Page 10 of Summer with a Navy SEAL

Brogan grins, that cocky smile of his that I’m starting to find more charming than irritating. “Who said anything about wasting money? I’ll have you know, I’m quite the marksman.” He cocks his head toward the array of stuffed animals hanging from the back of the shooting game booth. “Pick your prize, Willy. Any one you want.”

I roll my eyes, but I can’t keep the smile off my face. “Alright, hotshot. If you’re so sure of yourself, I want that one.” I point to the largest stuffed toy, an adorable panda. The grand prize, according to the sign next to it.

Brogan’s eyes light up with the challenge. “Consider it done.”

As he picks up the plastic gun, testing its weight in his hands, I can’t help but admire the way his musclesflex under his shirt. He takes his stance, and suddenly I’m not looking at Brogan Hollister, the rich boy who used to tease me. I’m seeing Brogan, the Navy SEAL, focused and determined.

The game starts, and Brogan begins to shoot. His accuracy is impressive, hitting target after target with ease as a crowd starts to gather around us. I find myself holding my breath, my heart racing with each successful hit. The lights flash and the sirens blare as his score climbs higher and higher, the crowd cheering him on.

It’s mesmerizing, watching him like this. The concentration on his face, the skill and precision in his every move. I find myself getting lost in the moment, my heart racing, my breath catching in my throat.

I can’t remember the last time I felt like this, the last time I let myself get swept up in the excitement and the joy of something so simple, so pure.

Before I can blink, the game’s over, and Brogan has obliterated the high school. The booth attendant’s jaw is practically on the floor as he reaches for the prize, a panda so enormous it probably has its own zip code. But I don’t care; I’m taking it home with me and it’s going to have a spot on my bed back in New York.

“For you, my lady,” Brogan announces with a dramatic bow as he presents me the panda.

I accept the gift, immediately disappearing behind a wall of black and white fluff. “Why, thank you, kind sir.”

Brogan peers around the panda, his eyes twinkling. “Lucky for me I didn’t miss or I’d have to turn in mytrident. Although,” he adds with a wink, “I had extra motivation.”

“What’s that?”

He grins. “Your smile.”

I feel my cheeks heat up, and it’s not just from being smothered by the toy. “Smooth talker,” I accuse, but I’m grinning like an idiot.

“Only for you, Genaro,” he says softly as the noisy arcade seems to fade away. It’s just us, a ridiculously large panda, and a moment that feels a lot like falling.

As we walk back to the beach house, the moonlight casting a soft glow on the sand, I can’t help but feel a sense of contentment wash over me. The night has been perfect, filled with laughter and fun and a sense of connection I haven’t felt in years.

Brogan walks beside me, the giant panda tucked under one arm, his other hand intertwined with mine. It feels natural, holding his hand like this, like it’s something we’ve done a thousand times before.

But as we approach the beach house, a sudden realization hits me. The couch, the one that was supposed to be delivered today, is nowhere to be seen.

“What’s wrong?” Brogan asks, his expression alert as we pause before the stairs leading to the deck.

“It looks like the couch never got delivered. Which means...”

“We have to share the bed again,” Brogan finishes. “Are you okay with that? If you’d rather I leave, I can–”

“No! Of course not,” I reply a little too quickly. “I mean, you don’t have to. We now have the perfect divider.”

He glances at the bear under his arm. “Does our divider have a name?”

“Why of course he does.” I hold out the toy panda’s chubby arm. “Meet Sir Fluffington the Third, our official bed boundary.”

Brogan laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Sir Fluffington the Third? Really?”

I nod, my grin widening. “Yep. He’s very distinguished, you know. He’ll make sure we stay on our respective sides of the bed.”

Brogan shakes his head, still chuckling. “Whatever you say, Genaro. As long as he doesn’t snore, I’m good.”

We make our way inside, the exhaustion from the day’s work on the kitchen cabinets catching up to us. Even Brogan is tired, yawning as he shuts the front door.

We take turns in the bathroom, getting ready for bed. When I emerge, Brogan is already lying down, Sir Fluffington the Third placed in the middle of the bed.

“Tell me about your parents, Willy,” he says after we’re both settled on the bed. “How are they doing?”

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