Page 3 of The SEALs' Single Mom Baby Surprise

This batch isn’t in the original order, nor does it match any purchase orders I’ve been provided. The item IDs and serial numbers don’t match what’s been documented. It sends me in circles.

Warren stops by my desk, looming for a full minute without saying anything before I turn to him with a brow raised.

“Go to lunch, Specialist Montgomery.”

“Ooh, both names at once. I’m in trouble.” I turn back to the computer, flagging the cleaning equipment/tear gas, making a note, and sending it through the cogs.

I log out of my computer and face Warren’s pursed frown. He’s hiding a smile. I can tell by his eyes, but I hold my hands up to appease him.

“I’m going. I’m going.”

2

SLOANE

Lunch doesn’t provide me with the break I need. When anxiety is stuck to me like a conjoined twin, I can find little in the way of relaxation. Cleaning is the only thing to do the trick. And that’s not my job most days.

Not at work.

Sighing into my peanut butter and jelly sandwich, I cringe through the chunky bits of peanut. I grabbed this jar instead of the smooth, and Reese will not let me hear the end of it. Too bad we didn’t notice until I opened it.

Now, I can’t return it, so we’re stuck with it until the jar is gone.

Oh, the joys of having no money. Of having the next paycheck already spoken for and not a penny to waste. Of not wanting to explain that to my six-year-old daughter.

Peanut sticks in my teeth, and I huff.

If only it were the biggest problem in my life…

My mind turns back to those serial numbers. If I hadn’t looked and just checked off the contents based on the description, no one would have noticed. How many times have I not noticed?

The itching gets worse and I rub my scalp, willing my ever-present headache away. I should really go to the clinic to grab some ibuprofen. I’m overdue for a check-up. That’s another rabbit hole I don’t need to fall down.

Wiping my hands down my pants, effectively brushing crumbs off, I march back to the office. Those serial numbers won’t let go of me.

I don’t like mistakes.

Sliding behind my desk, I dig into the records, checking for other anomalies, other errors. I highlight as I go, printing when I find one for my physical records—something I feel better having. Electronic records can be erased. And sure, paper copies can be lost, too, but I like keeping backups.

I enjoy the visceral feeling of highlighting the page.

As I collect more sheets, something pops out at me that I didn’t catch on the screen. Another bonus to having both forms… one of the helpful lessons I learned from Alistair… is that the eye catches on different things.

The name on the forms with the mistakes are all the same, and it’s not someone I’m familiar with.

Caspian Vorn.

I pride myself on at least being familiar with the names on my manifests. Why have I never seen this one before if he’s on so many of the forms?

Only two of us handle the inventory manifests.

And speaking of the devil, Edmund is lurking by the end of his desk, not quite hovering at mine, but it’s odd just the same. He usually stops to chat or waves on his way by, but he never lingers.

“What are you working on? You’ve got a bit of that manic energy you get when you’ve found a mistake.”

Oh, so that’s why he’s being nervous. “Just a few mismarked crates. An unfamiliar name. Nothing to worry about.”

Although I have a feeling the more I dig, the more I will find.

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