Still Her SEAL (ASSIGNMENT: Caribbean Nights Book 10) (24 page)

Except I don’t.

Hitting James would make this about me and how I feel—and then I’d be no better than Dickhead Dad.

“Get off my island,” I tell him. And then yeah, because I can be a vindictive bastard, I make things a little fun. For me. “You’ve got five minutes before I turn the dogs loose.”

Apparently, he must knows what Search and SEALs does for a living because he blusters a little more and then retreats to his car. Seconds later, he’s gone. Thank. Fuck.

“I would have hit him,” growls a voice from behind me. Vann vaults onto the porch.

“I would have helped,” Finn adds, following close on Vann’s heels.

They both turn and look at me. What? Do you think I have a plan? Know what to do now? I wish I did, but we all know that I’m lost.

“She’s amazing.” I know I sound pathetic and needy, but I like to think I also sound genuine. Because it’s
true
and she doesn’t need my affirmation. Hindi Alvarez is an amazing woman—end of story.

Vann looks at me. “Did you tell her that?”

I open my mouth. Close it.

You know what?

He’s got a point.

A point the size of the Matterhorn and as pointed as the Space Needle. Did I?

“He didn’t.” Finn slaps me on the back. “Man doesn’t like to talk, Vann. He sticks to the essentials. Hello, good bye, and where’s the toilet paper.”

I want to protest that it’s not true. Absolutely not. I do
so
talk. And about stuff that matters—not just the kind of crap you cover in a first-year language class. Surely Hindi knows that I care about her and that I have nothing but admiration for who she is and what she’s accomplished. We’ve talked about do-overs, but she’s
already
good at so many things. The show, life, living, loving. Being herself, being Hindi, being… my heart.

I didn’t tell her that.

Didn’t show her that.

Didn’t do the one thing I needed to do to convince her to be
mine
.

Vann nudges me. “Are we going on a mission?”

“Yes.” See? That sounds decisive—and then I remember. I don’t know where Hindi lives. I want to howl and scream like a two-year-old. Addresses are such a simple thing. I need to find her now. Go to her. Grovel before someone else snaps her up and I’ve lost her for forever and not just way too many weeks.

I should have got her address from Lilah. I shouldn’t have said what I did on our last day together in Angel Cay. Hindi screwed up, but so did I. When the person who loves you says she’s sorry, you listen, you love, and you forgive. Life’s one mistake after another—and it’s also one big, happy, sunshine-filled slice of paradise if you hang in there. Like surfing, there are ups and downs. One minute you’re riding the wave and here comes the beach and the best ride of your life, and the next your ass is biting sand and the water slams into you. But that’s okay. It’s actually pretty fucking awesome, right? Because you come up for air, find your board, and get back on for another ride. Who really wants the best ride of his life to be over? Looking forward is better than looking back and hanging ten and loving the ride? That’s the best thing ever.

Hindi’s my best thing and I need to get her back.

“I don’t know where she lives,” I admit.

Finn whistles. “We could ask Ava?”

Vann turns out to be the practical one. “You have Vali take Ava to lunch and we’ll hack her computer and get the address.”

And while I truly do appreciate my friends’ willingness to commit major felonies on my behalf, I suddenly have a plan. A hope. A small fucking prayer. I may not know where Hindi is right this second—but I know where she’ll be. She’s got that fashion show in Miami any day now. Dr. Google surrenders the information I need and I turn the screen around and slide my phone over to Finn and Vann.

“I need to go to Miami.”

Rohan

S
o now we’re back where we started. I’m pants-less and I’m headed for the biggest on-stage moment of my life at Miami Fashion Week. And since I’m all in, I’m going to storm that stage like it’s the most important beach I’ve ever taken, the biggest battle I’ve ever fought.

Because it totally is.

If there’s any chance at all for me and Hindi, no matter how small, I want it. This is one of those do or die moments and I have plans for living happily ever after. Step one? Showing Hindi that I’m a keeper and that I’m willing to do whatever it takes, up to and including wearing these ridiculous pink sparkly boxers. Just as an FYI? The only diamonds anywhere near my dick should be on Hindi’s body. I pat the waistband of my shorts, making sure I haven’t lost the box. Thank God for duct tape.

The stage manager looks me over, nods, and points to my mark. “Stand there. When I say go, you go. Walk down the runway. Pose. Walk back here. You got that?”

He looks bored as shit, but it’s not his life on the line.

“Crystal clear,” I lie. Once I hit that stage, I’ve got one goal and one goal only: to find Hindi and convince her to give me one more chance. To beg her to be my Mrs. MacCarthy.

“First time?” The model in line in front of me asks. He’s wearing a pair of blue and white checked boxers. Select white boxes include bright, blinged-out crystals—forming a tic-tac-toe grid ending with a gigantic checkmark over the guy’s dick. My pink shorts suddenly seem a whole lot safer.

“And last.” Or so I really fucking hope.

He shrugs. “They all say that. Don’t think about the audience checking out your package and your ass—just strut your shit, bad boy. We’ll pop your show cherry for you.”

No fucking pressure at all.

The model steps out onto the stage and disappears. Just like jumping out of a plane. I count to five and follow, ignoring the stage manager’s whispered curse behind me. No more waiting. A ten-thousand-foot free fall has nothing on the bad-ass rush I get as I stride through the door and onto the stage. The model in front of me strolls down the runway with some loose-hipped, come-fuck-me walk. I settle for putting one foot in front of the other and follow him down. The techno music drowns out any reaction from the audience and the lights are hot enough to fry me. At least I won’t freeze and have to fear shrinkage in front of a crowd.

Yeah. You thought I’d enjoy this? The family jewels aren’t public property, although given the lack of fabric in my outfit, the front row at least can tell if I’ve been cut or not and whether I hang left or right naturally. Hindi and I definitely need to talk about where she gets her ideas from.

Finn claimed—based on ten minutes and his superlative Google-Fu skills—that Hindi always sits at the front of her runway shows. She’s not one of those designers who haunts the backstage, tweaking and obsessing over each look she sends out. Nope. She prefers to be front and center, best positioned to enjoy the show. So I make straight for the end of the runway, almost running over the model in front of me. Fucker’s way too slow.

The music throbs and swells like the sound technician is trying to break every eardrum in the place, and the floor vibrates beneath the floor to the beat. I pull the sunglasses out of the waistband of my shorts and drop them on.

There.

Hindi’s sitting front and center.

I hit my mark and stare at her. Fuck, but she’s hot.

I should have brought flowers. Or hired a skywriter. Something suitably, wonderfully dramatic. Instead all she gets is me, one slightly used SEAL who definitely can’t walk for shit. The other guys on the stage have a bounce to their walk, a way of shaking their asses and flexing their stuff that I don’t. But I’m here. I stand at the end of the runway, hands on my hips, and meet her eyes.

Her eyes widen.

So now that I’ve got her attention, I stick with the script. I turn and show her my ass. My bling-sporting, boxer-wearing, message board of an answer. I count to five—sure as fuck hope she’s a speed reader, and then I turn back around. I rip the little velvet box out of the waistband of my shorts and hope to God that I’m not about to flash what seems like every camera in Miami. Without some kind of aid, most of them are too far away to read my words, but come on—everyone has a cell phone and way too many people start zooming in.

I blow her a kiss, which has to count in the romance department, although she doesn’t do any of that corny movie stuff. She doesn’t pretend to catch it, press it to her lips, tuck it next to her heart. She just stares at me and the box in my outstretched hand, like she’s wondering what the hell I’m doing here. She’s not the only one. Now that I’m at the end of the runway, I’m all out of plan. I’m winging it.

Playing it by ear.

Playing for keeps, for the one goal that really matters.

So fuck it.

I’m doing what I want.

I vault off the stage and make for the woman who owns my heart.

Hindi

N
ever show fear.

Never show excitement, elation, or any messy emotion other than polite admiration. Clap neatly, smile carefully, and wait for your cue.

That’s how these fashion shows go. Everything is carefully scripted, the models moving down the runway in time to the music. In a handful of seconds, they need to sell my clothes and my brand. Tonight’s gone well, right up until the moment the model in the pink boxers steps onto the catwalk. He’s not the type of guy we usually cast—he’s taller, bulkier, and missing both a wax job and a spray tan. He’s also wearing
pink
. Tonight’s collection is ocean-themed, all blues, greens, and whites, with the occasional yellow. Pink is last season. Something old. Something… familiar.

Ro’s walk is perfect, a loose-limber, sure saunter. Like a panther in the wild, a seductive mix of protective and predatory, he moves toward me. The flush heating my body has nothing to do with the warmth of the stage lights—and everything to do with the man dominating my stage.

When he hits the end of the runway, he stops, pulls on those stupid sunglasses of his, and finds me with his gaze. You know what? I have no idea what he wants or why he’s here. I do know that our divorce isn’t final yet, but will be soon. That we’re almost done with each other—but not quite.

He performs a perfect about turn. He pivots 180 degrees on the heel of his bare right foot and the ball of his left in a move that’s textbook perfect.

I swear I hear half the audience sigh. Yeah, his ass is pretty spectacular. And then he sort of wiggle-jostles it, I look closer, and
he’s written on his custom, one-of-a-kind boxers with a Sharpie.
He’d probably scrawl a mustache on the Mona Lisa if no one was looking.

He’s written MARRY ME.

And while I sit there, mouth open, gaping like an idiot, he jumps down off the catwalk and comes over to me. My stage manager is going to have a fit. The show sort of stumbles to a halt and the buzz of conversation threatens to drown out the music.

He scoops me up, sits down in my chair, and drops me on his lap. I’m wondering where the box went when his arms come around me and he buries his face against my throat. The gossip sites are going to
love
these pictures.

“I feel so naked,” he growls. “How do people do this?”

Somehow, I don’t think he’s talking about his delicious lack of clothing.

“One step at a time,” I whisper back.

“Got something to tell you.”

“Okay.” There’s an appalling lack of air reaching my lungs. I might be holding my breath. Because I really, really don’t think he’s stripped to his skivvies just to press our divorce papers into my hands. It doesn’t help that he really is almost completely naked beneath me. Also? Certain parts of him are very happy to see me. If he stood up now, the pictures would be downright pornographic.

I should totally let him stand up.

I’ve never been into dirty photos, but Rohan MacCarthy sporting pink boxers and a boner is total desk material. I’d never get anything done again if I had a picture of this in a frame beside my elbow because I’d be too busy drooling. I slide my phone out of my back pocket—which is conveniently parked right over one of my favorite parts of Rohan—and fire off a quick text message.

The next-to-last wave of models starts down the runway. I need to speed things up.