Blushing would have been no problem, but what I did was go as red as a strawberry and radiate heat like an oven. You could have cooked a three-course meal on my face. It wasn’t because of what he said—but how he said it.

His voice.

His husky voice sent chills straight down my spine to the tips of my toes.

Every hair on my body stood at attention.

His attention.

I couldn’t look at him—I was afraid he’d see right through me. See how just a sentence could make my knees weak and set off the hundreds of butterflies bouncing around my stomach. He’s here to do a job, and I want him for so much more.

I don’t need a man in my life, but damn do I desire him.

It’s only a little after three in the afternoon, and I wish it was dinnertime. I’m excited and nervous at the same time.

What if I’m misinterpreting his signals?

What if he’s not interested and is just being nice?

I am his boss, after all.

He walks ahead of me as we move toward the house, and I can’t help but think of all the things that could go wrong tonight. Even with Danny, I never felt the attraction I do now, and it makes me nervous. The scent of his cologne drifts in through my nostrils—a scent I’m quickly becoming addicted to.

As we enter, I announce, “I’m going to go shower. Avery appears to still be napping, but if she wakes while I’m in the bathroom, could you watch her?”

He turns toward me, his eyes a mesmerizing deep ocean blue with flecks of silvery light dancing throughout—eyes that have me at his mercy. “Of course,” he answers, that dimple popping out as he smiles. Running his fingers through his tousled dark brown hair, he turns down the hall toward Avery’s room.

I don’t just need a shower—I need a cold shower.

I retreat to my room and belly flop down on the bed. What is it about that man that makes me melt? Placing my head flat on the mattress, I try to will him out of my head, but nothing I do rids the thoughts running through my mind.

Shower.

I need to shower.

Since I don’t know Ryan all that well, I decide to take him to the Blue Moose Tavern on Main Street. It’s a good local spot—and casual. I haven’t been here since I moved to Eagle Rock. It wasn’t the type of place Danny wanted to frequent.

We enter the tavern, and all the bar spots are filled. There are a couple empty tables, but that’s it. Strolling to the hostess stand, I inform her we need a table for two.

Picking up two menus from the basket on the side of her podium, she walks over to an empty table toward the back of the bar.

We take a seat across from each other, and I glance at the laminated page in front of me, seeing what my options are.

“What can I get you to drink?” a waitress asks as she approaches.

“I don’t know,” I answer, looking across the table at Ryan. “What are you having?”

“I’m going to have a beer.” Turning to the waitress, he asks, “Can I get a Miller Light?”

“I’ll have one too,” I add. “It’s been a while since I’ve had a beer.”

“Sure. Be right back with those,” she announces before she walks away.

There’s so many questions I want to ask Ryan, but I don’t want to seem nosy or scare him off. I need to approach this delicately. As the waitress brings us back our beers, I ask, “Why don’t you tell me a little bit about your time as a Navy SEAL?”

Lifting the bottle to his lips, he takes a long pull. “All right. But it could take a while, so we should probably order first.”

“Right,” I mutter, my eyes falling to the menu in front of me. Honestly, I don’t really care what we eat.

I want to know more about him.

Now.

Lifting my head back up, I look directly across the table at those Prince Charming, field-of-cornflowers, sky-blue irises. “Do you know what you want?” I ask, my thirst for knowledge making me sound demanding.

“Yes,” he says, his eyes shining with delight—delight in my impatience.

I tap my index finger on the tabletop. “And?”

“Oh. You mean you want to know. I thought you were asking a yes or no question.” Hard as he tries, he can’t keep a straight face. His mouth twitches, and he bursts out laughing.

Narrowing my eyes, I try to be mad, but I can’t. He’s adorable when he’s being a smart ass. “Yes. I would like to eat sometime tonight, so knowing your order would help speed up the process.”

“Have you decided what you want to order?” the waitress asks, appearing out of thin air.

Without taking his gaze from mine, he answers, “I’ll have a bacon cheeseburger, medium, with fries.”

“Same,” I murmur, caught in his web.

“Fantastic, I’ll put that right in,” she answers before scurrying away.

“So, you wanted to know about my time with the SEALs?” Taking another large sip, he places the bottle down and rests his arms on the edge of the table.

“Yeah, since it seems you know an awful lot about me.” Pressing the bottle to my lips, I tilt my head back and let the ice-cold liquid pour down my throat. His eyes widen just enough for me to notice as I finish most of the bottle. “What?” I ask, placing the beer back down on the table. “I told you, it’s been a while. I forgot how refreshing they are.”

Clearing his throat, he begins. “I joined the Navy when I was eighteen, became a SEAL when I was nineteen. Each year, about a thousand sailors are given the opportunity to attend SEAL training, and I was recruited during basic.”

“Wow,” I utter after taking another sip.

“Anyway, that’s where I met my team. My brothers.” He stops for a second, glancing down at his right hand. Before I can ask him why, he continues. “Remember I told you we all have nicknames?”

“How could I forget?” I quip, although I’m sort of getting used to being called Montana.

At least, the way he calls me Montana.

“Our team leader was Michael Topper. His nickname was Top—both for his last name and the fact that he was the top frog.”

“Frog?”

“Navy SEALs are called frogmen.”

“But why? Frogmen seems like such a silly name for a bunch of strong, tough men.”

“Navy SEALS were originally known as ‘Frogmen’ or Underwater Demolition Teams. They’re organized into specialized units in the sixties, because President Kennedy recognized warfare was changing into short, intense conflicts.” Moving the sleeve of his t-shirt up toward his shoulder, he shows me a tattoo of a skeleton frog holding a spear on his left shoulder blade. “You know, since frogs are amphibians, swimming is a strength.”

“I’m not a fan of tattoos, but I kinda like that one,” I admit. He flexes his shoulder muscle, and the frog moves.

So do the butterflies in my stomach.

What I would do to see this man naked…

“So, back to my story,” he says, picking the bottle up and draining its contents. “Dillon Murphy was nicknamed Murph. Not too original. He was our underwater demolition expert. Comes in handy when you need to attach a bomb to the bottom of a boat.”

The waitress comes back over, and he orders another round. She nods, and he continues. “Then there’s the Mississippi boys, Wyatt Foster and Lawrence Grant. We call them Law and Order.”

“That’s cute,” I say, then finish off my beer.

“The names make sense. Well, they’re supposed to at least. Law is short for Lawrence, and Order…well, he’s the medic, and anytime we were in a high intensity situation, that boy would order us around.”

“What’s Law’s specialty?”

“He’s fluent in ten different languages, including Farsi, Arabic, and Turkish, which is a nice gift to have when you’re trapped in the Middle East and can’t understand a word they’re mumbling.”

“Agreed,” I whisper, fascinated by his team’s qualifications.

“Logan Young was our communications and technology expert. We called him Spider.”

Tilting my head a bit to the left, I ask, “Spider?”

“Yeah. He catches terrorists like spiders catch their prey in a web, or in our case, the deep web.”

“Gotcha.” Two beers appear on the table as the waitress drops and runs. Using the backs of his fingers, he slides one over to me. “Thank you,” I say, picking up the bottle and sipping.

“The last of our team was Jacob Harrison. He was the bomb sniffing dog handler, and new to the team. New members get the nickname Boots.” He takes a long pull of his beer and answers me before I can ask. “Boots is a term for newer recruits, like straight out of boot camp. His nickname will change if someone newer joins the team.” His cheerful mood fades toward his last words, melancholy taking its place.

“What’s the dog’s name?”

“Nitro.”

“Makes total sense,” I mumble. “What was your specialty again?” I know he told me, but I can’t remember.

“I was a sniper.”

“That’s right. Now I remember.” I had a lot on my mind yesterday, like what I’m going to do with this gorgeous stranger.

“Why did you leave your team? It sounds like you miss them.”

I must have struck a nerve, because his face goes from blithe to wistful. His jaw ticks before he answers. “I was shot in the shoulder. I lost most of the function in my hand.” He tries to make a fist with this right hand, but his fingers can’t quite reach his thumb.

“I’m sorry…I didn’t know,” I apologize.

“You wouldn’t know, because I never told you. It’s fine.” He squeezes and releases a few times, his eyes never leaving his hand. “With physical therapy, they said I could regain some of my strength and motion.”

“There’s a great physical therapist in town. I needed to use her once when I twisted my ankle chasing after a rogue calf. Anytime you feel the need to go, just go.” Last thing I want to be responsible for is not helping him with an injury that obviously devastated him.

“Thanks,” he says after taking another pull from the bottle.

Dinner comes and we’re both quiet as we eat. I don’t what to push him about his past, but sometimes it’s good to talk about things that hurt. Maybe someday, he’ll open up about what happened and how much it bothers him.

As the waitress clears our plates, I decide tomorrow starts his healing. “You’re taking tomorrow off,” I insist as I finish my beer.

“I just started, I don’t need a day off.”

“Fine. Then take the afternoon off and go to physical therapy. Or go for a drive. See the town. Whatever, but after lunch you are officially off the clock.”

“Are you sure?” he asks, his nose scrunched in confusion.

“I’ve never been more sure about anything.”