Page 40 of The SEALs' Single Mom Baby Surprise

And I do my best not to think about the way she felt in my arms. How natural it was to lay a kiss on the top of her head. How much I want to still be holding onto her.

It’s been so long since I wanted something like that for longer than a passing fancy.

Which means I can’t let myself indulge in Sloane. Not if it will hurt her in the long run.

Fuck, I could use a drink.

I’ve already made my plan, and now all that’s left to do is wait. It’s not something I’m particularly good at without something to work on, something to keep my hands busy. Especially with what I want my hands to be busy with.

Which leaves me in the cycle of thinking about the woman in the other room, asleep and wrapped around her sweet little girl, and chiding myself for thinking of her. For the sexual fantasies, of what her skin would feel like under my callused palms, under my mouth, but also for the smaller thoughts that reach way deeper.

The ones of holding her against me with an old movie playing on the TV, of tucking her between me and the counter as we cook, of simply coming home to her after a long day and being greeted with her smile and a small kiss. The all-consuming hug given by tiny arms.

All of the things I miss about having a family.

I’m pulled out of the cyclone of wishing and reality when Shepard and Hastings check in. They weren’t able to find a safe house close to the base, and the others weren’t a good fit, so they’re securing my place.

It’s not the first time we’ve kept someone safe at my house.

Shepard will keep it under surveillance tonight, and Hastings will acquire the necessities to house the two young women that I don’t traditionally keep. It’s not furnished with much, but by the way Sloane and Reese are living right now, they won’t need much to make it livable for them.

A new set of sheets for the small bed upstairs. Maybe a few new stuffed animals, books, and art supplies will set Reese up nicely.

But what does Sloane need? Other than to stand on her own two feet.

It’s obvious she’s unwilling to give up her independence. How much will she balk at our moving them into my house?

The same thoughts tear through me again.

What will it be like to have her sleep in my bed? Or will she crowd in with Reese like she thinks she needs to?

I give in, letting the thoughts and daydreams take me as the hours pass by.

In the morning, when I first hear them stirring, I prop myself in the kitchen to make some scrambled eggs and toast since not much else is available.

Today, I’ve decided that I want the story about why she’s living like this, why she has so little, and why everything connected to her is brand-new. Everything but her car, which has someone else’s name on it. An Alistair Fitzwilliam. Her ex. Or that’s what I assume based on the information Shepard and Hastings have relayed to me.

That’s my starting point.

What I’ve learned about him so far—simply based on the way she reacts to us—is not good.

I just need to hear the specifics from her. I don’t like leaping to conclusions. Even when I do, my gut can only tell me so much.

Sloane is sleepy-eyed when she stumbles out of the bathroom. Her hair is a wild cascade of waves that beg for my hands to rifle through them.

I steer her toward the table and set a plate in front of her with a fork and do the same when Reese bounces into the room. I smile as Reese sits down, and Reese smiles back.

“You didn’t have to make breakfast.” The soft huskiness of Sloane’s voice rumbles with traces of sleep.

I shrug. “Wasn’t any trouble.”

Yet, Sloane doesn’t stop watching me.

“Do I have egg on my face?” I bite back a grin as that jars her stare free for a moment.

“No. Just trying to figure you out.” She takes a bite of eggs and sighs.

I’m sure hers are better. She acts like no one’s ever made her breakfast before.

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