Page 17 of The Forgotten SEAL (The Real SEAL #1)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Carina

It’s beautiful. The bungalow house is tiny by most people’s standards, but for a true-blue SoCal girl like me, it’s idealistic.

A quick walk to the park, a short drive to the beach, and four walls that aren’t shared with a neighbor.

Our new house smells like fresh paint and hardwood polish.

It’s smaller and isn’t as upgraded as the house Roarke built for us a few years ago, but for all it represents, it might as well be my own Buckingham Palace.

Smith is away on a training trip, so Jasmine is helping me set everything up.

“You should have taken more when you left Roarke,” Jasmine says.

She’s swearing under her breath as she cranks an Allen wrench.

“Furniture that comes in boxes will be my ultimate demise.” She flips the instructional page in one overexaggerated movement. “You’re lucky I love you.”

I readjust the headband holding back my bangs. “I don’t need anything from Roarke. If it means I never have to look at him again, I’m happy to bear this burden. Well, I guess I should say I’m grateful you are tackling that burden,” I say, laughing.

Even though I’m smiling, fear is coiling my insides. I’ll be here alone. A lot, if I’m being honest with myself. Smith is away much of the time, and that says nothing of the six solid months he’ll be deployed.

I try not to think of Roarke often, but he seeps in during moments of weakness.

I know I haven’t seen the last of him regardless of what Smith promises.

New cars and moving houses, haircuts and dye jobs only really lend a false sense of security.

Men like Roarke always find a way. They’re above the law.

“I know. I know. I’m sorry for mentioning his name. Sean’s kept tabs on him here and there, and he’s truly obeying the order,” Jasmine says, standing with the long piece of wood that will eventually be a bed frame.

I swallow down the lump in my throat. “I didn’t know he was watching him.”

“I mean, it’s not for his job. It’s for you. Because I wanted to make sure you were safe with, uh, your new friend gone.” Jasmine covers a laugh with a cough.

I toss a piece of Styrofoam at her head.

It misses. She’s able to help me today because she caught up with her other client’s manuscript.

Matthew Manning is a woman who writes romantic mysteries under a pseudonym.

She’s prolific. More so than I am. Jasmine reminds me of this whenever she passes by my marker boards leaning against the wall in the hallway.

I haven’t pieced together the ending, and she can’t pitch the novel without it cemented.

Bending over, I resume circling my own Allen wrench to finish the bookshelf. “You think I’ve gone mad, don’t you?” I ask, turning my gaze to Jasmine’s face. “My life. This book. Everything.”

She shrugs. “The way I look at it is that before Smith, you did nothing right in the relationship department. I understand your reasons for the most part, but he’s different from Roarke. Totally and completely, but…” Jasmine trails off.

“But what?” I ask. Folding my arms over my chest, I raise one freshly waxed brow.

She stops her wrenching and sighs. “You’re an artist to the core. Are you in love with him or the story about him, Carina?”

I scoff and readjust my paint-spattered overalls. “No one said anything about love,” I hiss.

Jasmine rolls her eyes. “Answer the question. Replace love with like, if it makes you sleep better at night, but answer me.” She draws her chin down, much like a scolding mother would look at her child.

“You are living with him—his stuff and your stuff colliding in one dwelling. It’s more than like.

Maybe you’re confused as to what exactly that means. ”

She’s right. The thought is painful and terrifying because I know the answer.

Do I love his story? Of course I do. It’s becoming my story.

I’m buried so deeply in this world that I feel like I’ve always been a part of Smith Eppington.

I’m in love with him. I sit down on a plastic ghost chair behind me.

Finally, after several long seconds, I answer her. “I’m in love with him, okay?”

Jasmine smiles widely, her eyes drawing up in the corners and almost disappearing completely. “That must have tasted like chalk coming out,” she replies. “Have you talked to him about this yet?”

I stomp one foot on the floor. “What if he thinks the same thing? That it’s the story I’m after.

That it’s not him. He’s such a romantic, Jasmine.

I’m never sure how to approach a conversation so blatantly tinged with love for fear of ultimatums or bringing up old feelings.

I mean, my god, I’ve basically agreed to reside in the ghost of his love for Megan.

What if his amnesia goes away? If he’s cured?

What will my love mean to him then?” It’s hard to think of Megan without guilt, and I’m not sure how long it will take to go away.

Even when I’m working on my novel, I wince when I write a scene between her and Smith.

I’ve given her a new name and a new description, but she’ll always, always be his first love.

Nodding in understanding, and knowing she can’t help me out of this situation, Jasmine picks up the bottle of wine we’ve been working on and pours the rest of the contents into my red Solo cup.

I take a long swallow and set the cup down on my new bookshelf and head for the kitchen, where my cell phone is vibrating on the Formica countertop.

I leap forward quickly and jab the green button when I see the S name flashing on the screen.

“Sansa! It’s you!” I say.

Smith chuckles, and the sound warms my stomach from the inside out. I haven’t had the heart to change the name since he programmed his number in my phone.

“It’s amazing to hear your voice.” I mean it.

The masculine timbre creates a pang of regret for being away from him.

Never in my wildest dreams would I have envisioned myself in a relationship with the Navy—this feeling of longing warring with reality.

We haven’t even kissed yet, but the intimacy between us seems deeper in a way.

I think that’s why you need to have a relationship that flourishes under the pressures of separation. That’s what I’m telling myself, anyway.

He clears his throat. “How is moving in going? I wish I could be there to help. I feel awful,” Smith says. Hearing his voice again sends shivers down my spine.

I shake my head. “Do not feel bad. You’re giving Jasmine an opportunity to participate in her favorite pastime. Furniture building,” I say.

Jasmine yells from the bedroom some unintelligible threats in Mandarin.

“It was perfect timing for your trip. I’d think it was planned if I didn’t know better. Moose dropped off several large tubs. Why isn’t he with you?” I ask. Strong willpower has kept me from peeking in Smith’s things. Honestly, I’m probably one glass of wine away from popping the top off.

Smith sighs. It’s a long, drawn-out noise.

“What’s wrong?” There’s a flurry of background noise. Maybe they’re in a restaurant? It is dinnertime.

“Nothing. It’s nothing for you to worry about. Moose is leaving tomorrow for a different training trip. They split us up.” There’s a hint of anger in his tone. Silverware clanks against a plate. “Sorry about the noise. We’re out. I wanted to check in and see how you were doing.”

I walk into the empty living room and sit down in the middle.

The sunlight has almost faded to black. The polish scent is strong in here, and the window that overlooks the street outside has been Windexed to death.

There’s not a smudge to be seen. Busying myself with mundane observations helps with the unease that Smith has created.

“When you tell a person not to worry, it has the opposite effect. I’m vacillating between fear and straight panic right now. ”

“Hold on,” he says. I think he mutes the phone because it goes silent for several seconds.

“Are you there?” he asks, his voice now clearer.

I confirm I am. “Moose has been speaking with Megan.” I blow out a tiny, pent-up breath and fold my legs crisscross, finding a yoga pose.

My friend Teala owns a yoga studio. She’d be proud. This isn’t so bad.

“I may need a little more to go on. I don’t see an issue,” I reply.

The stubble on his chin rubs his cell phone, creating a scratching noise.

“She’s been calling me too. I’m not giving her the answers she wants, so she’s resorted to trying to extort information from my best friend.

At least I think that’s what’s going on.

When I said it’s nothing, I meant it. It’s just irritating me right now.

For the first time since the accident, I’m happy and I just want to move forward. ”

“I see. Well, if you think about it, Smith. You and Megan have been with each other longer than you’ve been without each other.

You were teenagers. You may not remember, but she does.

Something like what you had can’t be easy to let go of.

I hate to play the devil’s advocate here, especially when it’s in my interest to agree with you, but I can see why she’s having a hard time with the recent events.

” I look at the rubber storage tubs emblazoned with “Eppy” written across them in black Sharpie marker.

“And for the record, it sort of, kind of, is something I should worry about. What is she asking Moose?”

“He’s always held a torch for Megan. I can’t be sure what’s going on, Carina. She wants to know about me. About you. About us.”