Hot SEAL, Confirmed Bachelor- Cynthia D'Alba Page 0,2

looky-loos trying to spot a real, live Navy SEAL near Camp Pendleton could impede his speed and distance. His job required peak conditioning and peak performance. Lack of either could mean death…to him or his team.

A couple of years ago, he’d lucked into a small house in a community where the POAs covered the yardwork, which gave him one less thing to worry about when he was out of country for longer than a month. The community was less than an hour away from base. A short drive, and he was in Coronado. A ten-minute jog from his house and he was on the beach. Perfect location.

And a million miles from where he’d grown up. Thank goodness.

The sun was still an hour from rising when he hit the sandy beach, exactly as he liked it. Empty and deserted. Soundless, except for the pound of his boots on the hard sand and the waves rolling onto shore. No headphones. No music, but what nature supplied. BUD/s had taught him to always stay alert to his surroundings, although, other than a few seagulls, he had no company.

As he ran, he kept his mouth closed and focused on drawing his breaths solely through his nose. Mouth breathing could be noisy, so this was quieter, and in some deployment situations, safer.

This morning would be a short seven-mile jog down to his favorite breakfast haunt. One of the positives about his lifestyle was he could indulge in his favorite foods when the mood hit him. After last night’s workout, he was in the mood for a heavy, calorie-laden food feast. His favorite breakfast place opened at six, and he had every intention of being there right after the doors were unlocked.

At a little after six, he jogged into the parking lot of the Breakfast Club Diner. There were three cars in the lot. He’d been beaten to the diner, but he bet no one else had jogged seven miles to eat there.

After wiping his sweaty face on his shirt, he pulled open the door and entered. His gaze swept the room. It was a habit he suspected he’d have the rest of his life.

An older man sat in booth one, sipping coffee and flipping through the morning paper.

The second booth had a couple crammed in on one side, snuggled tightly, their attentions focused more on each other than the pancakes in front of them. His money was on a date that had started last night and hadn’t yet ended.

There was an empty booth between the loving couple and the last patrons. A woman and a girl sat in booth four. He couldn’t see the woman other than her long, shiny brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. The girl was cute and somewhere between nine and sixteen. He wasn’t good with ages of girls. He had limited—no, make that no experience with young girls.

“Morning, Master Chief.”

Benjamin turned toward the counter and smiled at Marcy, the owner/sometimes cook/ sometimes waitress.

In her mid-fifties, Marcy was a bleach-blonde, thin as a rail, and smoked like a chimney on fire. He adored her. She slid a glass of tap water over the counter toward him. “No ice, straight from the tap, just like you like it.”

“Good morning, Marcy. Thank you very much.” He downed the water and passed the glass back to her for a refill. “I’d ask what’s good this morning, but we both know exactly what I’ll order no matter your answer.”

She handed him the second glass. “Three OJs, a pancake stack, two orders of bacon, hash browns covered and smothered, and four eggs sunny-side up.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Coffee?”

“Sure.”

She nodded toward the last booth. “Saved your favorite booth fer ya.”

He nodded his thanks and made his way to the last booth. He slid in, his booth back sharing a common back with the mother-daughter duo. Or maybe they were aunt and niece. He had no idea.

Polly, the second waitress, dropped off three glasses of orange juice, a cup of black coffee, and a pitcher of tap water. “Here ya go, Master Chief. Marcy said food will be up in a few minutes.”

He took a long drink of orange juice. “Thanks, Polly. No hurry.”

He unzipped a pocket on his shorts and laid his cell on the table. Officially, the team had the day off, but a SEAL was never really off, just away from the base. And even then, he had to be able to get back if called.

As he lifted his coffee mug, the back of his booth jostled