The Trouble with SEALs (ASSIGNMENT: Caribbean Nights Book 8) by Anne Marsh

Author:Anne Marsh [Marsh, Anne]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Contemporary, Fiction, Romance
Published: 2016-09-30T22:00:00+00:00

ROHAN

We’re supposed to meet in downtown Angel Cay. I offered to pick her up at the island, but she turned me down. It wasn’t date-like, she said. Plus she had “things to do” that were “related to selling the island.” Maybe she really does have other buyers on the hook. I did the only thing I could: I loaned her my Jeep, reminded her to follow all traffic laws (not just the ones she liked—she’s made her position on speed limits clear), and sent her on her way. It’s not like she could walk, and her big green beast is officially in the graveyard. Plus, I don’t mind the quick run into town—I can’t afford to get soft in my downtime.

Angel Cay isn’t a big town—it has a couple of streets and you can see the ocean from just about everywhere you look. Peach, blue, and yellow are the colors of the day, and almost all of the houses and shops on the main drag are trimmed with elaborate white swirls of decoration that make me think of gingerbread. Strange as it seems, it feels like home. I can imagine coming back here in a few years, making a place for myself.

I’ve rented two bicycles and stocked the basket of mine. My plans for tonight include champagne and a sunset. Unless, of course, Hindi is late.

Which she is.

The sun has gone down, and I’ve done hundreds of sit-ups and push-ups. Then I get out my phone and organize a construction crew for my new island. With an open-ended start date since Hindi hasn’t signed the contract yet. But she’s going to. We both know it. I’ve exhausted my to do list and am giving serious consideration to the possibility I’ve been stood up when she pulls over beside me in my Jeep.

I stride over to the Jeep and look down. She folds her arms over the steering wheel and beams up at me. Instead of reading her the riot act or grilling her on her whereabouts, my eyes are drawn first to her incredible smile. And then, okay, lower. Her denim shorts stop pretty much at her pussy. Faded and thread worn, they look like they’d come apart if she bent over, and I’d sing fucking hosannas if they did. Her halter top’s tied around her neck and lower back, two skinny strings holding up a whole lot of blue and white crochet. And since I’m already staring, I look all the way down and take in her shoes. The wooden platforms are cheerful fuck-me shoes, and I’m not sure which I like better—the little ribbons tying them to her ankles or the leopard-print.

She makes a face. “I’m late.”

No shit, Sherlock.

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