Ruined by the SEAL

By: Zoe York

He looked around. He could smell the ocean. He just wanted to put his bag down and then follow it, getting himself into a horizontal position where none of this nonsense mattered for a while.

A door at the far end of the hall promised sunshine and a back terrace. Surely that led the way to the beach. He started in that direction.

Cara shot him a look of alarm and scurried into his path. “What are you doing?”

What did it look like? “Going in search of a flat surface so I can lie down for a while. I’ve been travelling since the middle of the night.”

It was that or just fall over where he stood, which would feel like shit on his leg. He moved to step around her.

She matched his step.

He propped his hands on his hips.

She crossed her arms under her breasts.

Not the time to ogle her tits, man. Whatever. His filter had vanished somewhere over the Caribbean Sea.

“You can’t stay here.”

“I can, and I will.” He glanced around, smirking. “Who am I bothering by being here?”

She blinked at him. “Me. You’re bothering me.”


CARA COULDN’T GET OVER THE NERVE OF THIS GUY. Six-plus feet of rudeness. No way was she letting him saunter onto her estate.

And it was, very much, her estate. She’d been a breath away from being fired as the director of the Historical Society when they’d received notice that they’d been bequeathed Villa Sucre. The property was a feather in the cap of the Society, but more to the point, it had finally given her a chance to show the board of directors just how capable she could be when given real work to do.

So there was no way that Mr. Chiseled Right Angles was going to saunter in here and blithely blow that all out of the water for her. And there was sure as hell no way she was going to let him then go swimming. The nerve.

She shook her head, feeling her curls bounce all over the place. Good. Let him think she’s a crazy voodoo chick or something. “You can’t just walk in here, drop this news bomb on me, and then go in search of the beach!”

He gave her a bland look that said she didn’t scare him. “Why not? I’m exhausted and nothing’s going to get sorted out until after the weekend, so….”

“You can’t stay here! Go back to town and get a hotel room.”


The muscles up and down her right leg twitched. She desperately wanted to stomp her foot for emphasis. She clenched her fists instead and took a deep breath. “Mr. Frasier—”

“Mick is fine.”

“Mr. Frasier, I must insist that you vacate the property.”

He gave her a slow, surprised blink, then crossed his arms over his chest, mirroring her stance. “Ms. Levasseur, I in turn must insist that you vacate the property.”

She glared at his passive expression. He was trying to get her goat. It wasn’t going to work. She was a professional. University-trained, board-of-directors-hazed, island-hardened professional. She didn’t take any crap from contractors, construction workers, or bitter senior citizens, and she wasn’t going to let this man best her either.

She stepped back and let her arms swing loose at her side. Something about his aura threw her off-balance. Distance would be good. Calming. Reason and logic-restoring. “That is not going to happen.”

Except it was nearly the end of her workday and she had to meet her friends Daphne and Arielle for dinner.

As if he could read her mind, he said, “You aren’t planning on going home for the night?”

“Of course I am.” Her mind started to spin with the beginnings of a plan. “As you say, nothing will happen over the weekend. Good luck finding the beach. It’s terribly rocky and the tide is vicious.”

“Sounds delightful.”

She smirked and grabbed her phone. “See you on Monday.”

Her purse was…somewhere. She walked, head held high, toward the hallway, hoping—a-ha. It was hanging on the doorknob. Without a backwards glance, she slung it across her body and headed for the side entrance, where her old hatchback was parked.

Come Monday, Mr. Chiseled Right Angles would be long gone.

There was no functional bathroom anywhere on the estate. He’d take a dip in the ocean—if he survived, she hadn’t been kidding about the current—and quickly realize there was no way to rinse off the salt.

Sucked to be him.


“YOU’RE NOT EATING.” Daphne said this a little louder than necessary, making a few people around them in the outdoor cafe turn around and look. She shrugged unapologetically when Arielle shushed her. “What? She’s not and she’s also ignoring us.”

Cara glanced down at her untouched grilled fish and sighed. Then she gave her friends an apologetic smile. “I know. I’m terrible company tonight.”

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