Chapter Two

 

- MASON -

 

I shouldn’t have told her to change.

Granted, Freya’s got impressive stems in those cut-offs she always wears. But there’s something about seeing her looking all fem in a skirt and heels as she sits in my SUV that’s got my body responding in a way it just shouldn’t around someone I’ve always thought of as a sister.

I never had a sister. Always wanted one. I’m a little overprotective of the people I love, so I think I’d excel at playing the role of the overbearing big brother from hell. And like any guy, I like to do things I’m good at.

But instead of my mom popping out a sweet, innocent sister I could protect and defend, I got stuck with three brothers, all as alpha as I am.

My poor mother.

I suppose it’s not a surprise that we all ended up in the military. One of my brothers is a SEAL, too, though we’ve never been on the same Team. (There is a God.) The other two are in the Army, both graduates of West Point. So you can imagine, it’s hell in our family every December, with half of our brood cheering for Navy and the other half for Army.

With all the testosterone in our family, it’s no wonder I find hanging around Freya so appealing. She’s so sweet and… needy, but only in that budding author kind of way. She’s always asking me questions about Navy life and plopping manuscripts in front of my face. And as much as I complain about reading what is essentially female porn, I find it a refreshing change from the normal things I do in my workday.

Besides, I think all men should read a little romance. They’re like user manuals for women. They say exactly what women want, how often, and for how long, in the most graphic detail. Romance authors should re-release their books and market them to men, entitling them, How to Get Laid Quickly and Efficiently.

Even better, Freya shows her appreciation for my help with homemade meals that make me feel like I’m back home in Connecticut where my mom is always whipping up something new she saw on the Food Network.

With Freya around, I’m no longer eating my meals out of a can, instead devouring everything from her grandma’s secret recipe for chicken parmigiana to fresh-rolled sushi. I mean, sushi. Whoever thought I’d actually eat chick food like that and enjoy it?

My stomach growls at the thought of Freya’s cooking as I open the door for her to Eagle’s Point and we take in the breathtaking views of the Bay. Truth be known, I’d much prefer eating at her place than coming here. But I owe her a celebration meal. And if that boneheaded ass she’s been dating these past couple months isn’t going to celebrate with her, then that duty falls to me.

And speaking of that boneheaded ass…

“Oh my God.”

Her acerbic tone slices through the air as she sees Patrick at the same time I do.

“Isn’t that Patrick?” I ask.

The pallor of her face has got me ready to catch her if she falls.

“Yeah. That’s him,” she answers.

He’s sitting with a redhead, and I’ll admit, she’s hotter than hell. And from the way their hands are entwined, I’m betting that she’s not his sister. Or if she is, their family is ready for an episode of Dr. Phil.

“Do you know the woman?” I dare to ask. We’re still standing far enough away that they can’t see us. I see the waiter remove the two empty glasses in front of Patrick and replace them with another highball of what looks to be Scotch. So I’m betting he’s too buzzed to even notice us if we did the chicken dance naked right now.

“No,” she replies.

“I’m sorry. The guy’s a putz. You know I’ve been telling you that for weeks now.”

She doesn’t respond, and I should have expected that she wouldn’t. She’s in her zone right now, fueled by a temper that could power a city for a week. I follow her as she stomps toward him.

“Two months together and you’ve never taken me here,” she bites out when she arrives at their table, one hand resting on her hip.

He looks up, and I swear it actually takes a couple seconds before it even registers in his pea-brain that his girlfriend is standing in front of him.

And she is his girlfriend. I know for a fact that they’ve had The Conversation. The one that involves phrases like “not dating anyone else” and scary words like “monogamy” and “exclusive.” I know this because the asshole actually had an issue with me being in Freya’s life—even dared to accuse her of dating me on the side before I personally set the record straight.

I hate this guy. And as much as it kills me to witness Freya being hurt like this, I couldn’t be happier that their relationship has finally hit the expire date.

“Freya,” he finally says when his eyes start to focus on her. “It’s not what you think.”

In that wonderful Freya style, she extends her hand to his date and shakes it. “Hi, I’m Freya, his girlfriend. So sorry both of us hooked up with this loser.”

Patrick narrows his beady little eyes. “You can’t accuse me of doing anything that you’re not. Look at you, here with that lunkhead SEAL.”

I actually snort, trying to keep the laughter from escaping my lips. I didn’t know people actually used words like lunkhead anymore. Seriously, who says that?

“We’re just here as friends. Celebrating some good news that you didn’t take an interest in since you said you were so consumed by work tonight, preparing for a trial. So, how about you? Are you here as friends?” She launches that question at the woman sitting across from Patrick, and I swear I detect some sympathy in her tone when she asks it.

“Uh, no. I didn’t think so. In fact, I think I’ll be leaving now,” the woman responds.

Atta girl, I want to tell her as she plunks down her napkin and strides out of the room. I don’t even know that woman, but I like her moxie. And if I wasn’t one hundred percent committed to supporting Freya at this moment, I’d be chasing her down for her number.

“Don’t ever call me again,” Freya tells Patrick so matter-of-factly that I’m wondering if she ever had any real feelings for this guy. Her voice doesn’t crack in the slightest. It doesn’t waver. “And you can pick up the shit you left in my apartment. I’ll be tossing it out my window.”

He stands now and starts following us out of the restaurant with the waiter behind him saying, “Um, sir, would you like a take-out container?”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Patrick shouts. “I’ve got an Armani suit at your place.”

“Um, sir, would you like the check?” the waiter asks.

“Freya—”

We’re in the lobby now, being chased down by a waiter.

My fist itches to implant itself in the side of Patrick’s face. But I can’t do a damn thing. Not yet. It’s the irony of being a SEAL. Everyone expects us to be the first ones to flatten a guy when he treats a woman this way, especially when the woman happens to be his friend. Yet we can’t.

Rules of engagement, Mason. It’s like I can hear the voice of every CO I’ve ever had in moments like this.

So I wait like a cheetah waiting to pounce. And I don’t have to wait long.

“Freya, don’t you dare toss my Armani,” he says again and grabs her arm.

“Get your hands off me!” she shouts, whipping around just as I dig my fingers into him, yanking his grip from her arm.

Eyes flashing, his fist predictably flies toward my face, and I duck to avoid it.

Hot. Damn.

My knuckles plunge into his chin knocking him clear off his feet. The hostess and waiter applaud.

“Don’t you ever lay a hand on her again,” I warn, standing over him. “Or the next time I won’t let you off with just one punch.”

It felt good to hit this guy. And I’d do a fist pump as we stalk out into the parking lot except that I’ve got Freya with me and I’m now waiting for the tears to start.

I glance over at her and she’s not crying. She’s laughing. Laughing.

Then she stops abruptly. “I can’t believe you just punched a trial lawyer. Are you out of your mind?”

“He grabbed you. What was I supposed to do?” I defend. “Besides, he swung at me first. I had every right.”

“But he’s a lawyer, Mason.” Now her eyes look worried. “You need to be squeaky clean for your TS clearance. It’s his word against yours.”

“And yours, and the waiter and hostess who seemed to take my side from the applause I heard.”

“But—”

“And the security cameras.”

“There was a camera?”

“Of course. Two. In the lobby, right where I punched him,” I tell her. I could have guessed there would be since the restaurant is part of one of the most expensive waterfront hotels in Annapolis. But I didn’t even need to guess it. I always notice those types of things. There’s something about Special Ops training that has me constantly counting cameras, doors, exits, and potential hostiles wherever I go. It’s damn annoying.

She takes my hand in hers. And I swear the only reason I feel something when she does is because she’s in a pencil skirt and heels straight from one of my best fantasies, and I’m still not fully recovered from the sight of it.

“Is your hand hurt?” she asks, opening my palm and flipping it over in her light grip.

“No. The guy’s got a marshmallow chin.”

She jabs me in the gut. “And there’s sure nothing marshmallow on you,” she says with a cheeky grin. “Thanks for coming to my rescue.”

“You don’t even seem upset by this.”

“Why should I be? It’s not like we were together that long. Saves me the trouble of breaking things off later.”

I shake my head, chuckling. “Shit. You’ve been influenced by me for too long.” I swing open my car door for her. “O’Toole’s?”

“O’Toole’s.”