Page 5 of Summer with a Navy SEAL

I wakeup to the familiar sounds of the ocean surf and distant seagulls, the salty smell of the ocean filling my nostrils. It's a mixture of sensations I've become familiar with, everything that comes with waking up in a beachfront cottage… except for a man's arm draped across my waist, his palm inches from copping a feel.

So much for Brogan’s impassioned speech about boundaries because someone clearly missed the part about keeping to his side of the bed.

Is that why I'm suddenly the little spoon to his big spoon?

I should raise a ruckus and kick his muscular ass out of bed but I can't deny how good it feels to be held like this. Deliciously good. I mean, Brogan is radiating heat that could melt butter, making me feel safe and… dare I say, a little hot and bothered.

I'm not blind. I got a front-row seat to the gun show last night. His chiseled body was on full display with only a pair of boxer briefs standing between me and his impressive “package.” The same package that seems to be getting warmer by the second against my ass.

And hard.

Okay, it’s been a while. A long, long while. Three years to be exact, which means I should probably put an end to this cuddle session before things get even more heated.

I channel my inner ninja and slowly slide out from under Brogan’s arm, slipping out of bed and tiptoeing to the bathroom. I glance back at the bed. Asleep, Brogan’s face is a study of contrasts. The hard lines of his jaw and cheekbones are softened by the peacefulness of sleep, making him look almost vulnerable. His long eyelashes flutter against his cheeks and I’m stuck by how unfair it is for a man to have such beautiful lashes.

His lips, usually set in a cocky smirk or a determined line, are now slightly parted, his breath coming in soft, even exhales. It’s hard to believe this is the same boy wearing braces who used to tease me mercilessly. He’s all grown up now and undeniably handsome.

As my eyes trail down to his exposed torso, I can’t help but admire the intricate tattoos that grace his skin, from the tribal design across his chest to the sleeves along his arms.

But it’s the tattoo on his right ribcage that catches my attention as he rolls to face away from me, a simple stylized skeleton of a frog, inked in black. I’ve heard about this tattoo before—a symbol many Navy SEALs get to honor a fallen comrade. The sight of it sends a shiver down my spine, a reminder of the dangerous life Brogan chose.

As I take in the sight of him, peaceful in sleep yetmarked by the life he’s chosen, I’m struck by how much he’s changed. This isn’t the spoiled rich boy I once knew. This is a man who’s seen things, done things that I can barely imagine. And despite my best efforts to maintain my composure, I can’t deny the attraction I feel for him. Brogan Hollister has grown into a man who commands attention, even in his sleep.

That’s enough ogling, Willy Genaro. That’ll be for the trust fund baby his mother will choose for him to marry.

Dressed in my tank top and work jeans, I step out of the bathroom twenty minutes later to find Brogan already up, brushing his teeth over the kitchen sink wearing only jeans, the coffeemaker on the counter gurgling as it starts to brew.

“Morning,” I say, a bit too sharply. “You getting ready to leave soon?”

Brogan rinses his mouth and turns to face me. “Actually, I thought I’d stick around and help out. You obviously need help.”

“No, I don’t.”

He raises his hands in mock surrender. “Hear me out, okay?” He cocks his head toward the kitchen cabinets in the center of the living room, still wrapped in plastic. “It's going to take at least two people to install those and unless you've got workers coming in who,” he glances at his watch, “should have been here already, you're going to need my help.”

“I don’t want your help.”

“You may not want my help but you need it,” he says. “Where are the workers anyway? Why are you the only one working?”

“Because your mother kept changing her mind about everything and now the workers are on another job site,” I reply.

“So let me help you,” Brogan says. “It’s the least I can do.”

“Oh, really? For making fun of me all those years?” I scoff. “Too little too late, Hollister.”

Still leaning against the kitchen counter, he crosses his arms in front of his broad chest. “Suit yourself then. But I’m still not leaving.”

“So when do you plan to leave?” I ask. “Because there’s still the sleeping arrangements we need to figure out.”

“In three days.” He turns away from me to pour coffee into two mugs and hands one to me. Reluctantly, I accept it.

“Besides, you did say the couch will be delivered today so you can sleep upstairs while I crash down here. Problem solved,” he continues. “Except for the kitchen cabinets, that is. You still need to take down the old ones before you can install the new ones. It’ll be fun to watch you do it all by yourself. Or with Crystal.”

I exhale. He really is stubborn. But he’s right. Taking down the old cabinets by myself and replacing them with the new ones would take a day, most definitely. And require a lot of muscle, something Brogan possesses.

“Okay. But if you end up slowing me down or if youdo any funny business,” I pause, wondering if I should say something about waking up being the little spoon to his big spoon but I decide not to, “I’ll call your mother myself and tell her you’re in town.”

Brogan’s face breaks into a fake horrified expression before he grins and holds out his hand. “Deal.”

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