Hot SEAL, Best Man (SEALs in Paradise) Read online

  Hot SEAL, Best Man

  Parker Kincade

  Hot SEAL, Best Man

  SEALS IN PARADISE

  USA Today Bestselling Author

  PARKER KINCADE

  Copyright © 2020 by Parker Kincade

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Dedication

  This one is for you, dear reader. Thank you for sticking with me. I couldn’t do this without you.

  To the SEALs in Paradise authors: Again and always, I am humbled and honored to be among you.

  And to Evan, whose love of the f-word rivals my own. The loss of sleep was totally worth it.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Epilogue

  Note from the Author

  More SEALs in Paradise

  Excerpt from One Night Stand

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  About the Author

  Also by Parker Kincade

  1

  “I need you to help me plan my wedding.”

  Evan “Cowboy” Lancaster gave his head a good shake, suddenly sure a disconnect existed between his ears and his brain. The idea his hearing was beginning to fail was too ridiculous to consider. He kept his body in top physical condition. He had a strong heart. Sure, he gave his liver an occasional workout, but it, too, functioned at a high capacity. As did all of his other organs. His eyesight was damn near perfect—a requirement for his job as a Navy SEAL sniper. He could out-swim, out-run, out-shoot, and out-wait more than half the guys on the teams. Hell, his time on the O-Course would be legendary if it weren’t for his teammate Nick “Pretty Boy” Nelson, who had a freakish ability to move like a gazelle.

  Still, there was no way Evan had heard John correctly.

  Evan leaned forward, in case he was wrong and hearing aids were in his future. “Come again?”

  “I need you to help me plan my wedding,” John repeated, a little slower this time but with no less enthusiasm.

  The words didn’t sound any less insane the second time.

  Evan sank back in his chair, mentally calculating how many espresso shots John had consumed. His childhood friend had been known to over-indulge in caffeine when he was on a deadline, but the triple shot Evan had watched him drink wasn’t enough to twist the guy’s brain. And unless John had had a complete personality transplant, Evan could be certain his friend wasn’t high. Or drunk. That left one option.

  John Peterson had finally lost his fucking mind.

  “Evan? Hello?”

  The wadded-up napkin bouncing off his forehead brought Evan’s focus back to the table. He downed what was left of his own coffee and set the now empty mug on the table with a thunk. He shook his head again. John was his oldest friend. He loved the guy. He did. But, “No.”

  John’s chest deflated, his bony shoulders curling inward. “That’s it? Just, no?”

  “What else do you want me to say? No way?” Evan glanced at the table of young girls drinking lattes nearby before lowering his voice. “How about, not on your fucking life?” Both were relevant in this situation.

  Clearly frustrated, John blew out a breath. “I want you to say yes.”

  Evan studied his friend, wondering if that whole body-snatching thing they’d seen in a movie as kids had merit. The request didn’t make sense. Harebrained ideas were not part of John’s DNA. He wasn’t spontaneous. He wasn’t a romantic. John was a screenwriter, who took his risks on paper but rarely in life.

  And planning a wedding while the bride was out of the country was the very definition of risk.

  “Come on, man,” John implored. “I can’t do this without you.”

  “There’s a reason you can’t do this without me. Or with me. Dudes aren’t supposed to plan weddings. It’s the law.”

  John rolled his eyes. “No, it isn’t.”

  “Well, it should be.” Evan stared down at his empty mug, wishing it would magically refill. “The wedding is in two weeks. I don’t believe for one second you let the details slip. You wanna tell me what’s really going on?” Although he already had a good idea.

  John shifted in his chair. “The network extended Chloe’s assignment. Again. Her delay home means we have to postpone the wedding. Again.”

  Nailed it.

  Chloe was a dedicated photojournalist for a major news network. Her schedule was as erratic as Evan’s was as a Navy SEAL. She and John had already pushed back the wedding date twice. Each time, John had complained about the loss of deposits and the ability to reschedule to their new preferred date, so he and Chloe had to basically start over with the preparations.

  “When is she coming home?”

  “Four weeks.”

  Evan swore. Two weeks too late. “I’m not sure what’s worse—that the network is selfish enough to keep her away for a measly two extra weeks when they know you’re getting married or that Chloe agreed to the delay.”

  “This, from the man who lets the Navy dictate his every move.”

  Evan didn’t bother pointing out the differences between his job and Chloe’s, but John had a point. Evan had no business judging Chloe for doing exactly as he would’ve done—put the job first. That left one question.

  “Is she staying safe?” Chloe’s desire for reporting the truth took her through some rough terrain.

  John scratched his jaw. “The network might not care about her personal life, but her actual life they take very seriously. They have her back. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you about the political protests in South America. From what she tells me, and from what I’ve seen on the news, things have been relatively civil, so far. She’ll be all right.”

  Evan knew all about what was happening in South America. His team received consistent briefings as to the political unrest happening in several areas. The situation was moderately civil now, but Evan knew how quickly things could change. He didn’t like the tension brewing there any more than his superiors did. Since Evan couldn’t share his intel, he went with distraction.

  “I still don’t see where Chloe’s extended work assignment leads to me helping you plan the next wedding,” he said, purposely redirecting John’s focus. “Why don’t you start over when she gets back, like you’ve done before?” A thought occurred. An out. “And anyway, Chloe won’t want my help. She thinks I’m bossy.” She’d been telling him so since the ninth grade.

  “You are a pushy fucker, but there’s no need to worry. Chloe doesn’t know anything about this. I want it to be a surprise.”

  Evan choked out a laugh. “Are you kidding me? A surprise wedding? Uh-uh, man. That’s an even harder no than before. That is, by far, the worst idea I’ve ever heard.” And that was saying something. He’d been through BUD/S, where bad ideas were the kind that had resulted in him flat on his back in the sand while waves of freezing ocean crashed over him, literally, for hours on end.

  “I wouldn’t say it’s the worst idea.” John’s fingers drummed against the tabletop. The guy was practically vibrating. “And besides, you haven’t heard my plan, so you can’t make assumptions until you do.”
>
  Evan cocked a brow. “Exactly how many Red Bulls have you had?”

  He’d seen John like this before, too many times to count. Whether it was John’s hyped-up ass over-running his plays in football, or whispering too loudly to Evan during the SATs—getting him kicked out so he had to take them again, or shouting a Marine’s oorah at the top of his lungs at Evan’s Naval graduation, John plus energy drinks never ended well for him.

  John’s gaze darted to his fingers, and the drumming stopped. “I was up all night working on a new project proposal, but I’m not hyped on sugar. This is excitement. I’m going to marry my high school sweetheart, and I’m asking my best man to help plan my wedding.”

  “I see what you did there.” Playing the “best man” card. Evan had agreed to be best man more than a year ago—but the sentiment still warmed his chest. John was family. His brother-from-another-mother. Yeah, he was a pain in the ass, sometimes, but John had been by Evan’s side through thick and thin. Of course, he would stand by John’s side as he and Chloe committed their lives to each other. He’d be damn proud to be there.

  And that was when Evan knew there was no way he’d say no. Judging by the smug satisfaction gracing the guy’s mug, John knew it, too. The bastard.

  Damn it.

  Evan sighed, caving to the inevitable. “If the two of you don’t want to wait to get married, drag Chloe’s ass to city hall when she gets home and get it done. You could always plan the pomp and circumstance for later, if that’s what Chloe really wants.”

  There. Problem solved.

  John was already shaking his head. “She loves her job, and she loves me. She feels torn, no matter how understanding and patient I am with her schedule. She was crying, Evan.”

  Well, fuck.

  “Chloe deserves to have the wedding she wants the first time we take our vows,” John continued. “She doesn’t want an extravagant wedding, but she does want to walk down the aisle in a pretty dress. She wants to carry flowers and eat and dance with me at a reception.”

  “You just proved my earlier point. She wants. Dudes don’t grow up dreaming about wedding stuff. Weddings are for the bride. The bride should be the one who makes the decisions.” He and John were bound to fuck up and ruin Chloe’s perfect day.

  John raised one eyebrow. “Right now, you sound ridiculous.”

  “Am I wrong? Are you telling me you actually care about flowers and dresses and reception food?”

  Evan wouldn’t give a shit about those things. If he ever decided to get married, the only thing he’d care about would be making the woman his. The flowers would die, the food was just another meal, and the dress would be on the floor as soon as he could manage. What mattered was his lasting commitment to love, honor, cherish, and protect his bride with everything he had. If his hypothetical woman needed a huge production to prove his commitment, he’d fail her.

  “I care because Chloe cares.” John shook his head. “One day, you’ll understand. In the meantime, I need you to do this with me.”

  John was forgetting one crucial aspect of Evan’s life—the one that tossed his reliability out the window. Even accepting the offer to be best man had been shitty and unfair to John, because Evan couldn’t guarantee his presence at the wedding. He’d already burned leave for the first two busted dates. This time, he’d have to play Russian roulette over the scheduling.

  “What if I get called away?” His team wasn’t slated to leave the states for a long-term deployment any time soon, but that didn’t mean anything. They could be called on at any moment, for any length of time.

  John shrugged. “All the more reason not to waste time arguing when you know you’re going to end up saying yes, anyway.”

  “You’re an asshole.”

  “Say it,” John encouraged, making Evan laugh. “You know you want to.”

  “Fine,” he conceded, not even trying to hide his grumpiness. He didn’t know anything about planning a wedding. “I’ll help you.” Evan waited for John to finish his celebratory fist pumps before he continued. “But if this thing goes sideways, I am not taking the fall. As her future husband, Chloe has to forgive you. Me, on the other hand…I do not need her hating me forever.”

  “Got it. If we fuck this up, it’s all on me. Done.”

  “Not if, my man. When.” Evan groaned and resisted the urge to drop his face into his hands. He suddenly wished they were in a bar instead of a coffeeshop. He could use a shot of liquid stronger than espresso. “Two heterosexual dudes planning an entire wedding,” he mused. “This is gonna be the worst event in recorded history.”

  “If you believe that, you obviously haven’t spent much time on the Internet. We got this. And besides, it won’t be just the two of us. I might be crazy, but I’m not stupid. I found someone to help.”

  “Well, that’s a relief.” Evan relaxed somewhat. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. “We’re gonna need all the help we can get. Makes sense to get a wedding planner. Good thinking.”

  He extended his fist for John to bump.

  “Oh, Presley isn’t a wedding planner,” John said as their knuckles clashed. “She owns a nursery and flower shop. Chloe met her last year when we initially started talking about the wedding. They became fast friends. When I reached out to Presley to tell her we were rescheduling, she was gracious and offered to help in any way she could. I probably shouldn’t have, but I didn’t hesitate. I told her my idea. She loved it. She seemed excited about planning a surprise for Chloe.” John’s chest puffed out. “She called me a romantic and said the world could use more men like me.”

  If Evan’s head weren’t buzzing, he might’ve had a smart-ass retort about the kind of men the world needed. As it was, Evan’s brain was dialed in on a name he hadn’t expected to hear, ever again.

  “Presley?” Evan asked slowly, his heart rate kicking up a notch. “The woman’s name is Presley?”

  It couldn’t be. Granted, Presley wasn’t a common first name, but there had to be more than one, right?

  “Yeah. She owns Masters Flower House and Greenery, that big place off the freeway.” John’s face lit up, and his gaze focused over Evan’s left shoulder. “Oh, here she comes. We need her help—so please, for the love of God, Evan, don’t try to get in her pants.”

  His head was still spinning. “Why would I—”

  “Because you’re you.”

  The man had a point. He was far from a man-whore—that title belonged to his teammate C-Note—but Evan was a single guy with a high-stress job. Some guys worked out their stress at the gym. Evan worked his out in bed.

  So, sue me.

  He’d never had any complaints.

  John stood and clapped him on the shoulder before Evan could give his word to behave. “Everything’s going to be great. You’ll see.”

  What Evan saw as he turned was a pair of bare legs. Toned, tanned, sexy-as-fuck legs that ended with feet tucked into equally sexy black heels. The sixteen-year-old girl he remembered would never have worn heels like those. Or had legs like that.

  Evan sat up straight. He scrubbed a hand over his chin as he took a lazy tour over the rest of her. Those gorgeous legs disappeared under the hem of a red dress. A dress that was wider above her knees but tapered and hugged the gentle curve of her waist like a dream. A dream that turned wet by the time he got to her breasts. Encased in red and framed by silky-looking hair the color of milk chocolate swirled with honey, her tits were pert and round. The dress he could easily envision lying on his living room floor offered an enticing hint of cleavage.

  He had enough self-control not to pop wood in the middle of a coffee shop, but damn. What he wouldn’t do if he had those curves under him.

  He slid his gaze higher. Up her slim neck to her delicate chin. Over her full lips, her slightly imperfect nose, and, holy shit, her eyes…

  Evan froze.

  There was only one female with eyes that vivid shade of green. It was her. Presley Masters.

  Interest faded into questions.
What was she…why was she…what the hell?

  “Hey, Presley,” John greeted cheerfully, waving her over.

  God, she was beautiful.

  That was the last thought Evan had before the past came rushing back with a speed that stole his breath. He cursed and curled his fingers into his palms, the sudden need to strangle his best friend making his fingers twitch.

  2

  Presley came to an abrupt halt a few feet inside the door of the coffee shop, unable to believe her eyes. She blinked a few times, wondering if she needed to change out her contact lenses, but the view remained the same. Indeed, her ex-boyfriend was sitting with the guy she’d arranged to meet.

  A sudden burst of curiosity forced her feet to move. That, and the need not to have the door hit her in the backside if someone entered the shop behind her.

  Evan-freaking-Lancaster.

  Of all the people she could’ve anticipated running into today, he wouldn’t have made the list. Why would he? As far as she knew, he’d fallen off the face of the earth, years ago. These days, he was nothing more than a memory that haunted her dreams, usually after she’d a few too many glasses of wine.

  Um, that’s not a memory ogling my legs.

  In a heartbeat, she took him in. His hair was darker, shorter, buzzed within an inch of its life. Even seated he was tall. At six-feet-two, he’d towered over her smaller frame, back in the day. He took up more space than she remembered, his body thick with the muscles that bunched and flexed beneath his dark gray T-shirt.

  There was ink decorating what she could see of his left arm. Presley took another step, wanting a closer look. Dying to know what he loved so much that he was willing to permanently mark his own skin in tribute.