Her One Best SEAL (ASSIGNMENT: Caribbean Nights Book 6) by Anne Marsh Page B
Authors: Anne Marsh
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A big, fat steak on a grill. Food .
“Do I get a treat for joining you?” She’s still laughing at me, but it’s good-natured. She’s wearing some kind of shiny pink gloss on her mouth—makes her look fucking edible. Lickable.
I point out the obvious. “You’re not sitting.”
She leans in. “I’m debating,” she tells me in a mock-whisper. “The longer I hold out, the bigger the doggie treat, right?”
“Not exactly,” Ro says, voice dry. He hands Marlee an enormous glass goblet. Salt edges the rim, and the contents are a bright red color found almost nowhere in nature. Poisonous snakes, maybe, which begs the question of why Marlee would drink it.
“My hero.” She pats Ro on the arm, sinks down in my chair, wraps her lips around the straw, and inhales the first inch of her drink. I sit on the ground, leaning back against her legs, and watch while she proceeds to drain the glass to half-mast. She also puts away an impressive quantity of chips and salsa. It’s even more impressive because she seems to talk non-stop. Chew, swallow, talk talk talk. Rinse and repeat.
She has a top ten list for the customers who come into Papelier —the best and the worst. Today’s newest candidate for the worst of list tried to use an expired credit card followed by a cracked credit card. And then when the card finally ran, turns out Marlee accidentally rang the sale up at three million bucks instead of three. The credit card company declined the charge, so Marlee decided not to confess. I laugh my ass off, though, because Marlee makes these faces as she narrates, her hands windmilling about, and it’s demented-cute.
“You should come help me out some time,” she says, and then her hand brushes my shoulder. This isn’t the first time she’s touched me since she sat down. She’s patted my arm, my back, my head. She’s brushed against me, bumped me, and all but sat in my lap. Marlee doesn’t have a personal space bubble—she’s got more of a free-form amoeba.
I don’t get the first inkling of impending disaster until almost an hour later when someone screams karaoke from behind the bar. Bars are for drinking and hanging with friends. Listening to anyone singing along to professionally recorded soundtracks ranks somewhere below waterboarding on my list of fun shit to do on a Friday night.
I gesture toward the pile of equipment being trundled out and wonder how easily I could organize an “accident.” “You should have warned me.”
Finn slaps me on the back. “And then you’d have begged off. No can do.”
When Finn takes the stage, he rocks it. He’s charming, women love him, and he’s actually not tone-deaf. He picks some country number that he croons to the bar at large while Vali plays back-up singer. She’s not so hot in the singing department, but damn can she dirty dance. She glues her hips to Finn’s, her hands gliding around his neck to pull him in tight. He’s practically singing against her mouth, the lucky bastard, while he dry humps her on the makeshift stage. When he finishes, they get a resounding round of applause.
The next wanna-be singer takes the stage, and Marlee dances along in her chair, clapping and humming. I rescue her drink twice before I take permanent custody. Pretty sure she wants to swallow—not spill.
When the singer finishes (and he’s no fucking Elton John and shouldn’t try to be), Marlee grabs my hand and tugs. “Sing with me.”
Ro snorts, barely holding back laughter.
“That would be a no, darling.” I don’t sing. Not in the shower, not in the car, and definitely not on a stage in front of a bar full of people.
“I’ll buy you another drink.” Her eyes dip to my beer. We’ve been here for the better part of an hour, and I’ve still got an inch or two left in my bottle. It’s reached that unpleasant stage where it’s no longer cold, but since it’s not like you can add ice to a beer, I’m nursing it along. I have a one-drink limit, thanks in
“Do I get a treat for joining you?” She’s still laughing at me, but it’s good-natured. She’s wearing some kind of shiny pink gloss on her mouth—makes her look fucking edible. Lickable.
I point out the obvious. “You’re not sitting.”
She leans in. “I’m debating,” she tells me in a mock-whisper. “The longer I hold out, the bigger the doggie treat, right?”
“Not exactly,” Ro says, voice dry. He hands Marlee an enormous glass goblet. Salt edges the rim, and the contents are a bright red color found almost nowhere in nature. Poisonous snakes, maybe, which begs the question of why Marlee would drink it.
“My hero.” She pats Ro on the arm, sinks down in my chair, wraps her lips around the straw, and inhales the first inch of her drink. I sit on the ground, leaning back against her legs, and watch while she proceeds to drain the glass to half-mast. She also puts away an impressive quantity of chips and salsa. It’s even more impressive because she seems to talk non-stop. Chew, swallow, talk talk talk. Rinse and repeat.
She has a top ten list for the customers who come into Papelier —the best and the worst. Today’s newest candidate for the worst of list tried to use an expired credit card followed by a cracked credit card. And then when the card finally ran, turns out Marlee accidentally rang the sale up at three million bucks instead of three. The credit card company declined the charge, so Marlee decided not to confess. I laugh my ass off, though, because Marlee makes these faces as she narrates, her hands windmilling about, and it’s demented-cute.
“You should come help me out some time,” she says, and then her hand brushes my shoulder. This isn’t the first time she’s touched me since she sat down. She’s patted my arm, my back, my head. She’s brushed against me, bumped me, and all but sat in my lap. Marlee doesn’t have a personal space bubble—she’s got more of a free-form amoeba.
I don’t get the first inkling of impending disaster until almost an hour later when someone screams karaoke from behind the bar. Bars are for drinking and hanging with friends. Listening to anyone singing along to professionally recorded soundtracks ranks somewhere below waterboarding on my list of fun shit to do on a Friday night.
I gesture toward the pile of equipment being trundled out and wonder how easily I could organize an “accident.” “You should have warned me.”
Finn slaps me on the back. “And then you’d have begged off. No can do.”
When Finn takes the stage, he rocks it. He’s charming, women love him, and he’s actually not tone-deaf. He picks some country number that he croons to the bar at large while Vali plays back-up singer. She’s not so hot in the singing department, but damn can she dirty dance. She glues her hips to Finn’s, her hands gliding around his neck to pull him in tight. He’s practically singing against her mouth, the lucky bastard, while he dry humps her on the makeshift stage. When he finishes, they get a resounding round of applause.
The next wanna-be singer takes the stage, and Marlee dances along in her chair, clapping and humming. I rescue her drink twice before I take permanent custody. Pretty sure she wants to swallow—not spill.
When the singer finishes (and he’s no fucking Elton John and shouldn’t try to be), Marlee grabs my hand and tugs. “Sing with me.”
Ro snorts, barely holding back laughter.
“That would be a no, darling.” I don’t sing. Not in the shower, not in the car, and definitely not on a stage in front of a bar full of people.
“I’ll buy you another drink.” Her eyes dip to my beer. We’ve been here for the better part of an hour, and I’ve still got an inch or two left in my bottle. It’s reached that unpleasant stage where it’s no longer cold, but since it’s not like you can add ice to a beer, I’m nursing it along. I have a one-drink limit, thanks in
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