Still Her SEAL (ASSIGNMENT: Caribbean Nights Book 10) Read Online Free PDF Page A

divorced, but turns out I wasn’t.”
    The words shoot out of my mouth, interrupting her stream of babble. “What went wrong?”
    Always take care of business yourself. Don’t leave shit up to others or you’ll end up in the center of a shit storm. No chances, no uncertainty. Just fucking do it. These are important rules that I should have remembered.
    She aims a blinding smile in my direction. Hello, evil smile of misdirection. I remind myself that I’m entirely, completely Hindi-proof. “I’m sure we can get a real divorce pronto.”
    “We’re married?”
    She nods and holds up two crossed fingers. “Pinky promise.”
    I swear to God, she’s seconds away from levitating in place because she shifts nervously from foot to foot, all but hopping. I’ve never, ever fucking hurt her, so I’m not sure what I’ve done to deserve the nerve show.
    “How?”
    “Apparently, a piece of paper never got filed.”
    “I signed all of the paperwork you sent me. You were responsible for delivering it to the courthouse.” Since divorce lawyers aren’t exactly a dime a dozen in Afghanistan, I’d let Hindi handle this one. Plus, since we didn’t have kids or joint property acquired after our wedding, it hadn’t been complicated. She’d kept what was hers; I’d kept what was mine. I’d insisted on depositing a check in her account, however—she’d always been tight on money, and—sue me—I didn’t want her going without.
    She nods vigorously. “You were awesome.”
    Great. Just what any man wants to hear.
    “So what happened?”
    “I forgot to take the papers to the courthouse.”
    I pinch the bridge of my nose, which only makes me realize that, fuck, now I both look and act like my dad. And while I love the man, I don’t need to mimic him. I force my hand back down to my side.
    She sort of squints at me. “You’re upset.”
    Right there? Understatement of the year.
    “How do you forget to take care of something that important? Christ. The IRS alone is going to have a field day with us.”
    Hindi flaps her hands, making these little spluttering noises. Clearly, she has no idea how she overlooked this massive, critical, non-negotiable step in our divorce, either. At least we’re agreed on that. The dress she’s wearing has one of those clingy, puckered fronts held up by tiny ribbons that crisscross her shoulders. Hindi loves that kind of feminine shit. I watched her TV show once, right after we split up, and the underwear she made was similar. Delicate, lacy stuff that seems like it would tear with one good tug and yet damned if it doesn’t cup and hold and scoop.
    Guys love lingerie. We look at a matching bra and panty set as an engraved invitation to take you to bed (since clearly you were thinking about it when you put that kind of effort into getting dressed). I enjoy a nice pair of tits as much as any man, and a bra that holds your girls up is like a fantastic silver platter. It’s like Hindi read the minds of guys everywhere, because her bras do just that—and yet they still maintain the illusion that one good tug and you’ll pop out into my hands. Or better yet, I’ll rip the silky straps from your skin, toss the scrap onto the floor, and give your main attraction my undivided attention.
    Hindi’s tiny, tight bodice inches down with each indignant breath she takes, revealing the creamy edge of a strapless bra. She may suck at paperwork and follow-through, but she is one hell of a designer. My fingers itch to help the scrap of fabric down. Do some of that tearing I just mentioned.
    My dick is stupid. It still likes Hindi Alvarez just fine.
    She inhales. The dress slips lower. There are little yellow ribbons on whatever’s standing between me and her tits. “Look,” she snaps. “I’m sorry. I screwed up. I’m staying in a rental in Angel Cay. We’ll fix it and then you can get on with your life, okay?”
    There’s a long, long pause. I’m supposed to fill in this silence with words. It’s