sort-of girlfriend had rounded him up at sunset, claiming she needed a stand-in groom for a beach wedding shot for her blog. Since she was a professional blogger and photographer, the request had sounded legit—particularly since he’d known that the actual bride and groom had been detained by his SEAL team earlier in the week.
Since it was indirectly his fault that Maddie was in a bind, helping her out had seemed like the decent thing to do. Plus, Mason had definitely had a thing for the pretty photographer, which had been reason number two to lend an assist. Ashley had allowed herself to be sucked into the crazy, too.
It was hard not to like Maddie. She was cheerful and bubbly, her zest for living putting a smile on the faces of everyone around her. That probably explained Ashley’s participation. Or maybe it had been her annual be-nice-to-strangers-and-nice-women day. Fuck if he knew or cared.
So maybe he’d said yes a little too enthusiastically when he’d been asked to participate. He also had a vague recollection of signing something that the minister guy had thrust in front of him. Confessing that the details were fuzzy probably wasn’t wise.
One thing he definitely remembered about their wedding, however, was the clothes. Somehow, he’d always thought weddings involved big white dresses and dress uniforms. Turned out he’d been wrong. Wonderfully wrong. Ashley had arrived on the beach rocking a white string bikini with BRIDE spelled out in sequins over her outstanding ass. He’d offered to sound the letters out in Braille, she’d slugged him, and the ceremony had proceeded from there. If only they’d ended up not married, it would have been perfect.
“You still got the swimsuit?” Because truth be told, he wouldn’t mind seeing it again.
“I’m ordering a new one,” she said tightly. “NEWLY DIVORCED.”
“That’s a bunch of letters. Your ass is gonna need to get a whole lot bigger.” Ashley had a great butt, curvy and apple shaped. Not that he’d ever been granted touching privileges, but he had eyes in his head and the sequins had screamed look at me.
She sighed, as though he’d screwed up yet again and it was killing her. “Are you telling me my butt looks big?”
He didn’t think she’d misinterpreted his words that badly, but Ashley definitely liked to mess with him. “Stand up and I’ll give you my honest opinion.”
“You suck,” she told him without heat.
“Imagine what I’ll be like after fifty years of marriage.” He grinned at her. “I’m like fine whiskey. I just get better with age.”
“More like old produce,” she muttered. “You stink and you’re slimy.”
“I’ll put my trunks on. We can get some honeymoon shots. Or—” He grabbed his beer and discovered it was empty.
“Or what?” she asked impatiently, signaling the bartender for a refill for him.
“Or you could just strip my trunks off of me. I’m flexible that way.” Coming on to Ashley Dixon, DEA agent and sometime-SEAL-team partner. Was that really what he intended? His dick was definitely up for it—she was a gorgeous woman—but his head also had zero problems with it. Betrayed on all fronts.
The bartended picked that moment to return with Levi’s fresh beer. Ashley promptly swiped it. Apparently they’d already moved into the splitting-community-property stage of their breakup.
The bartender’s head swiveled between them as he took in the tension. “Everything okay here?”
“See?” Levi snagged the beer and took a swallow. Since they were married, she could share. “Even the bartender thinks you’re going to lose it.”
Ashley made the teakettle noise again, the bartender beat a hasty retreat, and Levi mentally adjusted the guy’s tip up. One of them needed to get something out of the situation.
“Murder is now a definite possibility,” she growled.
He wasn’t sure why she thought he was an ogre or Bad Marriage personified, but he hated it when she started slinging stereotypes around. Just because he’d never chosen to get married didn’t mean he’d screw it up if he did. “If we’re married, I’ll fix it.” He would, too.
Her eyes narrowed. “How? By killing me?”
And this was why they could never have a conversation. She was stuck on felonies and bloodshed.
“You’re awful menacing for a newlywed on her honeymoon.” He fought to keep his temper under control. So she’d been surprised by their newlywed status. He had been, too. Didn’t mean she had to be a bitch about it.
“I’ve had provocation,” she said darkly and knocked back his beer. Her throat worked as she polished off his drink and he made a note to order two beers in the future.
“And I paid for that,” he said mildly.
She looked down at the empty bottle. “Sorry.”
She wasn’t. Not even remotely based on the satisfied smile she gave him, but that was okay. If she wanted a beer, he’d get her a beer. The whole reason for coming down here had been to take care of things. Dragging her along had been an impulse, but he still couldn’t bring himself to regret it.
If they were married, he kind of liked the idea of having this week to themselves. It was no honeymoon, but it felt right. Almost as right as the unexpected urge to take care of her, which was stupid. Dixon was about as cuddly as piranha-cactus cross. She’d sooner cut his balls off than accept a helping hand from him. Honestly, he didn’t see what the big deal was if he gave her an assist, but she’d always been funny that way.
“I’ll fix it,” he repeated. “You just tell me what you need.”
She raised an eyebrow. “That’s an open-ended statement, Brandon. You might want to rephrase.”
Hell. Was he supposed to get turned on? Probably not, he decided, although he blamed her. She was the one who’d brought up sex in the first place. Not him. He was positively an angel. Really, he’d be doing her a favor to disabuse her of the notion that there was anything nice about him.
“I treat you to an island vacation and now you’re giving me grief?”
She stared at him like he’d just crawled out of a foxhole after two weeks in the sand with no shower. “Is the word romance not even in your vocabulary?”
Sure was. He kept it in a list that included marriage, peacetime and disarmament. Those were all good words—just not for him. He knew his limitations.
“I know how to romance a girl.” The words probably would have sounded better if his voice hadn’t come out all gruff, like her question was a challenge that pissed him off.
“Not sex her up,” Dixon snapped. Jesus. Did she ever slow down and not take offense? Or was it just him that irritated her so badly? “I mean real, bona fide romance.”
“Maybe you better give a for example. Are we talking flowers and candles, or do you want me spouting poetry?”
She snorted. “I’m not anti-flower, but that’s not what I meant. You’ve got flowers and candles covered right here in this bar,
