Page 6 of Wrong Number Right Grumpy Navy SEAL

“Are you sure it’s okay?” she asks, her voice small. I swear if I ever meet the man who betrayed her like this and made her feel bad for just asking for help, only one of us is walking out alive.

“I’m driving.” I grab my jacket, then turn to look at her. “Dahlia. You are not an inconvenience. Just because some jackass didn’t appreciate you, it doesn’t mean you’re unworthy. I’ve got you.”

Dahlia looks at me, her eyes wild with emotions. I want to pull her into my arms and hug her until she stops shaking and doubting herself. But I can’t, because if I pull her into my arms, I won’t ever want to let her go, and I won’t be able to control the lust raging inside me. It’s all kinds of wrong to respond to her like I am when she’s like this, but even through her sadness, I see a glimpse of who she is, and I want her. I want all of it, and I want to make her happy.

When we get there, she’s right. The asshole isn’t home. I follow her inside, and every surface in this apartment makes me want to put my fist through it. I take a good look at the photos on the fridge. Now I know what the fucker looks like.

She pulls two suitcases from the hall closet and starts in the bedroom. I hear drawers opening, hangers scraping, the efficient sounds of a woman who’s already decided what matters and what doesn’t. She comes out with the first suitcase zipped and heavy.

“I got it.” I take it from her before she can argue and carry it down to the truck. When I come back, she’s in the bathroom, sweeping toiletries off the counter into a cloth shopping bag. She moves fast, like she’s a thief breaking into her own home and taking what she wants. She walks to a desk in the living room and grabs a framed photo. It’s her and Jared, not her and Jason. She tucks it into the second suitcase between folded sweaters.

I carry that one down too. When I come back up, she’s standing in the living room with a laptop bag over her shoulder, looking around the apartment like she’s running a checklist in her head.

“Anything else?” I ask.

She’s quiet for a second. Her eyes land on something in the corner, but she looks away.

“I’m good,” she says.

“You sure?”

“I am. I just need things so I can get back to my life. I’ll figure out the rest later. Plus,” she adds as she takes the photo of her and Jason down from the fridge and rips it in two, “I don’t want to be here any longer than I have to. I’m ready to go.”

Hatchet Jack’s has twelve axe-throwing lanes and a bar that serves everything in cans. I pay for a lane and hand her an axe. She grips it with two fingers like I’ve handed her a live snake.

“What are we doing here? I’ve never thrown an axe in my life, Cole. I’ve never even touched one.”

“I know. That’s why we’re here.”

Dahlia looks at the axe and at me, wary. “I’m not sure about this.”

“You were moping on the couch and needed to get out of your head. This will help you get out of your head. Trust me on this.”

I step behind her and put my hands on her hips to square her stance. Her breath catches and my entire body vibrates with lust. Her ass is an inch from my cock. The heat pouring off her skin through the fabric hits my palms and my fingers dig into her hips harder than I mean to. She leans back, her shoulder blades press against my chest and my cock thickens and I’m staring at the target wishing we could paste a picture of her asshole ex on the target.

But this is Jared’s little sister. Jared, who handed me his spare key and said make yourself at home and absolutely did not mean this. Fuck me. I’ve gotta be careful.

“Feet shoulder-width.” My voice is husky, and there’s nothing I can do about it. “Straight back over your head. Release at the top. Don’t aim. Wait until I step to the side, then just throw it.”

She glances to make sure I’m safe, then she throws. It bounces off the wall and clatters to the floor.

“That was terrible,” she says.

“It was your first time. Try again.”

She goes again. She grunts when she throws and swears when she misses and wipes her forehead with the back of her wrist. On the eighth throw, the axe sticks in the outer ring. She spins around and grabs my arm with both hands. Her face is flushed, eyes bright, and she’s grinning so hard that I can see her back teeth. I’m proud of her.

“Did you see that? It stuck!”

Her fingers are tight on my arm as she bounces on her toes. I want to pick her up, put her legs around my waist, carry her out of this bar, and taste the sweat on her throat. I smile at her and pray she doesn’t look down and see the raging boner she’s given me.

She throws more axes, landing more throws, and I can see my plan is working. She laughs and cheers each time one sticks, and she’s having fun. When she says her arms are getting sore, we return the axes and grab some beers.

“When I talked to my brother, he told me you just got out of the SEALs.” She looks right at me, and the directness in her eyes takes me by surprise. “He didn’t say why.”

“Medical discharge. My body’s fine.” I look at the can in my hand because it still hurts to talk about all this. I can’t look anyone in the eye when I share what happened. “My head wasn’t in the right place. A mission went sideways; people got hurt. I was the senior guy on the ground, and I made a call that—” I stop. “I made a call. They decided I needed more time to sort through it than the Navy was willing to give me.”

She doesn’t fill the silence. Her eyes stay on mine as she waits, no look of pity or disgust on her face, only patience.