Free Still Her SEAL (ASSIGNMENT: Caribbean Nights Book 10) by Anne Marsh

room for a whole convoy.
    “You didn’t call,” she says to me now, all these months and years after we split and officially went our separate ways. “You didn’t write. I always thought you liked the sex more than you liked me.”
    I stare at her like the fucking idiot I am. Those things aren’t true now and weren’t true then. She meant so much more to me than sex. She was something special, one of those will-o-wisp moments in time when everything comes together and the sun hits just right, lighting up your world. She was mine. My wife, my Hindi, my fucking heart.
    “And you divorced me.” My voice comes out all low and gruff. I sound snarly, as if it bothers me that she wanted me out of her life so badly, but it doesn’t bother me. Not any more. She’d handed me a gift bag, one of those shiny ones with Happy Birthday written on the side in curly letters. And it hadn’t been my birthday—for a strange, weird moment I’d wondered if she even knew my birthday. When I’d looked inside, I’d discovered a stack of legal papers, neatly organized and bristling with stickers marking the four million places requiring my signature. She’d wrapped up our divorce papers like they were the perfect present and then she’d served them to me.
    She shrugs. “Apparently, I suck at that, too.”
    That too bothers me, more than it should. There are plenty of too s that come to mind. Me? I’m too old for her. Too serious, too uptight, too fucking distant. And in the end it was all too much and we split.
    “I’ll fix your taxes,” she says, still not looking at me. “I’m going to make this right. I swear I am. You just have to—”
    Help.
    Wait.
    What?
    What does she really want from me, because this can’t be just about our divorce. She has to know people and this is what lawyers are for.
    “The taxes aren’t the problem.”
    “Yeah.” She sort of sighs the word. “But you seemed worried about them yesterday.”
    Now it’s my turn to shrug. Yesterday, she blindsided me—and kissed the ever-loving fuck out of me. A good and a bad. My parents had a good marriage, and they taught me that if you make promises, you keep those promises. You don’t bullshit the people in your life. You watch their backs and you make damned sure nothing bad happens to them. I thought Hindi knew that, but she’s not a fucking mind reader. I know that. I should have told her every day how she made me feel, should have found a way to show her. We didn’t talk as much as we should have, and we only had a few days to get to know each other. But I loved that woman, and the woman who wrote to me. I’d planned on coming home to that woman too.
    “Don’t worry.” I stand up. This was supposed to be a quick visit, and I’m sure her Gal Friday Lilah is hanging around. She’s way too quick with the camera for my liking.
    Hindi’s mouth hangs open for a moment. “Don’t worry ?”
    “Don’t worry.” I tap her mouth gently. Fucking lucky she doesn’t bite my finger off, because she closes it with a snap. It’s not like she ever has worried before, right? Hindi is the original free spirit. She flits from place to place, from heart to heart. And yeah, something ugly stabs mine at the thought of her with another man. Or another woman. I blame the unwelcome spark of chemistry between us. You’d think six years would be more than enough time to quench any unrequited desire, but the universe has to have the last laugh. Hindi’s still my fucking catnip.
    “I have a long list of things to worry about,” she says through gritted teeth. If she clenches them any harder, she’s gonna need to find a dentist. I swear they squeak. Or grate.
    “You have a list?” Yes. I sound surprised. Sue me.
    “I have a show that’s up for renewal,” she growls. Somehow, seated on the floor, hands propped on her hips, she looks like a Valkyrie. Fierce as fuck. It’s a good look for her, except for her eyes. Her eyes look part worried, part scared, and