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But I have a problem—I don’t know where she lives. How the hell am I supposed to take her home? I take out my phone and text one of my friends.
Hawk needs help over here!
Nathan glances at me from where he’s seated and a mischievous glint catches his eyes. He gets to his feet and starts to walk in my direction. I expect a lot of teasing from him.
“What do we have here?” he drawls, planting his hands at his waist. “A Navy SEAL with a drunk woman. Just how much did she drink?”
“Two negronis and a martini,” I reach for Anya's purse, hoping to find an ID or something that will lead me to her home address.
"She passed out after just two negronis?" he questions, his head shaking in disbelief.
“Turns out she’s a lightweight. I suppose she had a few drinks on her own before I offered her two.” There is no ID when I rummage her purse, but I find her phone and take it out. “I need to get her home safely.” Some may call me old fashioned, but she is someone’s daughter, I have a daughter too. Anya is undeniably beautiful, and I cannot let her come to any harm.
Nathan slides his fingers in his hair. “Then take her home. How am I supposed to help you?”
“I need help carrying her to the car,” I say, looking at him as if he’s an idiot. He probably is, though, because he wouldn’t be asking otherwise.
His chuckle rises above the music blaring from the speakers. “Two men carrying a drunk, passed out woman out of a bar? What do you think people will make of it?”
Well, now I’m the idiot because I didn’t think of that. My gaze drifts to Anya, her head gently resting on the worn wooden bar. Her vibrant red hair cascades over her face in soft spirals, like a fiery waterfall. Even in slumber, she maintains an air of elegance and grace. I am captivated by the length and thickness of her lashes, framing her closed eyelids. She is more than beautiful – she is stunning, breathtaking even. I have never encountered a woman as striking as her. She is in denim shorts that hug her curves and a pink crop top that showed off her toned stomach. Despite the casual outfit, she outshone every other woman in the crowded bar.
“What do you expect me to do?” I ask, frustration bubbling in my chest.
“Carry her bridal style. It’s romantic and less suspicious.” He clasps my shoulder. “Good luck, man. And sorry that you’re not getting laid tonight.”
“Fuck you.”
He chuckles sardonically, then he strides off. I stare at Anya before flashing her phone in her face when she barely opens her eyes for three seconds and dialing the last name on her call list, Gigi.
I dial the number twice, but no one picks up. Frustrated, I give up after the third try and consider checking her GPS map to see if she has labeled her address. Luckily, she has. A sigh of relief escapes me as I carry her out of the bar and into my truck parked nearby. I drive her back to her home with a sense of relief.
Thankfully, her apartment isn’t that far from the bar. It takes an approximately twenty-minute drive before I pull the car to the curb outside her building and carry her in.
“Are we home?” she asks the second we’re inside.
“We are.” I lay her down on the longest beige couch in her living room and help her with her shoes. “Are you okay?”
She nods. “Did I tell you about the concert tomorrow night? It was supposed to be our second-year anniversary and I got two tickets.” She sniffles, breaking into a sob. “I can’t miss the concert for the world because it’s my favorite band, but I don’t want to go alone.”
I don’t know what to do with a crying woman, so I instinctively pat her head. “I’m sorry.” I have no idea if that’s the right thing to say, but that’s all I can think of. “Do you need anything?”
She smiles, her eyes flickering. “I need you to hold me.”
Right, not happening. I’m already struggling to keep myself in check as it is. “Go back to sleep Anya,” I say, bopping her nose.
She nods and wipes off her tears with the back of her hand, then she closes her eyes. She’s snoring moments after.
I watch her for a second. I feel a tang of a hard-to-pinpoint emotion tighten in my chest, along with rage that any man would dare to hurt her like this. It’s unusual, but I want to make her feel better.
I finally get to my feet and peer around her tiny apartment. Anya is a girly girl, everything in her apartment being either a shade of pink or white. There are two concert tickets on the coffee table. I pick them up and stare at them. They’re tickets for a classical music concert. I prefer country music. Still, I would go with her if she asked me to, but she probably won’t even remember me by the time she wakes up tomorrow morning. And I won’t be in the city by then.
Sighing, I drop the tickets on the coffee table and peer at her one last time before I stride to my truck outside. It’s going to be a struggle to keep thoughts of her off my mind over the next couple of days, and I should since we’ll probably never meet again.
And there’s the fact that she won’t even like me when she finds out I’m a single dad.
“Daddy is a fairy princess!” my six-year-old daughter, Alessa, says with a giggle. She has me wearing a crown and holding a plastic magic wand. Thank goodness none of her skirts fit me, or I’d be wearing one by now too.
I’m back to Meadowvale, where I live with my parents when I’m not in the city or deployed on a mission. Meadowvale is a small town in the New York State countryside. It’s a peaceful town and a fun place to be, the only disadvantage being that people here are adverse to minding their own business.
