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

causeway. One minute we’re surrounded by palm trees, and the next we’re cantilevered out over the water and it’s like flying through the sky without any worries about crash-landing. Although Ro meticulously sticks to the speed limit, it doesn’t take long to go from my rented bungalow to the law office on Angel Cay.
    Angel Cay is one of those places that sneak up on you, no matter how much you’re expecting or looking for it. One minute, we’re on the causeway, ocean spinning away on either side, and then we’re back among the palms. Houses the colors of Easter M&Ms stretch away on both sides of the road, covered with lacy white woodwork and more palm trees. We pass a bakery that I make a mental note to revisit soon. Bee Sweete smells amazing and looks better—and today is definitely shaping up to be a needs-sugar kind of day.
    Our destination turns out to be just past the small private marina bristling with sailboats tucked into a string of pastel-colored bungalows with second-story wraparound porches that practically demand you curl up with a book or your Kindle and drowse away the afternoon. The law office is a two-story building the color of lemon macaroons. Black shutters frame the windows and there are chairs and terracotta pots of baby palm trees set out on the steps. A traveler’s palm waves cheerily from the itty-bitty yard between the porch and the street, as if anyone who comes here really needs the welcome and a discreet sign announces the law practice of Ava Hays. Apparently, my new lawyer is a chick.
    Ro pulls around back, clearly familiar with his destination, and parks the Jeep. Alrighty then. Guess it’s time to go in and get this over with. When he kills the engine, the music stops abruptly. I’m left belting out the chorus without accompaniment, but whatever. I finish as I hop out—I’m not going to sit there like a princess and wait for him to help—and he meets me halfway. This is actually one of those blessings in disguise, because my flip-flop catches in my maxi dress, and I’m in the process of going airborne (followed by asphalt-borne). His big hands close carefully around my arms, steadying me. My hands smack instinctively against his chest, grateful for the softer SEAL landing.
    God. He feels good.
    My fingers curl into the sun-warmed cotton of his T-shirt, my hands relaxing as my brain catches up with the adrenaline-induced nerves zinging through me. See? All safe. Nothing bad here. I suck in a breath. Exhale.
    I should step away.
    “You okay?” Ro dips his head toward mine, his eyes performing a quick visual inspection. Nope. There’s nothing wrong with me. No battlefield injuries, nothing gruesome, not one single thing wrong. I happy-hum and lean a little closer. This feels like old times, like we’re that stupid fucking red balloon still soaring up into the sky with no idea that happily ever after isn’t an actual destination and that everything’s going to come crashing down to Earth sooner rather than later.
    Am I okay?
    You know what? I think that’s open for debate. I pat his shirt carefully and force myself to step backward.
    Ro nods and then discreetly checks his watch. Yes, the man has a schedule. If he really were the balloon, he’d have filed a flight plan and every inch of his upward trajectory would be monitored. I’m pretty sure our marriage is the one and only impulsive act of his life. Go home, or go big, right?
    “Our appointment is in five minutes,” he announces, as if I couldn’t have guessed. First of all, he told me. Second, he added the time and date to my phone. Third? Of course we’re here with time to spare. With Ro running a SEAL team, I’m amazed that there are any enemy insurgents left in the Middle East. It just goes to show you that planning and good intentions can’t solve everything.
    His hand cups my elbow as we go up the stairs. I’d like to tell you that I jerk away, because I’m a modern woman. I don’t. While I can certainly