Silver oldiers, p.1
Silver Soldiers, page 1
Silver Soldiers
A Boys Behaving Badly Anthology
Book Seven
Delilah Devlin
Sukie Chapin
Ava Cuvay
Reina Torres
Aurora Russell
Rhonda Lee Carver
Kimberly Dean
N.J. Walters
A.J. Harris
Natasha Moore
Michal Scott
Denise DeMarco
Brenda Margriet
Silver Soldiers
A Boys Behaving Badly Anthology
Edited by Delilah Devlin
* * *
Clear to Engage Copyright © 2023 Sukie Chapin
SNAFU – Situation Normal, All F**ed Up Copyright © 2023 Ava Cuvay
Sarge in Charge Copyright © 2023 Reina Torres
Storm on the Bayou Copyright © 2023 Elle James
Handfasted to the Highland Warrior Copyright © 2023 Aurora Russell
Broken Trust Copyright © 2023 Rhonda Lee Carver
Star Diplomacy Copyright © 2023 Kimberly Dean
This Time Forever Copyright © 2023 N.J. Walters
Fights Like Cats and Wolves Copyright © 2023 A.J. Harris
Weathering the Storm Copyright © 2023 Natasha Moore
Ripples Copyright © 2023 Delilah Devlin
Take Me to the Water Copyright © 2023 Michal Scott
SEAL in Distress Copyright © 2023 Denise DeMarco
Operation Purple Sparkle Diamond Copyright © 2023 Brenda Margriet
* * *
The stories in this book are works of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues are of the authors' imaginations and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.
* * *
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from the authors—except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine, newspaper, or on the web.
* * *
This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.
Contents
Clear to Engage
SNAFU – Situation Normal, All F***ed Up
Sarge in Charge
Storm on the Bayou
Handfasted to the Highland Warrior
Broken Trust
Star Diplomacy
This Time Forever
Fight Like Cats and Wolves
Weathering the Storm
Untitled
Take Me to the Water
SEAL in Distress
Operation Purple Sparkle Diamond
About the Authors
About the Editor
Stories Included
Clear to Engage – Sukie Chapin
SNAFU – Situation Normal, All F**ed Up – Ava Cuvay
Sarge in Charge – Reina Torres
Storm on the Bayou – Elle James
Handfasted to the Highland Warrior – Aurora Russell
Broken Trust – Rhonda Lee Carver
Star Diplomacy – Kimberly Dean
This Time Forever – N.J. Walters
Fights Like Cats and Wolves – A.J. Harris
Weathering the Storm – Natasha Moore
Ripples – Delilah Devlin
Take Me to the Water – Michal Scott
SEAL in Distress – Denise DeMarco
Operation Purple Sparkle Diamond – Brenda Margriet
Clear to Engage
Sukie Chapin
* * *
“Nail or screw?” I ask.
Ares, my ridiculously sexy contractor, ducks behind the bookcase he’s installing, but not before I catch his smirk.
Up on a ladder, his bitable ass directly in my line of sight, it really isn’t fair because, dammit, we have a working relationship—a job to finish. Not to mention my history of really rash decisions. Throwing myself at Ares won’t be one of them.
“Screw,” he says, the deep rasp of his voice not doing anything to my nipples. Nope. Nothing at all. Nothing to see here, folks.
Five months ago, with everyone in my life insisting it was the worst possible idea, I bought this crumbling craftsman at the edge of the town square with big plans to open a bookstore. I knew I’d need help remodeling—knocking down walls, moving plumbing, installing bookcases. What I didn’t anticipate? Ares Mulligan. Veritable god of war. Former Navy SEAL turned master carpenter extraordinaire. AKA, the hulk of a man currently using his giant drill to put the finishing touches on this place.
Heh. Ares’ Giant drill. I volunteer as tribute.
“Sir, yes, sir!” I salute him, and he quirks an eyebrow at me.
“Not letting that one go, I see,” he says. Since I learned that he recently retired from the Navy, I can’t help but work it in periodically. He doesn’t mind, though; a smile is dancing in his pretty hazel eyes.
I don’t know what the god of war was supposed to look like, but I can’t imagine anyone who could carry the name better than Ares. He’s over six feet of hard muscle, strong as a freaking bear, with big, capable hands and a smile that incinerates my panties on sight. The guy is a smoke-show. A Greek god, indeed.
“That’s every guy’s fantasy, right? The whole call me master thing?” I pass him a box of screws.
He laughs, and the warmth of it rushes from my ear canals straight down to my clit, giving my ovaries a nice little spin along the way. “Not this guy. I’ve had enough ‘sir’ to last a couple of lifetimes.”
“Oh? Do tell.” I prop my chin on my fist, bat my eyelashes up at him, and he laughs again.
This is what we do. All day, every day. We play. Nothing comes of it. Neither one of us is going to cross that imaginary line separating boss and employee.
“Military, Peach,” he says. “Not bedroom.”
Hearing him say my name and bedroom together in a sentence makes my panties wet.
Good God, Peach. Get it together.
Especially since, after he finishes this shelf, the bookshop is finished. Five months of backbreaking work. Of blood, sweat, and tears. Five months of fantasies I definitely shouldn’t be having about the man who literally saved my ass from financial ruin.
I have a tendency to leap before I look.
“Charming,” my friends assure me, patting my head as they help me bottle-feed a litter of possums I found behind a dumpster or rescue me from a precarious branch in an exceptionally tall tree because I thought I saw Ryan Reynolds in my neighbor’s yard.
My parents, on the other hand, call it “impulsivity.”
This time, that charming impulsiveness manifested in buying this house without an inspection, only to discover it was a crumbling disaster.
By the time the necessary repairs were complete, I was almost broke and ready to admit defeat. But that’s when Ares came riding into my life on his gilded steed. Okay, in his vintage Scout, no equine involvement here—but still. He might as well have been a knight in shining armor for all he’s done for me.
I can’t pay him anywhere near what he deserves, but he assures me that I’m doing him the favor. That, after twenty-two years in the Navy, he’s finally pursuing his love of woodworking, and all the millwork in my crusty old craftsman-turned-bookshop will allow him to hone his skills and act as a living, breathing portfolio to show future clients.
As we cross the finish line, I’m having all kinds of feelings that have nothing to do with finally opening my shop and everything to do with knowing I won’t see this man every day.
“Peach.”
I glance up at Ares to see a smile tugging one corner of his sinful mouth.
“Stop imagining what I can do with my drill,” he teases.
“I’ve seen,” I say. “Unimpressive.”
He chuckles as he climbs down the ladder. Feet on the floor, the top of my head still only comes to his armpit. And how this man can make an armpit sexy, I don’t know, but he manages.
“Liar. You’re always telling me how good my wood looks.”
Hell yeah, I do. And I assure you, I’d like to check out what other kind of wood he’s working with if you catch my drift, but I have to stop thinking about him naked.
“You wish, soldier.”
His eye twitches because, sure, sure, not a soldier.
“That’s it,” he says, and for a second, I’m afraid I’ve done the “soldier” bit one too many times, and he’s over it. Or that I said the armpit thing out loud, and he’s realizing what a creeper I am and is officially done.
But he’s talking about the shop.
I push away the unwelcome tightness in my chest at the thought of done and look around. It’s perfect. Ready for books and customers. Ready for words and adventures and to bring new wo rlds into the lives of the people of our town.
I just wish I was ready to see Ares go. I swallow the lump in my throat.
“Hey.” He leans down to catch my eye, grinning, but for a split second, I swear I glimpse a little sadness in his eyes, too. “You did it. This is huge, Peach. You should be so damn proud of yourself. I’m so proud of you.”
His praise washes over me, doing something uncomfortable to my heart. I can’t remember the last time anybody told me they were proud of me.
“This deserves a celebration,” he says. “How about I grab us some dinner and help you stock shelves?”
“Ares.” I’m still recovering from the proud thing, and it makes his name sound like a sigh. This man, man. He’s too perfect. “You’ve already done too much. Stayed late all week, moving me in upstairs. Remember the bed? Pivot. Pivot!” I add in my best Ross Gellar impression, and he grins again. Moving my stuff up the narrow staircase to my efficiency was no joke. I couldn’t have done it without him. Couldn’t have done any of this without him. What hits me hardest is that I don’t want to do any of the next steps without him, either. And not because he can singlehandedly carry a mattress up a flight of stairs as I relive my favorite Friends moments. No, it’s because he’s patient when I’m antsy and thoughtful when I jump without looking. He instinctively knows when I need space or need to talk. When to step in and when to let me fight my own battle. He makes me laugh. Makes life more fun. Every day.
For five months, I’ve felt him watching, learning my little idiosyncrasies, the things I keep hidden. He’s learned the language of me, the words I can’t say. And I’ve done the same with him.
I don’t want to let this go.
But I have to, and there’s no use prolonging the inevitable. “You shouldn’t spend your Friday night stocking a million and one books.”
“I’ll only stock a million then,” he says with a wink, and I melt. “You take care of the rest. Pizza?”
An hour later, we’re sitting on the sofa in the reading nook, an empty pizza box on the coffee table in front of us.
“Do you miss it?” I ask.
Before I can clarify that I mean the SEALs, he nods.
“Sure. Sometimes.” He licks sauce off his thumb, and I have to force my gaze from his mouth. “I miss the guys all the time. The adrenaline. Sometimes, I miss the mission. But there’s plenty that I don’t miss.”
“Like what?” I whisper, “Was it the saltpeter thing?”
I glance at his lap, and he laughs, unashamed, and bumps me with his massive shoulder. “That’s always worked just fine, but thanks for your concern.”
“That’s a relief. But seriously, tell me something you don’t miss.”
He shifts toward me, and the weight of his gaze hits me like a punch to the chest. He can be serious, sure. Like the time he found a gigantic yellow jacket nest in the rafters upstairs and all but carried my allergic ass out of the building. But it’s not really his default, so when he goes there, every brain cell I have sits up and pays attention.
“Do you really wanna know?” His tone makes my belly flip.
I’m not sure I do.
I nod anyway.
He blows out a long breath, hands behind his neck, and I ignore how good his triceps look.
“I don’t miss destruction. I don’t miss death. Blood. Fucking civilian casualties. I don’t miss the smell of fear on the new guy. Widows. Brokenness. I don’t miss tearing things apart. Lives apart.”
He takes a shaky breath. “I lost half my team about ten years ago. Couldn’t save ’em, and it’ll eat at me for the rest of my life. I don’t miss worrying when it’ll happen again. I don’t miss keeping people,” he pauses and looks right into my eyes, straight into my heart, “amazing people, at arms’ length because I don’t want to break someone’s heart by coming home in a box.”
I don’t think I’m breathing anymore. All I can do is feel him. Feel each word hit me like a teeny, tiny bullet through the heart.
He lays his hands in his lap, palms up, and looks down at them like he can see his entire life etched in the calloused skin. “I’m done with tearing things apart. That’s why I’m doing this, going into restoration. I just want to build now. Fix what’s broken. Create. Make something with my own hands that lasts.”
I don’t know what cloth this man was cut from, but he’s unlike anyone I’ve ever met. He never side-eyes my weird ideas or tells me I need to rethink something before making a decision. He trusts me and rolls with it, makes it okay if my idea flops, tells me we learn by trying, that growth is in the struggle. And he’s oh so steady. He’s built something, not just in this creaky old house, but also inside me. A trust in myself. A confidence that I’m more than the rash decisions I’ve made.
“I’ve never told anybody that.” He looks at me, a little surprised, but also like he’s worried about how I’m going to take it. And to soften the blow, he cracks a smile, scratches his scruff, and says, “Also don’t miss shaving every day.”
But I see him. Maybe more clearly than I’ve ever seen anyone before. I see the insecurity hiding under the smile. The hurt. The weight of a job that’s kept us all safe, but how much has it cost him? And I think he knows I see him because, the next second, he’s on his feet, stacking books on a shelf.
A magnetic pull forces my feet across the floor to his side, but he doesn’t look at me.
“Ares,” I whisper.
“Don’t know why I told you that.”
I lay a hand on his forearm, feeling his hot skin and the muscles bunching under the touch. His gaze locks with mine, dips to my mouth, then jerks back to my eyes. For five months, I’ve admired how open he is, no pretenses. But looking at him now, I realize there’s so much more to him. A wall, one I didn’t recognize before, has dropped away, and now, I only see Ares. All of him. And it’s breathtaking.
“I think you do.” My heart is racing, and there’s this ache in my chest. A need to make this man understand that I see him. I just see him. So, I roll with that. “Ares, I see you,” I say. “I see you.”
He licks his lips, studies me, and something shifts in his eyes, like watching trust slip into place. Then he nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I know you do.”
My hand slides over his hard bicep and round shoulder, then across his solid pec until it rests over his heart. He sucks in a sharp breath.
God, it feels so good to touch him. Judging by the look on his face, he feels it, too.
“You’ve fixed something inside me.” And I mean it. From the very depths of my soul. “Part of me didn’t believe I could make this place happen. Deep down, I was afraid it was another bad decision. But,” I pause, needing to get this right, “you made me believe in myself. Trust myself. I haven’t had that in a long time. Maybe not ever.”
He’s looking at me like his entire world is hanging on what’s going to come out of my mouth next. Like there’s so much hope bleeding out of him that he can’t possibly stem the flow.
And under it all, there’s something else. A fire burning. Desire. Hot and bright enough to etch itself right into my skin.
I swear the earth shifts under my feet. The air around us changes, crackles, glows with an electricity that I’ve been denying for too long.
I want him so badly that it hurts.
“You’re already doing it,” I say. “You’re already fixing and building and making something that lasts because you’ve done that for me. In me. You’re already there.”
He swallows hard before answering. “You weren’t broken, sweetheart. You just needed someone to sit with you long enough for you to see it.”
I duck my head as he slices to the bone. “Thank you for sitting with me, then,” I say to his chest.
“Peach.” He says my name like a prayer, and I can’t help but look up at him when one word, my name on his lips, can sound so reverent. His gaze bounces between my eyes and my mouth, hot and needy. His hand settles on my shoulder, and I suck in a breath at the shower of sparks that sizzles over my nerve endings.
