A Little Bit of Hot Read online

  Ginny Stevens was not the one.

  Jackson had been trying to remain optimistic for the past two hours, but he could no longer ignore the truth.

  Across the booth, the petite, gray-eyed blonde was gazing at him like he was a winning lottery ticket and she had all the right numbers.

  When he still didn’t respond, some of the light in her eyes dimmed.

  “That freaked you out, didn’t it?” she said ruefully.

  He reached for his glass and took a long sip of Coke, all the while wishing it were whiskey. Or absinthe. Or maybe some memory-wiping drug so he wouldn’t have to remember any of this.

  “Uh, yeah, a little,” he confessed, shifting awkwardly on the hard vinyl bench.

  “It’s just…well, I know when something feels right. And this feels right. You and me…us…know what I mean?”

  No. No, he did not.

  Because what woman in her right mind told a man she was falling for him within two hours of meeting?

  “Ginny…” He cleared his throat, wondering how on earth he was going to disentangle himself from this situation. “Listen, darlin’, you seem like a really great person. You’re sweet and smart and funny, but…um…”

  Her gray eyes promptly filled with tears. “Are you breaking up with me?”

  God help him.

  Three days later

  “Okay, so I know it didn’t work out with Miranda’s friend, but I think I found your future wife.”

  The confidence in Claire McKinley’s voice was unmistakable, and not at all surprising considering Dylan’s girlfriend was the most confident person Jackson had ever met. Claire’s job as a consultant who advised businesses on how to run more efficiently probably contributed to her air of self-assurance. But after his last two disastrous dates, he was growing more and more skeptical when it came to believing his friends.

  “Jackson, you there?”

  He flopped down on the living-room couch and leaned his head back. “Yeah, sugar, I’m here. So who is she?”

  “Her name’s Monica. She’s a friend of mine from the gym, a personal trainer. We got to talking the other day and she said she’s tired of all the jerks she’s been meeting lately. She wants a real man, one who’s into all that chivalry stuff but also strong enough to handle a strong woman. I think you totally fit that bill.” Claire paused. “Oh, and she’s really hot, in case you were wondering.”

  “I wasn’t, but that’s good to know.” His tone remained noncommittal.

  “Do you want her number? I promise you, she’s a really cool girl. Not crazy in the slightest. Very well-adjusted.”

  He had to smile. “Fine. I guess it wouldn’t hurt to give her a call.”

  “Yay! I’m so glad you said that, because she’s expecting your call. And she’s totally free for drinks tonight…”

  Three hours later

  “How much do you press?”

  Jackson stared at the incredibly fit brunette seated across from him in the cozy bar he’d chosen for their date.

  “What?” he asked in confusion.

  Monica toyed with the end of her long braid, which hung over one shoulder. “Bench-press,” she clarified. “You know, weight training. You must do some weight training to stay in such amazing shape, no?”

  “Ah, no. I don’t lift a lot of weights. Most of our training is done outside of the gym.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “What’s your regimen? And your carb intake?”

  “Uh…” He shrugged helplessly. “I don’t pay attention to carbs or diet. But I work out every day.”

  “Walk me through your routine.”

  For the duration of the date, he listed off everything he did in terms of exercise, while Monica offered feedback and criticism that he certainly hadn’t asked for but couldn’t deny was valuable.

  By the time the server dropped off their bill, he was no closer to finding a romantic partner.

  But he did have a new personal trainer.

  Four days later

  “Don’t say no until you hear me out!” The plea came from Annabelle Holmes, the fiancée of Ryan Evans, another one of Jackson’s teammates.

  When Annabelle’s number had flashed on the screen, he’d nearly ignored the call. Because really, there was only one reason Annabelle would be calling. Seemed like the only time his phone ever rang these days was when one of his buddies’ wives or girlfriends had found “the perfect woman” for him.

  Jen, Miranda and Claire had already had their turns.

  Holly, his lieutenant’s wife, had thrown her candidate’s hat in the ring three days ago, which resulted in Jackson kneeling in front of a toilet and holding back his date’s hair after she’d had one drink too many at the bar.

  Oh, and Matt O’Connor’s fiancée Savannah had produced a busty blonde who’d confessed halfway through dinner that she was a sex addict.

  He couldn’t wait to hear what Annabelle had in store for him.

  “Darlin’, I think I’m done with the matchmaking thing,” he grumbled. “These last two weeks have been torture.”

  “I know, but I promise you Jeannine’s different. I’ll send you the link to her Facebook page so you can see what she’s like before you agree to anything. Will you look at it? Please?”

  After a moment of hesitation, he let out a breath, feeling beaten. “Fine. I’ll take a look.”

  The next evening

  “So then I was, like, O-M-G, did this woman really think that someone with my facial structure could pull off bangs? My forehead is way too short for bangs! And not just bangs, but baby bangs! I swear, I looked absolutely horrible. And they were too short to clip back, so I had no choice but to wear them down all the time. It took months before they grew out. So yeah, I’m never going back to that salon, that’s for sure.”

  Jackson politely sipped his beer as the blue-eyed blonde across the table shot him an incredulous look.

  “Can you believe that?” she demanded.

  “Sounds like a terrible experience, sugar,” he replied, all the while praying that the waiter returned with their check soon.

  Compared to his other dates of late, this one hadn’t been too bad—at least until Jeannine opened her mouth.

  When Annabelle had sent him Jeannine’s profile picture, the woman’s fresh-faced, girl-next-door exterior proved that his friends knew him well. Jeannine was exactly his type—a woman unconcerned with painting on layers of makeup or donning fancy clothes. A woman whose Facebook likes included football, Bud Light, and Sunday barbecues.

  In other words, the woman of his dreams.

  But after spending more than an hour with her, he doubted the girl had ever seen a football game in her life or drank anything other than the daiquiri she was sipping. And from the sounds of it, she spent every single Sunday getting a blowout at the hair salon.

  “It was terrible,” she said, nodding fervently. “But the point of this story—”

  Wait, there’d actually been a point to this nonsense?

  “—is that if I hadn’t switched hairdressers, I wouldn’t have met Eileen, and then I never would have introduced her to my brother Rob, and the two of them wouldn’t be happily married now.” She beamed. “So I guess the answer to your question is yes. I totally believe in fate.”

  Jackson resisted the urge to pull his own hair out. He’d completely forgotten about the question he’d posed, thanks to that twenty-five minute discussion about bangs. No, he had to amend—baby bangs, whatever the heck those were.

  Lord, he was ready to go. More than ready, in fact.

  And after today, he refused to let his friends set him up ever again.

  3

  Jackson’s cell rang right after he walked Jeannine to her car and said goodbye. She’d tried weaseling a second date out of him, but he’d held his ground, telling her he was too busy with work at the moment. Not a complete lie; as an active-duty SEAL, he was on the base often, honing his skills through training ops and classroom exercises. But since the team
had recently come home after a long deployment, technically he had more than enough time to date.

  Jeannine had looked disappointed, but he’d refused to let those big blue eyes sucker him in. Instead, he’d planted a chaste kiss on her cheek, closed the door for her and waved as she sped out of the parking lot.

  Now, he glanced at the phone display, saw Seth’s number and reluctantly answered.

  “So how did date number a hundred go?” Seth’s raspy voice demanded. “Did you finally meet the fabled Mrs. Texas?”

  He rolled his eyes at his friend’s mocking tone. “Not a chance. I was actually considering using that dumbass system you and Dylan came up with. You know, where you fake a call from the base.”

  “Shit. Struck out again, huh?”

  “She’s a sweet girl. Just ain’t the one.”

  He headed for his black pick-up truck, which looked out of place amidst the sedans and convertibles in the lot. But even though he’d left Abbott Creek years ago to move to San Diego, he was still a good ol’ Texas boy at heart—and no self-respecting Texan drove anything but a pick-up.

  “For fuck’s sake, Texas, can’t you ever say a bad word about anyone? It won’t kill you.”

  “My mama taught me some manners. Unlike yours.”

  “Hey, my mom’s a showgirl. Thanks to her, I got to spy on half-naked dancers growing up. Way more useful than manners.”

  He slid into the driver’s seat. “You call just to snoop about my date or do you want anything else?”

  “Miranda wants you to come over for dinner tomorrow night.”

  Jackson narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

  Seth chuckled. “Don’t worry, she’s not planning on springing another chick on you. She just wants to enjoy your company, God knows why. She said she misses you. So do the rugrats.”

  He had to grin. “I saw them all a few days ago.”

  “Hey, you should feel special. They like you the best out of everyone. Well, after Dylan. Soph and Jase are obsessed with that mofo. But Miranda likes you better, I think. She’s totally bought your aw-shucks-I’m-such-a-gentleman act.”

  “Not an act,” he said smugly. “I’m a rare and remarkable specimen of a man.”

  “Christ, I just want to slug you sometimes.”

  “I dare you. I’d love to kick your ass again. Haven’t done it since that boxing match during Hell Week.”

  He smirked to himself, his mind straying to that victorious day when he’d demolished Seth in the ring. They’d been a pair of lowly recruits back then, strangers to each other. He remembered taking one look at the tall, scruffy man, listening to Seth’s trash talk, and deciding that someone needed to put the smartass in his place. Ironically, they’d gone out for a beer afterwards and had been best buds ever since.

  “That was a lucky shot,” Seth said darkly.

  “That was pure skill. Dude, you went out like a light.”

  “I notice you’ve never taken me up on my rematch challenges. Because you know that match was a fluke.”

  “Mmm-hmmm. Whatever you say.”

  “Oh, shut the fuck up. Come over around seven tomorrow. Miranda’s making fried chicken and mashed potatoes in your honor.”

  Seth hung up, which only widened Jackson’s smile. There was only one thing Seth hated more than losing, and that was being reminded of losing.

  Laughing to himself, he headed for Imperial Beach, the little beach town he called home. IB was close to the Coronado base, but far enough away that he didn’t feel isolated to one area. It was already claustrophobic enough living in a city. Even after six years in California, he missed his family’s ranch. The endless acres of land, the winding dirt roads and open spaces, the fresh, unpolluted air.

  He reached his street ten minutes later, turned right, and continued along the narrow road toward his house. With its white clapboard exterior, rickety green shutters and uneven front stoop, the place wasn’t much to look at, but the interior was clean and cozy, and he loved it.

  The porch light had burned out the day before and he hadn’t replaced it yet, so the front of the house was bathed in shadows as he approached the door. When a flash of color caught his peripheral vision, he turned his head and noticed the overflowing flowerbeds next door. His neighbors had been talking about hiring a landscaper for a while now, and the newly planted yellow tulips told him they’d finally gotten around to it.

  He shifted his attention to unlocking the front door, but the second the key turned in the lock, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

  Something was off.

  He didn’t know what exactly, but eight years in the military had provided him with an internal alarm system that was highly reliable.

  Every muscle in his body was coiled tight as he slowly opened the door. He entered the house, his combat boots not making a solitary sound as he walked across the rickety hardwood floor. The house was dark and quiet, the hallway empty. So was the living room, he discovered when he poked his head inside.

  But his inner alarm continued to shriek like a banshee.

  There was someone in the house. He felt it.

  His heart continued to beat normally, his hands steady as he soundlessly crept into the living room and made a beeline for the small gun safe he kept on top of the tall oak bookshelf next to the couch.

  His back went ramrod straight when a soft creak echoed in the house. It had come from his bedroom.

  Jackson slid the nine-millimeter handgun out of its case. He didn’t check if it was loaded—he already knew it was. He just hoped he wouldn’t have to use the dang thing.

  A moment later, he was moving stealthily down the hall again, heading in the direction of his bedroom. No light spilled from beneath the door, but another creak sounded from within. The telltale squeak of somebody shifting on the mattress.

  He flattened himself against the wall, listening, waiting. Silence had fallen again, but the tingling hairs at his nape told him the intruder hadn’t gone anywhere.

  Drawing an even breath, he reached out and curled the fingers of his left hand over the doorknob, gripped his weapon with his other hand and threw the door open with a sharp command: “Don’t move!”

  A frightened yelp pierced the air. “Don’t shoot me! I just came to fuck!”

  Confusion spiraled through him, and he blinked several times to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. The curvy lump on his bed moved, a shadowy whirl of arms and legs as his uninvited visitor scrambled to get off the mattress.

  Jackson flipped the light switch, his jaw falling open when he laid eyes on the naked blonde. Well, actually, she wasn’t completely naked.

  She was wearing a cowboy hat and a leather hip holster.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” he burst out. “How did you get in?”

  “The back door was unlocked,” the blonde sputtered. “I came to surprise you! Stop pointing that gun at me!”

  Still gaping, he lowered his weapon and stared at the nude woman standing in front of him. It was the girl Savannah had set him up with. Dina, the sex addict.

  And he’d almost fuckin’ shot her.

  “Please don’t be mad!” Dina pleaded. Her very fake breasts didn’t so much as sway as she took a desperate step toward him. “I was just so horny tonight and I thought you’d be into it.”

  He continued to stare at her, at a total loss for words.

  “You’re not mad, are you?”

  He stared.

  “So, are you into it?”

  And stared some more.

  “Fine, I guess not,” Dina said snidely. “I’ll just get dressed then. And just so you know, you’ve totally blown your chance with me. See this?” Smirking, she gestured to her naked body. “You’re never getting your hands on any of this.”

  He honestly had no complaints about that.

  4

  The next morning, Jackson stepped onto the porch, still wondering if the events of last night had been nothing more than a god-awful nightmare. Because he could
n’t have actually pulled a gun on a naked woman with a boob job, right?

  Right?

  Wrong, buddy. A sex addict broke into your house. This. Shit. Happened.

  Something was seriously wrong with his life, he decided as he jogged down the stairs to grab the morning paper. At least it was Saturday, which meant he didn’t have to report to the base. He could spend the whole damn day lying on the couch and stewing about the state of emergency his love life had become.

  As he bent down to pick up the rolled newspaper, he noticed a sky-blue pick-up parked in the driveway next door. A white logo with the words “Color Your Yard” graced the side of the truck.

  Looked like Tom and Sarah’s gardener was back.

  And Lord, but his neighbors had fantastic taste in gardeners.

  His eyes immediately zoomed in on the firm, round ass belonging to the petite woman kneeling in front of the long flowerbed lining the porch. Faded denim cutoffs hugged that fine backside and showed off a pair of tanned, shapely legs. Up top, she wore a yellow T-shirt and a blue baseball cap with a short ponytail sticking out the back.

  Jackson straightened up and took a moment to admire the cute brunette, but his admiration rapidly transformed into bewilderment.

  Was he nuts, or was she actually pressing her ear to the dirt and talking to a patch of bright yellow tulips?

  Yup. She really was.

  Intrigued, he watched as she scooted forward a few inches and once again lowered her ear to the flowers.

  “Oh, for the love of Hey-zeus,” he heard her grumbling. “Where are you, motherfucker?”

  Jackson’s lips twitched in amusement. He walked closer to the strip of grass between the two houses, then cleared his throat to get the gardener’s attention.

  Instantly, her head swiveled in his direction, and he found himself looking into a pair of aggravated green eyes. Very dark green, like the jungle bathed in shadows. She was as pretty from the front as she was from the back, with catlike eyes, sharp cheekbones and pouty pink lips.