His Plus One by Kate Aster

Prologue

Four years ago

- GRAYDON -

My face is coated in a mix of sweat and sand, I reek of gunpowder, and I’ve got someone else’s blood on my uniform.

But my Team is fully accounted for, limbs still attached, and all of us in dire need of a shower and some shut-eye.

Just another day at the office.

The hand-off is pretty quick. Always is. It generally registers as a blur every time—turning over hard drives, cell phones, and any other equipment we’ve seized from a terrorist cell so that our tech geniuses can harvest information that might help us find the next target.

When I arrive in the room, tucked away in the center of our Forward Operating Base, it buzzes with commotion, and I start unloading my rucksack before my feet even pause. The digital forensics team hovers around me, ready to snatch everything I’ve brought them like a bunch of eager kids on Christmas morning waiting for their gifts.

They usually look the same. Slight build, pasty complexion from being locked away with computers all day, glasses that invariably look like they were bought online.

Mostly civilians—some I even recognize from other missions. And always looking like fish out of water here in the field where they support our SEAL Team so that we won’t lose any time.

We can’t lose time. Sometimes there’s information in this shit that leads us to another High Value Target. And they’re always moving, these bastards. Always covering their tracks.

I give forensics a quick recap as I take each piece of equipment out. They barely make eye contact with me, laser-focused on what’s in my hands, as they should be.

I spot one person on the team I don’t recognize. A woman. We don’t get many of them on these missions, so I know for a fact I’ve never seen her before.

“Thanks,” she says, taking one of the cell phones we’ve appropriated. She looks a bit younger than me—23 or 24, maybe even younger—and doesn’t look at me the way other women do.

To her, I’m just the guy bringing her what she wants.

I respect that.

She’s hidden behind glasses that are too big for her face. Classic brainiac-style with lenses so thick, they probably add a full percentage to her body weight. Or at least they look like they do.

Her brown hair is pulled back tight in a ponytail, and the oversized shirt and cargo pants she wears don’t reveal anything that looks remotely feminine.

Yet she’s probably the sexiest thing alive in this camp.

That’s something of a running joke around here. If a girl is rated as a “three” back home, she’s at least an “eight” or “nine” here, simply because there’s no competition.

Not that I think any woman should be reduced to a number. I hate that locker room bullshit.

I hand her a second cell, and this time our fingers touch briefly. Hers are soft and warm compared to mine, which are raw and filthy with God-knows-what.

I spot an engagement ring on her left hand. Might be a fake, just so guys will stop sniffing around her out here. Smart move, Glasses. But it doesn’t matter. In the field, women are scarce and in high demand. Even if it’s the real thing and she’s got a bona fide fiancé at home, I bet she turns down someone at least once a day here.

The next guy won’t be me, though. I’ve got someone waiting at home for me. We’ve only been dating a few months and the way things go, it probably won’t last but a few more months after I return. But that’s enough for me to keep my fly zipped. I don’t cheat the same way I don’t eat sushi. And there’s no way I’m eating sushi. Fish is meant to be cooked. It’s why God made fire.

Still, I hope I bump into her in the mess tomorrow after I’ve gotten some sleep. After hanging out exclusively with my Team these past few weeks, I get anxious to have a conversation with someone that doesn’t start with “They don’t have shit for weights around here” or “I so fucking need to get laid.”

I leave everything in their hands, as is the routine. I’m just the muscle that brings it to them. At this point in the game, I’m as insignificant as the pizza delivery guy. They’ve got their feast. Time for me to go.

I find myself lingering a few minutes by the exit after I’ve stepped back. I’m usually halfway to the shower by now, but this time I can’t help watching her.

I mean, them.

They’re smart. Every damn one of them probably has an IQ that makes even my smartest brother look like the village idiot. They know their stuff. They wouldn’t be out here if they didn’t.

But Glasses…

She’s so damn young. Usually the people they pull into these missions have a few more rings inside their trunk before they end up out here. Because mistakes can’t happen. We have too much vested in these missions to risk bringing someone who might be the weakest link.

I can usually spot the newbies. The ones who have never been on a mission before practically have an aura about them.

My eyes narrow on the woman, looking for the usual signs. But I can’t figure Glasses out. Maybe her age or sex is throwing off my radar.

I’m not sure why I’m intrigued. It might be because I could have walked in here with six arms or the Eye of Sauron on my forehead and she wouldn’t have noticed anything but the equipment I brought.

Or it might be that she moves with such assurance right now, as though she knows damn well that men could have died bringing her all this shit, and she is determined to make the best use of it she can, hopefully to stop the next terrorist plot that’s aimed at some corner of our world.

I respect the hell out of that kind of focus.

Yeah, I totally want to talk to her once things settle down, if time allows.

Not for the usual reasons a guy wants to talk to a woman, despite the fact that I find brains to be the sexiest female attribute. Always have.

But even if I wasn’t dating someone back home, I’d never make a move on a woman with a ring on that fourth finger.

Besides, I prefer to date women I have something in common with, because it’s hard enough keeping a relationship going in the little free time I have as a SEAL. I go for women who enjoy the same things I do—weight training, rock-climbing, running, maybe a little competitive sports of some kind.

No—with this woman, I’m just interested in some conversation, and maybe the prospect of hanging out with someone whose ego isn’t the size of Texas and Alaska combined.

My gaze rests on her for a split second more, before my eyelids suddenly grow heavy, the surge of adrenaline abating.

Yeah, I’ll look for Glasses tomorrow.

But for now? I just need a shower and some damn sleep.