Ambushed by Love Read online

  Hands grabbed her—hey, buddy, that’s not exactly gentle as advertised—and hauled her into the dip in the mattress before she could respond. But as soon as she stopped moving and the body shifted, a heavy weight against and around her, she responded like a demon spawn.

  “Get off me!” She shoved hard, but inefficiently, and then scrabbled for a better…anything. Hold, leverage point, something to bite. She wasn’t picky.

  She was in bed with a stranger and he was ten seconds away from—

  His hand slid under her shirt and his fingers splayed wide across her bare skin.

  —groping her.

  Too late.

  “Stop. Fire. Fire!” Why didn’t that work? “Hey, buddy, wake the hell up! I’m not Bia.”

  The body froze.

  A long, agonizing beat stretched wide, then he was gone, shoving away from her as he jumped out of her bed.

  She was about to follow him with more indignant yelling when she realized he was…not crying, exactly. But something.

  Groaning.

  Swearing, in an agonized way.

  Besides, she wasn’t sure she could leap out of bed in the same agile way he did.

  Oh, was he was one of the muscle men? Damn it, she’d been so focused on not being molested that she’d forgotten how youthful some of the men around here were. Youthful, nimble, and…still moaning.

  Maybe he’d wounded himself on the way out of bed.

  “Are you okay?” If he was, her next question was going to be if he knew where the light switch was.

  But he didn’t answer.

  “Don’t tell anyone about this,” he rasped.

  How could she? She still didn’t really understand what this was. “Of course not.” And then after another awkward, very silent beat, she added, “What were you doing in my bed?”

  “It’s my bed.”

  “But this is my cabin.”

  “Clearly not.”

  Was it clear? Nothing felt clear. Her head started to pound, and she wiggled herself off the bed, the opposite side from him. “I’m going to go.”

  “Where?”

  “My cabin.”

  “You thought this was your cabin.”

  “But it’s clearly not, as you just said.”

  “Why did you think this was your cabin?”

  “Because I have the packet in my bag,” she explained dumbly. “From registration.”

  “Show me.”

  “What?” She stepped toward the door, blindly reaching for her tote bag. Her hand came up empty.

  The man had better luck. He swung it in the air. Maybe he wasn’t three sheets to the wind, or he had the night vision of an owl. Maybe both. Damn, to be sober and sharp-eyed.

  “That’s mine.”

  “You’re drunk,” he said slowly.

  “Uh…” She took a deep breath. “That’s none of your beeswax.”

  He chuckled.

  Laughed.

  He’d been nearly in tears before, then he’d asked her to keep that a secret—which of course she would, she was a nice person—and now he was laughing at her? She didn’t think he knew how this empathy thing worked.

  “Don’t make fun of tipsy people,” she said sourly. “It’s not nice.”

  “You’re swaying on the spot, lady. How about I help you find your cabin?”

  “How about you help me find my tote bag?” She swiped at it and missed. “Hey!”

  He reached in and pulled out the papers she’d looked at.

  “See?”

  “Oh, I see.” He turned them around. Like she could see anything. He knew she couldn’t. “These are mine. You must have picked them up off the registration table. I didn’t take them with me, I just memorized my cabin number.”

  “So, where’s my cabin?” She may have shrieked the question, but ten-thirty at night was not the time to realize you didn’t know where your bed was when you turned into an inebriated pumpkin.

  And sleeping with the angry, sad man was not an option.

  Maybe he could sleep on the floor.

  No. That was the tequila talking. Not helpful. She took a deep breath and ground the heel of her hand into her left eyeball. “Think, Grace.”

  “You’re Grace?” He chuckled again.

  He needed to stop laughing at her. “Hey, buddy, you go to bed at nine o’clock at night, or whatever, so you can just suck it with the superior attitude, okay?”

  “Okay, lady. Come on.”

  The next thing she knew, she was being propelled out of his cabin and away from the only bed she was sure she had access to tonight. But he didn’t shove her far, just down the porch to a matching screen door. It turned out his cabin was one half of a cabin building, and there was another suite on the other side.

  “I think this is your place,” he said gruffly as he flipped on the light. “One of the staff members mentioned that my neighbor’s name was Grace.”

  Sure enough, in the middle of the floor was her backpack.

  Oh, yes.

  She pumped her fist in the air and nearly toppled over, but firm, very sober hands caught her.

  Oh, no.

  A sinking, sobering realization skittered through her.

  Angry, Sad Man was her next-door neighbor. And he thought—correctly—that she was a ditzy drunk.

  That was it. Her camp career was over before it even began. What a complete disaster.

  Damn.

  Chapter 3

  Frank didn’t sleep again that night. He lay on top of the soft white quilt and let anger and self-loathing twist in his gut, not caring in the least that it wasn’t a healthy way to deal with what had happened.

  At one point he realized his face was wet, and he desperately wished he’d stolen a bottle of tequila from the main lodge. At another point he found himself face down, buried in the pillows, and he wasn’t sure he wasn’t silently screaming.

  Just make it to the morning, he told himself. He’d sort his shit out then.

  For now, he was wallowing in the stark, blinding grief of waking up to Not Bia in his arms. And the warped, upsetting feeling that his body hadn’t cared, that his body had just been happy to have another source of heat to wrap around.

  Heat, curves, sweetness.

  As soon as he’d realized what was happening, he’d let her go. But somewhere in there had been a millisecond when he’d wanted to keep holding the faceless, nameless woman because she felt good against him.

  And he fucking hated himself for that.

  In the morning, he’d get that under control.

  For now, though, the train was pulling into Loathing Central in his head, and he didn’t give a damn if that wasn’t a good idea.

  Grace woke up full of regret—and that was before she tried to roll over.

  Oh, Jesus, her head.

  She was never drinking ever again.

  Why was she up, anyway? It was… She lifted her eyes just enough to gingerly search for a clock.

  No clock.

  No clue what time it was.

  The light streaming in the window wasn’t blazing yet. And then in the distance she heard a bell. Maybe that was what had woken her up. Breakfast call.

  She didn’t want to eat anything. She wanted to stay in bed and think hard about what she’d done.

  “Ms. Bennett?”

  She groaned at the sound of the voice from outside.

  It was followed by a knock.

  Go away, she thought about saying, but that wasn’t in the camp spirit. “Yes?”

  “Breakfast hours have begun,” someone said, far too cheerily. “And Heather is going to do her welcome to camp spiel in half an hour. Orient everyone to the day’s activities.”

  That didn’t sound optional. Well, it was, of course, but only if Grace wanted to skip the rest of the day.

  Could she skip the entire week? Have sandwiches sent over until Tegan arrived Friday night?

  And then what? You’ll tell your daughter you got blitzed out of your mind, crawl
ed into a man’s bed, kind of enjoyed the way he felt you up until it got weird and awkward, and then…you chickened out of life?

  Right. No, she wasn’t going do that.

  “I’m up,” she called out. “Thank you. I’ll be there soon.”

  It took her twenty-five minutes. A hot shower, a clean change of clothes, and a loose bun for her still-damp hair made a world of difference.

  By the time she got to the dining hall, most people looked like they were finishing up their breakfast. She quickly walked down the buffet line, grabbed a croissant, a couple of sausages, and a few orange slices.

  What she really wanted was coffee.

  And just like that, a carafe appeared in front of her, attached to a nicely muscled arm. Seriously, where did Heather Tully find all these handsome young men? She followed it—him—to a table.

  It was only after she gratefully thanked him for the coffee that she realized she was two tables away from the Angry, Sad Man who was also her Next-Door Neighbor.

  The two labels blared like car horns in her head. Extra-loud warnings she didn’t need, because she saw him. He hadn’t seen her yet, though. He was reading something on his phone, his jaw tense and his plate empty.

  She shoved some croissant in her mouth and got a better look at him now. Everyone here this week was in their fifties, although he wasn’t built like any middle-aged man she’d ever seen before. He was big and solid, like a tank, and he had a short hair cut like…

  She choked on her croissant.

  He had a short haircut like Wyatt, her soon-to-be son-in-law.

  This man was military, she was sure of it.

  She pulled out her own phone, not caring at all that it was only five in the morning on the west coast where her daughter currently was.

  Grace: SOS from camp, daughter-of-mine. Any Navy SEALs here early for Silver Fox Week?

  Tegan didn’t reply. So Grace swallowed another chunk of croissant, chased it down with coffee, and texted Wyatt. It was an emergency, after all.

  Grace: Hi Wyatt. Can you tell Tegan I texted her?

  Wyatt: Morning, Grace. How’s camp?

  Clearly he hadn’t picked up on the emergency vibe from her be-cool text. She abandoned all pretense.

  Grace: Eventful so far. I had an awkward exchange with another camper last night.

  Wyatt: Fistfight eventful or wore-the-same-dress eventful?

  Grace: I had a few too many drinks and crawled into the wrong bed.

  He didn’t reply right away. That was probably the wrong thing to text your son-in-law. She was shit at this whole thing. When her phone lit up a few moments later, she was relieved to see her daughter’s name on the screen.

  Tegan: Mom, I’m up. Sort of. Wyatt’s making me coffee. What did you do?

  Grace: It’s a long story. Do you have an answer to my question about Navy SEALs being here, maybe?

  Tegan: Oh no. Mom, tell me you didn’t.

  Grace: Who is he, baby?

  Tegan: Oh, shit. MOM.

  Grace: WHAT? I DON’T KNOW WHAT I DID.

  She took a surreptitious picture and texted it to her daughter.

  Grace: WHO IS THIS?

  Tegan: His name is Frank. He’s the retiring base commander.

  Grace: So, he’ll be at the wedding?

  Tegan: Oh yeah.

  Grace: Great.

  Tegan: That’s not all.

  Grace: Even better. Hit me with it all.

  Tegan: He’s a widower.

  Bia. The wounded, aching sound.

  The pit of Grace’s stomach fell away, hollowing out the inside of her body. Oh, shit was right.

  Tegan: Mom?

  Grace: I’ll fix this.

  Tegan: Maybe don’t do anything.

  On the other side of the room, Heather Tully climbed onto a chair and hollered a cheery greeting as she held a piece of paper in the air. “Good morning, campers! Did everyone get their schedule for the day? Each morning this will be delivered to your cabin—” Grace had clearly missed that in her rush to get to breakfast. “But it’s also posted in the main lodge, outside the dining hall, and today we have extra copies here as well. Raise your hand if you need one.”

  Grace didn’t bother. She’d scurry back to her cabin at the first opportunity and look at it there in the safety of her solitude.

  Heather continued. “Also, take a look to your left and right, folks. This is the highest enrolment of singles in any of our camp sessions.” She said it with a nudge-nudge, wink-wink tease in her voice, and everyone shifted in their seats, an excited murmur rising from the crowd.

  Jeepers, you’d think none of these people had been laid in the last year.

  Grace tried to hide behind her coffee mug.

  “You’re going to be making new friends all week, and today’s activities are all designed to help with that.”

  No, no, oh God, no. The noise level bumped up another notch as prime candidates were eyed up lasciviously, and Grace realized her mug wasn’t going to protect her.

  Get a grip, Grace Bennett. You can—

  “You’ll need a buddy for kayak lessons, macramé in the Arts and Crafts building, and then at lunch, we’re going to do picnics for two out of the boat house!”

  Nope. She could not do a picnic for two. Forced romance was a fate worse than death. Maybe kayaking. Kayaking sounded safe… But who would she be willing to get in a boat with?

  Apparently, she wasn’t alone in turning her head to check out the Navy SEAL commander two tables over. Grace watched in a mix of horror, shock, and black amusement as all the women in the room honed-in on Angry, Sad Neighbor. Frank. Wyatt’s boss, so-to-speak, and a widower.

  Maybe not all the women in the room. Eighty-six percent of them. There were a few in the back who couldn’t see him, couldn’t see how the way he was built like a concrete wall.

  She knew firsthand how powerful his body felt. He would be an excellent partner for kayak lessons. And he could carry twenty picnic baskets at once.

  This was a disaster.

  She tapped her phone. Tegan had told her not to do anything, but…

  Grace: Little late for that, baby. But don’t worry. I’ll make it up to him.

  Tegan: I can fly out tomorrow if you need me.

  Grace: I’m fine. Go back to sleep and dream of wedding things.

  She wasn’t fine, truthfully. She was still mortified about last night. But her neighbor had looked devastated last night, and right now he looked like he might blow a gasket any second. In the hierarchy of emotional need, he won. Or lost, as it were. Either way, she didn’t have any business feeling sorry for herself. She took a deep breath and stood up, picked up her coffee, and pointed herself in his direction.

  Frank noticed in his peripheral vision as his flaky blonde neighbor approached. At least she didn’t seem drunk this morning. Frazzled, but not intoxicated.

  Good for her.

  He didn’t look up until she came to a nervous, skittish halt next to his table.

  “I’m Grace,” she said with more resolve than he expected.

  “I know who you are. And I know you took my picture a minute ago.”

  Her cheeks turned pink. “Oh.”

  “Why’d you take my picture?”

  “It’s a long story. But what it boils down to is I want to apologize for last night.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “Okay.” She sat down across from him.

  That wasn’t necessary either. He frowned.

  She smiled brightly, pushing through her nerves. “Do you want to go on a picnic?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Neither do I. But we’re both about to be partnered up with people who do, so…hello, partner. Let’s dodge out of things together. Officially.”

  “Officially?”

  “Unofficially, we’ll go our separate ways as soon as humanly possible.”

  Frank was used to a lot of weird shit. The navy was super political once you got to a certain rank.
He had batshit insane neighbors who had rules for maintaining the so-called “character” of Coronado Beach. Bianca’s family had driven him nuts with expectations for reunions and holidays.

  But he didn’t know what to make of this woman. This…Grace.

  She’d annoyed him on the bus and at registration. Canoli Girl didn’t like military types, and that was before she’d crawled into his bed and sent him spiralling hard into grief again.

  That’s not on her. No, it wasn’t.

  But three strikes and you’re out, lady.

  “Listen,” she whispered, leaning in. “I, uh… The thing is—”

  “Excuse me,” another woman said, stopping beside their table and interrupting Grace. “You look like a man who knows his way around a canoe.”

  Swift boats were more his speed, but he could probably do anything with a paddle. “I’m afraid of water,” he heard himself saying. Great, sixteen hours into camping and he was already a liar.

  The woman didn’t care. “How about lunch, then?”

  She was pretty. Dark-haired like Bianca, curvy in all the right places. Also like Bianca. Tall, like—

  “He has a picnic partner already,” Grace said before taking a loud sip of coffee. She stared, unblinking, at the other woman until she turned and left.

  “I do?” Frank asked her, feeling gruff and out of sorts.

  Grace rolled her eyes. “Not really. Focus. I’m here to be whatever kind of beard you need.”

  “I don’t need a beard. I handled that just fine.” He frowned. “Didn’t I?”

  “You had a lost look on your face and spent four seconds too long checking out her cleavage. She was going to hook you somewhere along the way.”

  She thought he’d been checking out that woman? Oh, boy howdy was she wrong, and he told her as much.

  Grace wasn’t deterred. “You didn’t not check out her cleavage,” she said. “Which is fine. Boobs are great. But the boobs here are looking for rings and 401ks.”

  Boobs are great. What a thing for a stranger to say over breakfast. He took a deep breath. “That’s cynical.”