’t imagining anything. Thick, wavy chestnut-brown hair, big baby-blue eyes, skin like fucking powder sprinkled with a few freckles across her nose, pretty, girl-next-door features, tight, curvy little body...
His spine went rigid. No mistake.
He cursed again with disbelief, trying to think of a way to ward off what he knew was an impending disaster. But there wasn’t time. The impending disaster was heading his way with a very determined, don’t-even-think-about-trying-to-put-me-off expression on her face.
Brittany had changed. It wasn’t just the five yearsthat had taken her from twenty-two and still part girl to twenty-seven and definitely all woman; it was also the hardness of her expression. She’d always been determined, but the last time he’d seen her there had been some vulnerability and lingering innocence—even with everything that had happened to her. That wasn’t there anymore. The same thing happened to guys on the Teams. It was part life, part experience, and part disappointment that came with a little too much reality.
He missed that softness. But maybe it was a good thing it was gone. He figured that was what had attracted him so intensely to her. It wasn’t that she wasn’t pretty—she was—but she wasn’t his usual type. The Barbie Brigade had been aptly named. Brittany had stunning blue eyes and plenty of curves, but she had chestnut-colored hair—not blond—and stood about a foot shorter than him. She was also too girl-next-door wholesome. Messing around with someone like that... it wasn’t right.
Unfortunately, one big mind-of-its-own part of him hadn’t agreed.
