Pleasing Her SEAL

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Ladies, it’s Saturday and I’m surrounded by honeymooners. This      is one step up from my usual weekend wedding gig, where my people options are      usually the geriatric crowd, the toddler dancing crowd (always good for a      much-needed cardio burst and the cutest, stickiest kisses), or the drunken      groomsman crowd (good for equally enthusiastic but much damper kisses—eww). I      counted not one, not two, but three couples wrapped      around each other by the pool. I have dubbed them the Octopi because they seem      to have eight hands each and at least seven of them are engaged in activities      best left to the bedroom or a soft porn channel. Go, Octopi! Speaking of that,      watching the Octopi procreate underscores my own single state. You’ve found The      One and you’re hearing wedding bells, or you wouldn’t be visiting this blog. Any      tips for where to look for a good guy? Because this wedding blogger is feeling      lonely in paradise.

—MADDIE, Kiss and Tulle

“HOOYAH, HOOYAH, HOOYAH, HEY.”      US Navy SEAL Mason Black fist-bumped his knuckles with Levi Brandon’s. He didn’t      have far to reach since both men were currently sharing the same palm tree      backrest and catching their breaths after completing their mission.

“Today’s gonna be another easy day.” Levi automatically      finished the chant. The words took Mason back to BUD/S training when making the      SEALs team had still been seven weeks of hell away. Operating on four hours of      sleep or less a night, he’d worked with his teammates to carry their Zodiac over      their heads through the pounding surf, crawled through mud flats and made best      friends with a three-hundred-pound log that was their instructors’ idea of      exercise equipment. Good times.

Levi grinned as if he hadn’t just been embroiled in a      firefight. “I’m hoping there’s a beer in my future.”

The current op wasn’t so bad and beat the hell out of      completing the O course at BUD/S. Not only had the rain finally stopped, which      went in the plus column, but one hell of a tropical sunrise lit up the horizon.      Since he was waiting for the Zodiacs from the US Navy cruiser anchored just      offshore, Mason had every reason to stare at the horizon. His team was minutes      away from successfully finishing their undercover op on Fantasy Island.

One more checkmark in the “mission complete” column.

If he’d been a paperwork-and-spreadsheet kind of guy. Which he      wasn’t.

Nope, he mused to himself as he went to work with a SIG Sauer      and a sniper rifle. Rather than riding the commuter train, he’d be extracted      from the island by Black Hawk and flown to the nearest US military base to      debrief. And instead of writing quarterly reports or coding software, he’d      helped lead the hostile extraction of a South American drug lord who’d made the      mistake of booking a luxury vacation for himself and his new girlfriend on      Fantasy Island.

Mason’s SEAL team had moved in early, posing as resort staff,      and intercepted the guy as soon as he’d stepped foot on the island. Pretending      to be a gourmet chef had actually been fun. Poolside ceviche lessons were a nice      change of pace from dodging bullets, and he genuinely liked cooking. The female      students weren’t bad looking, either.

SEAL Team Sigma had established an undercover camp on Fantasy      Island’s undeveloped side. Unlike the resort digs, their camp was basic. A few      hammocks, a couple of tents and enough hardware and weaponry to take over a      small country. They could be packed and wheels up in two hours, and that      portability alone made the place more perfect than a country club. Better yet,      the rugged terrain all but guaranteed that no resort guest would stumble across      the SEALs.