Pleasing Her Seal. Anne Marsh

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      Ladies, it’s Saturday and I’m surrounded by honeymooners. This is one step up from my usual weekend wedding gig, where my people options are usually the geriatric crowd, the toddler dancing crowd (always good for a much-needed cardio burst and the cutest, stickiest kisses), or the drunken groomsman crowd (good for equally enthusiastic but much damper kisses—eww). I counted not one, not two, but three couples wrapped around each other by the pool. I have dubbed them the Octopi because they seem to have eight hands each and at least seven of them are engaged in activities best left to the bedroom or a soft porn channel. Go, Octopi! Speaking of that, watching the Octopi procreate underscores my own single state. You’ve found The One and you’re hearing wedding bells, or you wouldn’t be visiting this blog. Any tips for where to look for a good guy? Because this wedding blogger is feeling lonely in paradise.

      —MADDIE, Kiss and Tulle

      “HOOYAH, HOOYAH, HOOYAH, HEY.” US Navy SEAL Mason Black fist-bumped his knuckles with Levi Brandon’s. He didn’t have far to reach since both men were currently sharing the same palm tree backrest and catching their breaths after completing their mission.

      “Today’s gonna be another easy day.” Levi automatically finished the chant. The words took Mason back to BUD/S training when making the SEALs team had still been seven weeks of hell away. Operating on four hours of sleep or less a night, he’d worked with his teammates to carry their Zodiac over their heads through the pounding surf, crawled through mud flats and made best friends with a three-hundred-pound log that was their instructors’ idea of exercise equipment. Good times.

      Levi grinned as if he hadn’t just been embroiled in a firefight. “I’m hoping there’s a beer in my future.”

      The current op wasn’t so bad and beat the hell out of completing the O course at BUD/S. Not only had the rain finally stopped, which went in the plus column, but one hell of a tropical sunrise lit up the horizon. Since he was waiting for the Zodiacs from the US Navy cruiser anchored just offshore, Mason had every reason to stare at the horizon. His team was minutes away from successfully finishing their undercover op on Fantasy Island.

      One more checkmark in the “mission complete” column.

      If he’d been a paperwork-and-spreadsheet kind of guy. Which he wasn’t.

      Nope, he mused to himself as he went to work with a SIG Sauer and a sniper rifle. Rather than riding the commuter train, he’d be extracted from the island by Black Hawk and flown to the nearest US military base to debrief. And instead of writing quarterly reports or coding software, he’d helped lead the hostile extraction of a South American drug lord who’d made the mistake of booking a luxury vacation for himself and his new girlfriend on Fantasy Island.

      Mason’s SEAL team had moved in early, posing as resort staff, and intercepted the guy as soon as he’d stepped foot on the island. Pretending to be a gourmet chef had actually been fun. Poolside ceviche lessons were a nice change of pace from dodging bullets, and he genuinely liked cooking. The female students weren’t bad looking, either.

      SEAL Team Sigma had established an undercover camp on Fantasy Island’s undeveloped side. Unlike the resort digs, their camp was basic. A few hammocks, a couple of tents and enough hardware and weaponry to take over a small country. They could be packed and wheels up in two hours, and that portability alone made the place more perfect than a country club. Better yet, the rugged terrain all but guaranteed that no resort guest would stumble across the SEALs.

      The faint sound of Zodiacs cutting across the lagoon announced that it was showtime. Diego Marcos, the captured drug lord, started cursing up a storm behind his duct-tape gag and pulling at his zip-tied wrists. The scumbag wasn’t going to quit until he was in US custody aboard the Navy vessel cruising offshore, and maybe not even then. Not Mason’s problem. The girlfriend, however, looked peaked and more than a little teary, so Mason helped her to a seat on the sand with a hand under her elbow.

      She might or might not know squat about her beau’s drug-running activities, but she’d come here with him and now she was tarred with the same brush. Marcos shot her a look, not quite managing to mask his concern. Mason got that. Separating your personal life from your professional life was hard.

      Mason didn’t like the worry in her eyes, either, so when she stared up at him, he broke out his Spanish for Dummies. “No te preocupes que vas a estar bien.”

      The way her eyes welled up at his words wasn’t a good sign. Or maybe she’d just had enough. Someone, somewhere was going to miss her. That unknown someone would want to yell at her for her bad choice in men and then maybe add an “I told you so.” He could imagine all too easily how he’d feel if she was one of his sisters or his cousins, seven females he loved more than life itself and who’d managed, collectively, to date every badass bad guy out there. Some of them more than once.

      He tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and fell back. He couldn’t let her go, and he couldn’t give her a do-over. So the best thing was to get out of her personal space.

      “Softie,” Levi mouthed.

      Yeah, but he was also the softie in charge at the moment. Their team leader, Gray Jackson, was supervising the medevac of an injured team member, so Mason had command.

      Something flashed at his nine o’clock. Light on glass, like a camera lens. Typical. Right when the mission wrapped and they were all free to ride off into the sunset, everything went FUBAR. Lifting his binoculars, he zoomed in and, damn, it was the hot chick who’d attended the cooking lessons. She’d liked his ceviche. He’d liked...her.

      She was gorgeous, with a smile that lit her up from the inside out, radiant red hair bouncing around her shoulders. During the class, she’d worn a polka-dot sundress with tiny straps crisscrossing her shoulders, and his new mission had become finding a way to nudge those thin ribbons down her shoulders and get to know her. Biblically.

      He nudged Levi with the toe of his boot. “We’ve got company.”

      “Tell me it’s the Budweiser truck.”

      “We’re on an island, dumbass.”

      “Don’t be so literal.” Levi saluted him with his middle finger. “And let a man dream. Where’s our hot spot?”

      “Up on the hill. Nine o’clock. We’ve got a resort guest out and about.”

      Levi snatched the glasses away from him and examined the hillside. “You’re not wrong,” he said. “Jogger?”

      “No such luck. That’s Madeline Holmes. She’s a wedding blogger and right now she’s snapping pictures of the lagoon.”

      She was also his personal eye candy, her happy-go-lucky smile drawing his attention every time he was near her. And if he’d taken advantage of this island op to put himself in her vicinity as often as possible, that was need-to-know information.

      “And in another ten, our pickup crew.” Levi cursed. “Options?”

      Their mission was already FUBAR in some respects: Remy taking a bullet to the abdomen and being airlifted to a hospital, Gray bleeding emotionally because he’d taken a header for the visiting doctor who’d flown out with the injured SEAL. Pick one. Hell, pick both. This was why an insertion into civilian space spelled danger. Everything was easier in the jungle. Something moved, you shot it. Not, of course, that he wanted to shoot the woman.

      “What are the odds she’s taking selfies?” Levi asked.

      Zero to none. A familiar calm descended. His pretty redhead was a threat to his team, so he’d neutralize her. No matter how alive she made him feel, the mission and the team came first. “I’ll take care of it. You