Page 3 of Summer with a Navy SEAL

The more the merrier, she’d say as Preston and I would roll our eyes.And the sooner the better. I’m not getting any younger, you know.

It’s almost one in the morning when I pull up beside the beach house. All around me, the area is quiet although at the other end of the beach closer to the pier, the party’s still going on. That’s what I like about the beach house. It’s in the perfect spot where one can actually get some peace and quiet.

I kill the engine and step out of my truck, each breath carrying a hint of saltwater—a reminder of why I enlisted in the Navy. The ocean, in its own way, kept me tethered to Love Beach while also giving me the freedom to forge my own path.

Only my time with the brotherhood is over. Retiring from active duty was the last thing on my mind but the ambush served as a reminder that I didn’t have to stay in just to prove I could live a life outside of the family business. I’d proven that for the last eight years. But it’s not like I’m leaving the SEALs entirely; I’m still working with them, just in the private sector this time.

But first, a vacation.

Three days.

I fumble with the keys, my exhaustion making my fingers clumsy. Finally, the lock clicks and I push open the door, expecting the familiar scent of sea salt, surfboard wax, and a hint of stale beer. Instead, I’m greeted by the crisp smell of fresh paint and new wood.

I reach for the light switch but my hand brushesagainst something unexpected. A plastic-lined cabinet. A kitchen cabinet specifically.

“Ah, hell,” I mutter under my breath. “What’s Mother up to now?”

I should switch on the lights and figure out what’s going on but a part of me already knows what it is. Mother must have decided to take it upon herself to renovate the place, a thought that strikes fear in my heart. I love the place the way it is—or was—rustic and homey.

I pull back my hand, deciding not to switch on any lights. I’ll deal with the disappointment in the morning. First things first, I need to get to my bed and sleep.

As I reach the top of the stairs leading to the loft, I slip off my boots and undress, leaving only my boxer briefs on. I’m so exhausted my movements are automatic, my body knowing exactly where the bed is in the darkness as I stumble toward it.

But just as I’m about to collapse onto the mattress, a sudden movement catches my eye. A bloodcurdling scream almost ruptures my eardrums as a figure rushes toward me, wielding something in the air and swinging it at me.

Instinctively, I grab the weapon, disarming my attacker and pinning them to the wall. But as quickly as I do that, I let go, my brain registering the softness of her curves under my touch and the scent of jasmine on her skin.

A woman.

“What the hell?” I mutter as I reach for the bedside lamp that thankfully is still where it should be.

As the light illuminates the room, my jaw drops in disbelief as my eyes register the woman before me.Breathing hard as she snatches a loose baluster from the floor, Willy Genaro holds it aloft again. The same Willy Genaro (with a hard G) I used to tease mercilessly as a kid, now all grown up and looking stunning in an oversized T-shirt, her long dark hair cascading over her shoulders.

“You better get out before I call the police,” she yells as I stare at her.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Her eyes widen in recognition and then narrow in annoyance. “I should be asking you that.”

“I asked first.”

“I’m working on the house, genius. Your mother hired me,” she exclaims, the Filipino accent I’d long ago teased her about barely evident. “What’s your excuse? Sleepwalking in the wrong house?”

“I always crash here when I come home,” I reply. If I’d been half asleep, she could have bashed my head in with that damn baluster—which she is still wielding over her head, by the way. Navy SEAL or not, I’d had my guard down.

As we glare at each other, I can’t help but let my gaze wander over her curves, my body responding in ways I never expected. Willy Genaro, the girl I used to torment when we were kids, is now a woman who takes my breath away.

“Pick one of the hundreds of hotels your family owns in town and crash there, Hollister,” she snaps, the baluster still poised for attack.

“Whether or not my family owns one or a hundredhotels, this is my place and I can crash here anytime I want.”

“Not while I’m renovating it,” she counters, pointing the baluster toward the stairs. “Look, just leave, okay? This bed's taken and I’m not in the mood for a slumber party.”

“The hell I'm leaving. This bed's mine,” I argue. “In fact, this whole house is mine.”

“Spoken like a true Hollister,” she scoffs as she brings her hands to her hips, drawing my attention back to her curves.

“What about your place?” I ask. “Why don’t you stay there?”

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