Page 8 of Protected By the SEAL
“When I’m what?” She turns slightly, looking up at me.
“When you’re the best person I know.”
Her eyes go soft. “Kane...”
“I mean it. You’re brilliant and kind and funny. You remember everyone’s birthday. Give pro bono financial advice to seniors because you want them to be secure. And you’re the first person to show up when someone needs help.”
“Stop,” she whispers, but she’s leaning back into me now.
“You deserve better than their petty judgments and backhanded compliments. You deserve people who see you.”
“You see me,” she says quietly.
“Yeah. I do.”
We stand there for a moment, her back pressed to my chest, my arms bracketing her against the terrace railing. The tension from the tasting room bleeds away.
“Ready to go back in?” I ask eventually.
“Do we have to?”
“Probably. But I’ll run interference. You focus on the wine.”
She turns in my arms, looking up at me with something vulnerable in her expression. “What would I do without you?”
“Lucky for you, you’ll never have to find out.”
I’m sittingon the bed in sweats and a t-shirt, laptop open, trying to catch up on some work emails. But I haven’t really been focusing. I can’t stop thinking about the way Morgana looked during that wine tasting, the way her family made her shrink. Frustration and anger surge through me as I think about how her family treats her.
My phone buzzes. When I finally checked my messages, the group chat had exploded.These guys need to lay off, I think. But then I see it’s Morgana.
Still awake?
Yeah. What’s up?
Need company. Coming over.
I open the door to find her in sleep shorts and an old concert t-shirt. Her hair’s in a messy bun, face scrubbed clean of makeup. She looks so pretty that my heart aches.
“Hey,” she says quietly. “Can I come in? I can’t sleep.”
“Come here.” I step back, letting her in.
She makes a beeline for my bed, curling up against the headboard with her knees pulled to her chest. I can see the day’s weight in the slump of her shoulders.
“Today was brutal,” she admits.
“Your family’s brutal,” I correct, sitting beside her.
She gives a watery laugh. “Yeah.”
I crack open the minibar and pull out two tiny bottles of whiskey. “Medicinal purposes.”
“My hero.”
We sit side by side, backs against the headboard, shoulders touching. She sips her whiskey and winces.
“God, that’s terrible.”
