Hot SEAL, Dirty Martini Page 4

  “All right, let’s go with that then,” Clay agreed, trying and failing at calculating in his head what that would do to the down payment amount and his savings account balance and his monthly mortgage payments.

  “Great. I’ll present that number to the seller right away and get back to you.”

  “Thanks.” His mood had deflated exponentially since he’d picked up the cell. He had to know if it was going to fall any further. “Um, Ramirez, do you think I have any chance of getting it?”

  If this became a bidding war and he was up against some real estate developer with tons of financial resources, Clay knew he’d lose. He had limited savings, all from pinching pennies while in the Navy with an eye toward a comfortable retirement. He didn’t want to take on a huge mortgage at this point in his life.

  “I think you’re in a very competitive position. You’re a veteran. Local. Preapproved for a mortgage. You plan to live there yourself rather than flip it. I’ll make sure the seller knows. I think that will work in your favor.”

  How had this guy learned all that about him in the few short hours they’d spent together looking at properties, during which Clay had done his best to not give too much away?

  Ramirez was better at his job than he’d given him credit for. And if he really was going to put in a good word for him with the seller, Clay owed the man more than the bad attitude he’d been giving him.

  “Thank you. I appreciate it.” Clay couldn’t muster optimism, but he was slightly less deflated than he had been a moment ago.

  The agent seemed to be on his side. That had to be better than having no one in his corner.

  “You’re welcome. I’ll present this right away and get back to you when I have an acceptance or a counter offer.”

  A counter offer. Christ. That would mean more money. He was going to have to really sit down and crunch some numbers and see what this was going to do to his finances.

  Drawing in a breath, Clay resigned himself to the reality of this situation and said, “All right. Thanks.”

  He disconnected the call, beating himself up mentally. He should have put in a bid on the spot. Right there while standing in the house. Instead he’d been playing games, waiting to make an offer. That decision could cost him the property. He’d been so stupid!

  Now he really couldn’t sit inside the apartment. He had to get out and expend some of this energy or the waiting might kill him.

  He stalked to the bedroom to change into his running clothes.

  Hell, maybe he’d run to the bar and take advantage of the one perk this rental provided—proximity to his favorite drinking establishment.

  It was a bit too early to have his usual dirty martini, even for him, but he could definitely drown his sorrows with a nice cold beer. It wouldn’t help the seller’s decision come any faster, or in his favor, but it would certainly help his frame of mind.

  SIX

  “What are you doing right now?” Milly asked, again without bothering to say hello after Tasha had answered the call.

  “Right now?” Tasha glanced down at herself. She couldn’t admit she was still wearing the same clothes from yesterday that she’d woken up in.

  Was it still a walk of shame if you were in your own home? She didn’t know, but she wasn’t going to confess to her agent that she was too depressed to get off the sofa and put on different clothes.

  She’d been lucky she’d had the energy to shuffle to the kitchen and get coffee. Thank God for one-step brewing, even if all those plastic single-use pods were going to destroy the environment one day.

  “Yes, right now.” Milly was still waiting for an answer.

  Since Tasha didn’t have one for her she said, “Nothing. Why?”

  “Can you meet with the producer?”

  “What?” Tasha sat up, that news giving her more energy than the caffeine had.

  “The reality show I told you about. The producer is there to take another look at a property they’re bidding on for the show. Imperial Beach, she said. That’s not too far from you, right? I googled it and it looked fairly close.”

  Milly being in Los Angeles didn’t know but Tasha sure did. That was damn close to San Diego. It would be perfect. Depending on traffic, her set could be less than half an hour down the road . . . if she got this job.

  “Yes, I can meet. When? Where?”

  “You tell me. They’re heading to the house now. They figure they’ll be there for at least half an hour, taking pictures and measurements and stuff. They’re not local so they don’t know the restaurants. She asked where you’d like to meet.”

  The one place Tasha could think of with her foggy hung over brain, blurred even more now with excitement, was the bar where she’d abandoned her car yesterday.

  She had to get there today anyway to retrieve her vehicle. And it was a cool place with a ton of local history and Navy stuff on display.

  “How about McP’s Irish Pub in Coronado? It’s probably halfway between the property and me. I’ll text you the exact address.” She didn’t have time to do much to get ready, but she could jump in the shower, throw on some make-up and a casual dress, order an Uber and get over there by the time the producer had looked at the property and driven to the bar. “I can be there in an hour.”

  “Perfect. Text me that address and I’ll call her right away.”

  Oh my God. Her career wasn’t dead. She hadn’t killed it. They wanted to meet her. Fate was giving her another chance and she wasn’t about to squander it.

  Tasha made it to McP’s in forty-eight minutes flat. She knew because she’d watched the time ticking away on her cell phone as she sat in the back of the car.

  She walked into the dim interior, blinded from the sunlight because her sunglasses were in her car, which was, of course, still parked here where she’d left it yesterday. She probably had a parking ticket by now but she didn’t take the time to check. Meeting the producers and getting this job was more important than worrying about any fine.

  As the sun spots before her eyes subsided, she made her way across the dim space and to the man behind the bar.

  “Hey, I’m meeting a couple of people here. Will we be able to get a table outside when they arrive?”

  The bartender glanced through the back door and said, “Doesn’t look too crowded. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Great. Thanks. Um, can I have a seltzer with lime while I wait?”

  “Sure.”

  As the bartender went off to get her soda, Tasha turned and stopped dead. A memory hit her when she saw first the muscular forearm of the hand holding the beer, then the bicep and the tattoos decorating both.

  When she finally felt brave enough to raise her gaze to his face, she knew what she’d find.

  “You,” she breathed.

  Of all the bars in all the world, her drunken one-night stand had to be here, now, the morning after she’d slept with him and didn’t remember it.

  “Me.” He smiled, looking cocky.

  Of course he was full of himself. He’d gotten laid last night. Why wouldn’t he be pleased?

  “Here you go.” The bartender delivering her seltzer knocked her out of her shocked silence.

  “Thanks.” She turned to take it, which had the added benefit of her not having to face him, her drunken mistake.

  Though at least she hadn’t been wearing beer goggles at the time. He was still hot, even by the sober light of day.

  Tall, dark and handsome with muscles like a stone wall and a smile that could melt a woman’s heart. And those green and gold-flecked eyes . . . she cut her gaze sideways to get another look and saw him still smirking at her.

  Yanking her gaze back to the glass in front of her, she vowed not to make the mistake of trying to sneak another look again.

  Best to let this whole mistake die without further discussion. She certainly wasn’t about to repeat it. She wasn’t drinking today. She’d already decided that.

  Besides, she had the meeting with the producer.
She needed to keep her wits about her for that. Prove that she wasn’t the lunatic social media was making her out to be.

  And more importantly, the more she thought about this man and yesterday, the more she remembered. If her drunken memories could be trusted, he’d been a bit of an ass.

  A cute ass, but an ass nonetheless. There was no room in her dating life for that kind of man.

  As she concentrated overly hard on not looking at him, she was happy when his cell phone rang and he turned and moved farther down the bar to answer it.

  Things were going her way. Finally.

  Yesterday had just been a bad day all around, but not today. Today was turning out to be the polar opposite, proving that good things did happen to good people.

  She smiled. She was going to be all right. She could feel it.

  SEVEN

  When Clay’s phone rang he recognized the real estate agent’s number. Turning away from the woman, his very own ghost of hook-ups past, he answered, “Ramirez.”

  “Yes. Hello, Mr. Hagan. I have news.”

  “Go ahead.” Clay braced himself for this news, which had better be good since he and his bank account couldn’t afford any more bad.

  “The other bidders countered with an amount above your bid. The seller is giving you the opportunity to raise your offer.”

  Fuck. Clay mouthed the obscenity but managed to not say it aloud.

  “What would you like me to do?” the agent asked.

  Closing his eyes, Clay drew in a breath and ignored how much it hurt him to say, “Would matching their current bid do any good?”

  “You can. Of course, the other buyer might just go higher.”

  God, he hated this whole game. Hated it with every fiber of his being. Give him a clear enemy he could see and he’d go at him head-on and full force. But this—this negotiating through a third party against an unknown opponent might be enough to drive him insane.

  He blew out a breath. “Go seven thousand over my prior bid.”

  “I think that’s a good move. I’ll present it to the seller and get back to you.”

  “Yeah. Thanks.” As fast as his money was pouring out of his savings account with each and every phone call from Ramirez, Clay hoped the next call didn’t come quite as fast as the last. Unless it was good news, of course.

  He was beginning to think good news would never come and this whole house dream of his was just that—a dream.

  More like a lost cause.

  Meanwhile, just slightly down the bar, his almost one-night stand had been joined by two other women.

  Clay sighed. He missed the good old days when this place was just a dive, frequented mainly by squids and frogmen. Back when he’d been fresh out of BUD/S and he’d come to McP’s with the whole team as newly minted SEALs.

  That was long ago, before the tour trolley began dropping off a steady stream of visitors directly in front.

  Nowadays when he came in he was more likely to see tourists rather than frogman. There was even a website with an online store that sold McP’s-branded SEAL T-shirts.

  Just like everything else in the world, his favorite haunt had gone commercial.

  Today instead of sailors, bellied up to the bar were three dressed-up city women, one of whom he knew couldn’t hold her liquor.

  Clay shook his head, hating change. Hating the chattering of these women encroaching upon his territory even more.

  He could sure use a martini, but instead Clay waited for Raymond to finish what he was busy doing so he could order one more beer. He’d have to ask for a chaser of water too so he didn’t dehydrate since after this next beer, he intended to sprint all the way back to his apartment for a shower.

  Besides, he couldn’t get plastered even if it might ease the pain of the rising cost of this house. He needed his wits about him today. Now that his renovation fund was being rapidly depleted in this ridiculous bidding war, he’d have to get online and start researching. Make a list of what he’d need for the renovation and then compare prices of big ticket items like the building materials and tools he’d need.

  Traveling so much with the team meant he hadn’t collected a whole lot of personal stuff. It also meant he’d have to buy a lot of it new now.

  The way the negotiations had been going, he only hoped he had any money left to buy anything at all after the down payment and closing costs, not to mention the monthly mortgage payments slowly creeping up along with the purchase price.

  Christ, was he going to have to get a job? He’d planned to live on his retirement pay and his savings. But now—

  “Oh my God! That house is amazing.” Tipsy Tasha’s overly loud and excited exclamation drew Clay’s attention back to her and her two companions.

  “It really is. And a steal too. To get a house on the beach for that amount . . .” The woman shook her head. “I couldn’t believe it when I saw the listing. And it needs work, which is perfect because that’s the whole point of the show, right?”

  “Exactly.” Tasha nodded. “I just love the architecture too. It has character. You can definitely tell it’s older.”

  The third woman said, “It was built in the 1950s. That was one of the other things that drew us to it besides the price and the fact it’s beach-front. It’s quirky, you know? Even the color has personality. We didn’t want another cookie cutter house.”

  “Right!” Tasha agreed. “I love the turquoise blue. So fun.”

  As he listened, his frown deepened. Every comment the three women had made could be said about his house.

  His was blue and from the fifties. On the beach and in need of work. And a great price—or at least it had been. That was rapidly changing.

  But it couldn’t be the same house. That would be crazy. Although it was only a twelve-minute drive from here with no traffic. A buyer could conceivably stop by for a drink on the way back from a showing. He had done exactly that.

  Tasha was still holding up the cell phone the other woman had handed her. He moved slightly so he could glance over her shoulder and—

  Mother fucker!

  There it was in living color in the photo on the cell phone—his house.

  “That’s my house.” In his shock, he said it aloud, whether he’d meant to or not.

  One of the women glanced up at him, looking surprised. “You’re the seller?”

  “No, I’m the other buyer you keep outbidding.” He scowled, trying not to tell them exactly what he thought of their swooping in and trying to steal his purchase.

  Tasha turned to face him. “Then it’s not your house, is it? If they bid higher, and the seller accepted their offer over yours, then it’s their house.”

  Clay stood to his full height and took a step forward, closing in on Tasha, knowing full well how intimidating he could be when looming over someone smaller.

  He’d backed men far larger than her into corners with his glare alone.

  “Well, Miss Know-It-All, the seller hasn’t accepted their offer. So it’s nobody’s house yet.”

  “I have no doubt they can outbid any amount you can come up with.” Her gaze dropped down his body, as it had the night before when she’d been sizing him up.

  Today, dressed in a sweaty T-shirt featuring a martini glass and the words I like it dirty, with PT shorts and running shoes, he probably looked even worse than yesterday in her eyes.

  His brows slammed down over his eyes in an angry frown. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing.” She smirked and lifted one bare shoulder, ignoring he’d leaned in even closer to glare at her.

  Normally, he’d enjoy that she wore a barely-there sundress with plenty of cleavage showing. Today, his blood pressure skyrocketed instead. “You know nothing about me,” he spat.

  “And you know nothing about me, in spite of . . . whatever happened.” Her expression turned insecure, questioning, almost fearful.

  His mouth dropped open in realization. “Oh my God. You can’t remember last night, can yo
u?”

  She must have been drunker than he’d thought to black out and not remember if she had sex with him or not—which made him even more grateful it was not.

  He didn’t need any accusations flying around that he’d taken advantage of her. She seemed just the type to regret things the morning after and cry foul.

  Her eyes widened, before she shot a quick glance at her companions and then turned to glare a warning at him.

  A smile he couldn’t control bowed his lips. She must think they did have sex last night and she didn’t want her home-stealing friends to know she’d gone home with someone as lowly as she apparently thought he was.

  This new development he could work with.

  “Maybe if you convinced your friends over there to back off and I were to get my house, I could walk away from this whole situation without another word. But if I don’t get my house . . .” He lifted one shoulder and delivered a pointed glance at Tasha’s two friends, who were watching the discussion with undisguised interest.

  With her eyeballs in danger of popping out of her head, she hissed in a breath. “You wouldn’t stoop that low.”

  She’d kept her voice low so only he would hear. Yup, she definitely didn’t want these two other women to know about last night. How amusing.

  “Wouldn’t I?” He cocked up a brow.

  She blew out a loud breath, looking torn between anger and panic.

  He knew the feeling. He felt the exact same way at the prospect of losing his house to these people—whoever they were.

  “Might I make a suggestion?”

  Clay raised his gaze to the tall blonde whose name and purpose for being here—besides to steal his house—he didn’t know.

  “And who are you?” he asked.

  “I’m the person who might be able to give you exactly what you want.”

  He crossed his arms and scoffed at her overly dramatic comment. He’d bet his next retirement check that she was from Hollywood. She had the look and sound about her.

  “Oh my God. He’s absolutely perfect.” The brunette standing next to the blonde evaluated Clay with a smile.