Page 34 of Boomer (SEAL Team Tier 1, #7)

Boomer wandered down the narrow hall, past the quiet hum of ceiling fans and the soft murmur of wind pushing against the old windows.

The weathered boards creaked under his boots, the kind of sound that echoed nostalgia more than wear.

The scent of something citrusy and expensive drifted from the kitchen, probably the soap her mother used, crisp and efficient and judgmental.

Taylor’s mother had dragged her into that kitchen the moment they’d arrived, muttering something about spice blends and “properly raised men.” He hadn’t protested.

He knew when to retreat, especially when faced with a German woman wielding a paring knife and a bone to pick.

He had the inkling, even before she opened her mouth, that he wasn’t what Frau Hoffman had expected.

Too rough around the edges. Too Southern. Too American. Too much of a smart-ass. Probably too much of everything. He didn’t care. Well, maybe he did. A little. But that wasn’t the real problem.

The real problem was the pressure thrumming through his body like a live charge.

His dick ached like he was back in high school and had just been shoved against the lockers by a girl who smiled like sin and smelled like heaven.

It hadn’t helped when he opened his mouth and let that comment slip about warming Taylor’s bed.

He hadn’t even meant to be crude. It was just the truth.

He’d give anything for ten goddamn minutes.

Fast. Hard. Just enough to take the edge off.

It wouldn’t be his choice. Hell no. When it came to Taylor, Boomer wanted to take his damn time.

Wanted to explore every inch of her skin, listen to every sigh, map every place she trembled.

But that first time was going to be intense.

He could already feel the coil winding in his muscles, tight and merciless.

His body was lit, and it had nothing to do with hormones.

This wasn’t just about sex. It was the moment everything shifted from want to possession, from possibility to promise.

Crossing that line with her would mean he couldn’t go back.

They wouldn’t be just teammates, not just two people circling each other with tension so thick it clung to their skin like salt air.

Taking her would be claiming her and letting her claim him.

Was he ready for that?

Could he give her more than his body? More than a few quiet nights and a killer aim? Could he give her his soul, the parts he’d hidden so long he wasn’t even sure they were worth handing over?

He glanced down the hall, and holy hell.

His heart stuttered. His breath caught low in his throat. Every damn part of him leaned toward her.

She stood just outside the kitchen threshold, half turned toward her mother’s voice, as if trying to make a graceful exit from a conversation she couldn’t quite escape.

Her dress was vintage blue linen with a square neckline and wide straps, cinched at the waist with a woven cream belt.

The skirt flared out gently, brushing mid-calf, light and fluttering every time she shifted her weight.

Her hair was braided in two short plaits that kissed her shoulders like something out of an old storybook, Heidi if she’d grown up to become a counterintelligence operative with a Glock and a black belt. Each braid was tied off with a ribbon that matched the dress exactly—of course it did.

She wore simple, flat sandals, strappy, leather, the color of warm sand. Around one ankle, a silver chain winked in the light, delicate but bold, like her. Her earrings were gold hoops, small but bright, and a string of milky vintage beads ringed her neck, catching the last of the afternoon sun.

Her lips, damn, her lips were glossed the same shade as the wine in his favorite memory. The kind you sip slowly, that makes your chest warm and your mind fuzzy. The kind you never forget.

Her face, as she listened to her mother, was tightly controlled but her mouth, just barely, twitched like she was holding something in. Maybe rage. Maybe a smart-ass retort. Maybe the same desperate, rising need he felt clawing under his skin.

The way she’d reacted at the door replayed in his mind. That moment she whispered his name, compressed, tight, aching. Carter. Like it cost her everything not to say more.

He swallowed hard. God, she was beautiful, and he was wrecked.

He exhaled, slow and sharp, forcing the want back down to somewhere manageable. It didn’t work. All it did was remind him that this wasn’t about the body anymore. It hadn’t been for a while. She made him want to be more. Be better. Not just for her.

For himself.

That scared the hell out of him.

But it also made him step toward the sun porch, because if he stayed here another second watching her, he was going to forget every rule of engagement he’d ever followed.

She deserved more than a hallway kiss and a man unraveling.

The sun porch, all dappled light and soft cushions, offered a moment’s quiet.

He stepped inside, his boots silent on the old pine floor.

The air was warm, scented faintly of lavender and something citrusy, and golden beams slanted through the tall windows, striping the wooden floor like bars of light.

That’s when he saw it.

A thick book lay splayed open on the floor beside an overstuffed armchair.

Not just any book, Michelangelo: Divine Draftsman and Designer , the kind with thick, glossy pages and a spine that creaked like old wood when opened.

He crouched slowly, fingers brushing the page’s edge with care he didn’t often show outside a weapon system or a memory worth saving.

He turned the cover toward him, careful not to disturb the way it had fallen.

The page showed a study of muscular form, one of those delicate yet brutal charcoal sketches that seemed alive in its imperfection.

His brow furrowed slightly. “Strange someone would leave a book like this lying around,” he murmured.

His eyes flicked to the corners of the room.

This wasn’t an accident. Someone had been here, was here. That kind of book didn’t wander on its own, and it damn sure didn’t belong tossed open on the floor like a magazine. He scanned again, slower now. Shadows under furniture. A glimpse of sock or skin. A flicker of movement. Still nothing.

But he could feel it.

The air was full of watchfulness, the kind that only came from a child hiding just out of reach. Someone too shy, or too battered by the sharp corners of grown-ups, to come forward.

He’d seen it before. Felt it. Carried it.

Kids didn’t hide without a reason, and coaxing a child out of silence wasn’t so different from breaching a door.

You couldn’t just blast your way through.

Not if you wanted them whole on the other side.

You had to assess the frame. Study the structure.

Pick the right tool. A pry bar when you needed a whisper.

A charge when you needed a promise. Patience either way.

He crouched deeper, letting his voice go low.

Calm. Like static fading. “Michelangelo was a genius. Not just a sculptor, either. Painter, inventor… he built entire spaces just to hold ideas.” His thumb traced the corner of the page.

“I think he was ambidextrous. Switched hands when he painted the Sistine Chapel.”

That wasn’t true, exactly, but it was bait.

Boomer knew a young boy was listening.

This wasn’t about art. It was about offering sanctuary.

Ansel didn’t need a man asking questions.

He needed an island, something to climb onto while the tide around him settled. Michelangelo, of all things, was that convenient island. Grand enough to shelter in. Familiar enough to make the world shrink.

He waited. Waited just long enough for a small voice to carry from the other side of the chair. “He wasn’t ambidextrous. He was right-handed.”

Boomer smiled without turning. Just a small tilt of his mouth.

Gotcha.

Boomer straightened, blinking.

“Unless Michelangelo’s ghost is talking,” he said, “I’m either hallucinating or someone just corrected me.”

A boy, thin, pale, maybe seven, stepped out from behind the wide chair.

His hair was a tumble of copper-blond curls, sticking out in every direction like it had been dried with a fan.

He wore a paint-streaked T-shirt, bare feet, and a solemn, cautious expression that didn’t quite match the wild energy of his hair.

Boomer slowly lowered to one knee. “Hey there.”

The boy blinked. “You’re my aunt’s friend? You’re big.”

Boomer grinned. “Appreciate that. Means I’m doing okay on protein.” The boy took a tentative step forward, eyes flicking to the book still in Boomer’s hands. “You read this?” Boomer asked.

The boy gave a small nod. “I like sculpture.”

“I can tell. Not many kids your age correcting adults on Renaissance artists.”

A beat passed. The boy tilted his head. “You got it wrong.”

Boomer held up his hands in surrender. “Guilty as charged. I make big holes in doors, not art.”

The boy's brow furrowed. “Aunt Taylor said you like explosions.”

“That’s me.” Boomer offered his hand. “Carter Finley. But my friends call me Boomer.”

The boy hesitated, then reached out, his small fingers curling around Boomer’s. “Ansel.”

Boomer’s hand closed gently around the boy’s. This was her nephew, the one she’d cried about, the one she’d wanted to make sure had all the space he needed to follow his heart’s desire. Boomer looked into those quiet eyes, gray, like smoke after fire and something in his chest pulled taut.

“It’s nice to meet you, Ansel.”

The boy’s gaze didn’t waver. “Are you here for her?”

Boomer swallowed. “I think I’m here for both of you.”

They sat together on the porch floor, sunlight spilling in around them, and for a while, they talked about marble, hammers, and the difference between fear and form. Boomer listened more than he spoke. He had a feeling that was what Ansel needed most.

Maybe…what he needed too.