Page 9 of Wrong Number Right Grumpy Navy SEAL

The wind pushes my hair across my face. I reach up to fix it, but his hand gets there first, his knuckles grazing my jaw as he tucks the strand behind my ear. His thumb traces my cheekbone, slow, barely there, and everything below my waist clenches so hard that my breath comes out in gasps. His face is right there, his mouth is right there, and if I lean forward two inches, I can finally find out what he tastes like.

“Thank you,” I whisper. “For everything.”

He drops his hand, and the loss of it aches. His thigh presses harder against mine as the wheel turns and brings us back to ground. I let my shoulder settle against his arm, feeling his breathing change. I don’t want to go back down.

In the crowd between rides, his hand stays on my lower back, guiding me through the crowds. The easy, automatic way he does it unlocks a deep yearning in me.

My mother’s voice, clear as Sunday morning: Marry a man who does that without being asked. It means he’s always thinking of you, even when surrounded by other people.

I lean into his hand instead of pulling away.

Cole hits every target at the shooting gallery. Every. Single. One.

The guy running the booth goes quiet when Cole sets the rifle down.

“Pick one,” he says, nodding at the top row.

I pick the biggest, most ridiculous stuffed bear on the wall. It’s white and enormous, roughly the size of a golden retriever. The guy unhooks it and frowns when he hands it over.

“You could’ve warned him,” I say, watching Cole take the bear one-handed and tuck it under his arm like it’s a football.

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“How many targets was that?”

“Twelve.” He steers me away from the booth with his free hand on my lower back, casual, like he didn’t just hoodwink the guy running the game.

“Out of?”

“Twelve.”

I look at the bear, then back at him. “Is there anything you’re bad at?”

He thinks about it. “Karaoke. I don’t sing. Not even in the shower.”

I laugh, and the sound still takes me by surprise. I keep hearing it come out of me and thinking I’d forgotten what it’s like to laugh like this. Like I’d forgotten how to laugh and didn’t realize it until Cole dragged me to axe throwing last night and a county fair today, and won me a bear the size of a Labrador.

We find a food stand, and I order a funnel cake loaded with powdered sugar, strawberries, whipped cream, the works. I take a bite so big that I have to close my eyes. Sugar on my lips, strawberry on my tongue, warm dough that I feel all the way down.

“God, I missed this,” I say, licking powdered sugar off my thumb.

Cole watches me—not the way Jason watched me eat, that quiet, calculating look that always ended with a comment about carbs or how my thighs didn’t need the help. Cole watches me like the sight of me enjoying food is the best thing he’s seen all day.

“My ex had opinions about what I ate,” I confess. “How much. How often. He thought my body needed managing.”

Cole goes still, and his jaw hardens. His hand curls into a fist on the table, slow enough to be almost unnoticeable.

“You’re gorgeous.” His voice is low, but it’s not shy. “He was a fucking idiot. And we shouldn’t waste time talking about him.”

The words make me speechless. Not because no one’s ever called me gorgeous, but because Cole says it like fact. Like he’s genuinely confused that anyone could look at me and reach a different conclusion.

My eyes sting. I blink hard and take another bite so I don’t have to speak.

“I’m serious,” he says, quieter. “Every part of you.”

I look up at him. His expression is steady and open. Two years with Jason, and I can’t remember him ever looking at me like this. Like my body wasn’t a project. Like I was perfect exactly as I am.

“Thank you,” I say, my voice rough.