But the odds were against them. Sometimes, love wasn’t enough.
“No, man. I like it here. It smells good, doesn’t it?”
All Jameson smelled was wood glue, paint fumes, and regret. The scents he once considered giving up his dream of being a SEAL for.
This store, and two other things.
“Thank you,” Cade said, his expression nearing worship. “Going into the off-season here, I really need this.”
“It’s temporary.”
“I know, I know,” he agreed around a huge smile, then tilted his head toward the sidewalk. “My family thanks you.”
As if she overheard their conversation, Erin smiled in relief, her tense shoulders relaxing. Then she waved the baby’s arm again, this time at Jameson. Say thank you.
And he breathed through the pain.
“You have it, too. Just like your pops.”
“Have what?” he asked distractedly, moving back behind the counter to search for any payroll documentation.
“Heart.”
The word froze Jameson in place. And the bell over the door rang when Cade left with a promise to return in ten minutes.
“Grit,” he corrected, muttering it out loud—to an empty store.
And Easy Lee, a thrice-divorced retired SEAL he’d not seen nor spoken with in years, came back to mind.
“You don’t think you have it, but you do.” A mix of pool cues striking balls and shot glasses clinking together sounded around them, blending in with rowdy voices and southern rock blasting from a jukebox.
After a long pull from his beer, Jameson scoffed. “What the fuck nonsense are you jabbering about?”
They sat at a local pub on Coronado near San Diego, a known hangout for SEALs. It was the night of his BUD/S graduation ceremony, and his father was tucked safely in bed, inside his hotel room.
These celebrations were only for the hardcore.
“Heart.” Easy Lee tapped his index finger on the bar for emphasis. “You’re here because you have it.”
“I’m here,” a halfway drunk Jameson corrected. “Because I have balls of steel. Heart had nothing to do with it.”
Easy Lee laughed but in that condescending way that meant, “You are so fucking stupid, I bet you can’t tie your own shoelaces.”
But in lieu of saying that to Jameson’s face and risking death, he ordered another round and winked at a brunette eyeing them from across the bar. A potential fourth Mrs. Easy Lee, because the guys all knew Jameson wanted no part.
“You should really thank her.”
“I don’t even know her. Have at it,” he replied, avoiding eye contact with the brunette. “I’ll pass.”
He’d been away from East Hampton for months, but it was still too soon. He fully expected a life where any woman who wasn’t Chloe would be too soon.
“No, you dumbass.” Easy Lee used the term as an endearment. “Her. This unknown girl who broke your heart and brought you to me. You would still be a SEAL even if she hadn’t fucked you over, but you’re a better one because of it. The next time you see her, thank her.”
“Whiskey,” he said to the bartender, the conversation calling for it.
After a burning shot of Jack Daniels, he howled at the resulting cheers from his buddies around the bar, then ordered another. “What makes you think I’ll ever see her again?”
“You don’t plan to?”
“Not in this lifetime.”
“In another one, then. Because this woman you’re running from? The one who’s got you spoiling for a fight even though it comes with bullets and bombs like you have some kind of death wish? She’s your destiny.”
“Destiny? Now, don’t go getting all Oprah on me, Easy. I don’t believe in that bullshit.”
“Don’t lie to your superior, operator,” Easy Lee replied, now in instructor mode.
“Not a lie.” He downed the second shot of Jack Daniels. “I’m over her.”
“You’re no more over her now than you were that first day of BUD/S. When you were determined to prove you had no heart. Call me in ten years, Petty Officer Maine. Tell me then she’s not your destiny.”
He stood to go, clapping Jameson on the shoulder. “You’ve got heart, son. Biggest one I’ve seen in a long time. Don’t worry, it’s not a character flaw.”
The memory of that celebratory night—as drunken as it got—faded away, the hardware store he wanted nothing to do with coming back into view.
He was over Chloe Morgan.
How could he not be, considering what she did?
Keeping Cade on for a week—and increasing his time in East Hampton—was strictly a business decision. It had nothing to do with that teenage mother. Nothing to do with that innocent baby.
And it certainly had nothing to do with Chloe and her sky-blue eyes pleading with him this morning. I was seventeen.
As if that should inspire forgiveness. Wipe the slate.
You’ve got heart, son. Don’t worry, it’s not a character flaw.
But it sure felt like one.
Hearts.
And a shit ton of them.
The valentine kind, in a range of pastel colors, printed with various kitschy sayings.
That’s what her unlimited-budget, black-tie bride asked for. No sit-down formal affair with a jazz band, seared duck breast, and Dom Perignon overflowing crystal champagne flutes.
This wedding—set the Saturday before Valentine’s Day—would be the opposite.
Think balloons, cotton candy, and a kissing booth. Even a handsy grandma because, according to the groom’s mother, the bride’s nana had taken an inappropriate shine to the best man.
After her exchange with Jameson this morning—a man she’d taken an inappropriate shine to—Chloe needed something else to focus on.
Conversation hearts and horny senior citizens for the win.
The perfect distraction from her own abysmal love life—until the bride told her their backstory. The reason for the candy theme.
The groom’s very first gift to the bride.
A dime-store paper-thin valentine card with a cartoon character on it, and a small box of sugary conversation hearts.
They’d been in the third grade. And in love ever since.
Wendy gushed. Chloe just smiled, and after a long appointment full of love and forever decisions, ushered them out the door. That’s when the doldrums set in.
Jameson had never given her a valentine. He’d not stuck around long enough.
No Valentine’s Day. No wedding day.
And that, my friends, was a broken promise.
So, instead of going home to a husband who stayed, she went home to an empty tiny house, with big plans to crawl into an empty bed and watch Chopped. Seeing professional chefs make an edible entrée out of gummy bears, cellophane-wrapped cheese, and mustard would provide just the entertainment she needed to ignore the man roaming Maine Lane.
As if he still owned the place.
Forgoing pajamas in favor of a faded Aerosmith T-shirt and frayed shorts, Chloe had just opened a bottle of chardonnay when the knock came.
Actually, calling it a knock was too civilized. This was more an irritated banging.
That impatient demand could only come from one person.
“What?” she said and not very nicely, glancing toward the doorway and seeing his handsome scowl through the screen.