Free Saved by the SEAL by Diana Gardin

tell me all the pros and cons she’s considering. I’ll gladly be her soft place to fall. And then I curse myself inside my head.
    How can I be anyone’s soft place to fall? I’m all hard edges and sharp points.
    Greta jerks her head toward the door. “I brought some stuff so I could make potato salad, Grisham. Want to help me get it out of the car?”
    I smile at her. Of course I’ll get the stuff out of the car. And then I’ll monopolize her attention while she cooks. “Sure, Grits.”
    She follows me onto the front porch
    “So, Kyle is just a guy who works at Night Eagle with your dad?” I ask casually as we walk toward Greta’s RAV4. She pops the back hatch and I grab two grocery bags from the trunk.
    She gives me a sideways glance. “Jealous, Abbot?”
    Pretty sure I’ll be jealous of any man standing close enough to touch Greta. The feeling rests in my mind like an anchor, sinking deep. Realization slams me hard.
    When did I turn into the jealous type?
    Chuckling, I shake my head at her. “Should I be?”
    She blushes, which drives me crazy. The pink tinge that sweeps across the tiny, delicate freckles dusting her cheeks is intoxicating.
    “I’ve known Kyle for a long time. We went to high school together. But he’s always just been a friend.”
    Good enough for me. I can keep an eye on Kyle, but if Greta says she’s not interested in him, I’ll take her word for it.
    Greta closes the trunk and we’re strolling up the driveway when it happens. A souped-up car engine rumbles; it’s close, no more than a block away. The sound doesn’t just bounce off of me, it travels through me, burrowing deep and taking hold. I stop, freezing in midstep, my head turning toward the sound. The car roars onto our street, and my head jerks toward Greta. When the car backfires, I jump a fucking mile, dropping the bags from my hands and changing my stance to a crouch. I want to yell for Greta to get down, but then the car zooms past us.
    It’s harmless. Just a car.
    Not a military hum-vee. Not a man-driven steel frame serving as a missile to destroy me and my team.
    Just a car.
    I’m trembling, my entire body shaking, as if I’ve just walked off a battlefield. A thin sheen of sweat coats my forehead, and I swipe it off. My heart beats wildly against my ribs, and I give a heavy sigh. Hanging my head, I reach down and grab the grocery bags, which are thankfully still sitting upright.
    When I glance at Greta, her gaze is shrewd. She’s looking at me, but that clear blue expanse stares straight through me. I know, instantly, that she realizes what just happened.
    “Is it over?” she asks, her voice like the gentlest caress. It curls around me, wrapping me up in everything sweet.
    I nod, blowing out a breath. “Sorry if I freaked you out.”
    She shakes her head, dark locks flying in the breeze. A light, fresh floral scent wafts under my nose, and I’m immediately calmer, more collected. “Don’t be. I know exactly what that was. How often does it happen to you?”
    I begin walking toward the house again, and she falls into step beside me.
    How often does it happen?
    I want to laugh, but I know there’s nothing funny about feeling the aftereffects of a trauma. It happens when I least expect it. Not as often as it did before. But there are times when I’m just walking down the street, and I see something or hear something that brings me right back to hell.
    “Not often.” I want to keep Greta out of that dark place if I can help it. She’s everything light, beautiful, and happy. She’s sunshine. The last thing I want to do is cover her with my dark clouds. Stain her with all of my gray.
    I lead her into the kitchen, and she gets to work finding a big mixing bowl and my sharp knives. I sit on a barstool to watch her chop up potatoes, onions, celery, and some kind of leafy green spice. She glances at me every so often, and I can almost see her thoughts turning back to my moment of weakness. It makes my stomach