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Navy Brat
New York Times Bestselling Author
Debbie Macomber
Erin MacNamera had one hard and fast rule: never, never, never fall for a navy man. But, from the heart-stopping moment her eyes met Lieutenant Brandon Davis’s across a crowded lounge, Erin knew life would never be the same. Sexy, tender and strong, Brandon was all she’d ever dreamed of in a man, but he was also navy—and as a navy brat from way back, she knew better than to give her heart to a seafaring man.
When an old friend asked Brand to look up his eldest daughter, he never dreamed Erin would turn out to be a stubborn beauty who resisted him at every turn. Couldn’t she see that they were meant for each other? When Brand was called to duty, it gave him the perfect opportunity to teach his sweet Irish rose a thing or two about navy men—and love….
For Marcia, Catherine, Kathy and Pam
and others like them, who’ve picked up the pieces of their lives and taught me the meaning of the word courage.
Special thanks to:
Gene Romano, Senior Chief Journalist, Naval Base Seattle
Barbara Davis, Kitsap County Community Action Program and The Olympic College Women in Transition Group
Plus navy wives Rose Marie Harris
Jan Evans
Contents
Chapter One
He was the handsomest man in the bar, and he couldn’t keep his eyes off her.
It was all Erin MacNamera could do to keep her own coffee-brown eyes trained away from him. He sat on the bar stool, his back to the multitiered display of ornamental liquor bottles. His elbows were braced against the polished mahogany counter, and he nonchalantly held a bottle of imported German beer in his hand.
Against her will, Erin’s gaze meandered back to him. He seemed to be waiting for her attention, and he smiled, his mouth lifting sensuously at the edges. Erin quickly looked away and tried to concentrate on what her friend was saying.
“…Steve and me.”
Erin hadn’t a clue as to what she’d missed. Aimee was in the habit of talking nonstop, especially when she was upset. The reason Erin and her co-worker were meeting was that Aimee wanted to discuss the problems she was having in her ten-year marriage.
Marriage was something Erin fully intended to avoid, at least for a good long while. She was focusing her energies on her career and on teaching a class titled Women in Transition two evenings a week at South Seattle Community College. With a master’s degree clutched in her hot little hand, and her ideals and enthusiasm high, Erin had applied to and been accepted by the King County Community Action Program as an employment counselor, working mainly with displaced women. Ninety percent of those she worked with were on public assistance.
Her dream was to give hope and support to those who had lost both. A friend to the friendless. An encourager to the disheartened. Erin’s real love, however, was the Women In Transition course. In the past few years she’d watched several women undergo the metamorphosis from lost and confused individuals to purpose-filled adults holding on tight to a second chance at life.
Erin knew better than to take the credit or the blame for the transformation she saw in these women’s lives. She was just part of the Ways and Means Committee.
Her father enjoyed teasing her, claiming his eldest daughter was destined to become the next Florence Nightingale and Mother Teresa all rolled into one tenacious, determined, confident female.
Casey MacNamera was only partially right. Erin certainly didn’t see herself as any crusader, fighting against the injustices of life.
Nor was Erin fooling herself about finances. She didn’t intend to become wealthy, at least not monetarily. Nobody went into social work for the money. The hours were long and the rewards sporadic, but when she saw people’s lives turned around for good she couldn’t help being uplifted.
Helping others through a time of painful transition was what Erin had been born to do. It had been her dream from early in her college career and had followed her through graduate school and her first job.
“Erin,” Aimee said, her voice dipping to a whisper, “there’s a man at the bar staring at us.”
Erin pretended not to have noticed. “Oh?”
Aimee stirred the swizzle stick in her strawberry daiquiri, then licked the end as she stared across the room, her eyes studying the good-looking man with the imported ale. Her smile was slow and deliberate, but it didn’t last long. She sighed and said, “It’s you who interests him.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I’m married.”
“He
