Page 119 of California Wild

She twirled her fork between her fingers, gaze steady. “Would you be into popping over?”

He blinked.

She gave a soft shrug. “I’d love to see your world. Your friends. Feel like a normal couple for a night.”

His knife stilled.

He met her eyes across the kitchen, that flicker in his chest tightening. She didn’t realize what she’d just said. Or maybe she did.

His world.

His team.

The part of him she’d never seen—not really. Not the grit and weight and violence of it. Not the brothers. Not what six weeks in a jungle did to your brain. What it scraped clean.

Jesse cleared his throat, gave her a small smirk. “Yeah. We can go.”

He grabbed a towel, wiped his hands, and crossed to the table. “Isaac said it’s nothing big. Just a few of the guys hanging out on the patio. They’ve got that acoustic band that plays Saturdays.”

Her lips curved. “Live music?”

“Mm.” He grinned. “You know Isaac. He’s already betting you’ll cave and take the mic.”

She groaned, leaning back in the chair. “You’re all relentless.”

“We’re a good time,” Jesse said, nudging her plate a little closer. “Eat.”

She stabbed a piece of steak and took a bite—and immediately hummed in approval. “Okay, wait. That’s insane. Like… annoyingly good.”

Jesse smirked, sitting across from her. “Told you.”

A beat passed. Then—“Do you think I should do it?” she asked. “Sing?”

He looked at her. Really looked at her. Her flushed cheeks, the faint shadows of exhaustion under her eyes, the way she touched her stomach without thinking, protective and gentle.

“I think,” Jesse said slowly, “you should do whatever the hell makes you feel alive.”

Her breath caught.

And for a second, she didn’t say anything. Just sat there, looking at him like she was trying to memorize this version of him.

Not the chaos. Not the fire.

But the man who’d made her dinner.

The man who wanted her in every quiet, unguarded way.

She took another bite. Jesse watched her chew, watched the way her shoulders eased, and felt something deep in his chest shift.

* * * * *

Jesse had walked into McP’s more times than he could count. The place was etched into the DNA of every SEAL who’d ever rotated through Coronado—worn wooden floors, rusted surfboards nailed to the walls, the smell of salt and spilled beer soaked into the bones of the place. The patio buzzed with off-duty operators, sleeves rolled, boots kicked up, that familiar mix of testosterone and gallows humor thick in the air.

Live music pulsed from inside—gritty, classic rock, the kind of shit that never went out of style around here. The walls were covered in framed tridents, fading team photos, and the names of guys who didn’t come home.

Jesse had never brought a woman here.

Not once.

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