Never Always: A Enemies to Lovers Navy SEAL Romance Read online

  Table of Contents

  Never Always

  Blurb

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  Other Titles By Rachel Robinson

  Tennyson

  In a family filled with picturesque butterflies, I’m a moth. Camouflaged. The invisible, nerdy scientist who would rather study water and save the planet than don a dress and mingle in southern society. Unfortunately, having my nose in a book and eating goals for breakfast doesn’t bode well for a social life or my cobweb covered dating sector.

  Then I met Grange. He’s a tormenter—an epic bully, but he’s promised to help me in my lackluster areas. He’s been ordered to fulfill service hours at my Aquatic Lab in Cape Cod if I allow it.

  He is bad, the worst. I’m talking wearing prison garb when I met him kind of awful. We all have our demons, but Corrick Granger’s seep into everything and everyone around him. Sure, I’d love his expertise on how to land a guy, but I’m not sure any man is worth dealing with an outcast Navy SEAL who has more issues than a magazine subscription.

  Corrick

  One hazy mistake was all it took to ruin my life. Well, one mistake coupled with a chain of bad decisions, and a side of my hot temper. The court doled out an easy community service sentence. Never anything too harsh for a “hero.” I’ll be back at the Teams in six months, easy. I need to keep my cool, put my head down, and follow the rules.

  A fiery redhead with something to prove is all that stands between me and my freedom. Tennyson is a maddening combination of know-it-all and knows-nothing. The type of woman who would cut off her own nose to spite her face, and yet when my one mistake snowballs into a life altering, soul-damning error, she’s undeniably there for me.

  Even though I don’t deserve it.

  Even though I’ve kept secrets.

  And despite the fact I have become the monster she knew I would be.

  Copyright © 2019 Rachel Robinson

  All rights reserved.

  Cover design by Allison Martin at MakeReady Designs

  Cover Image by Eric McKinney, 6:12 Photography

  Edited by ellie at My Brother’s Editor

  Edited by J. Wells

  Formatted by CP Smith

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the above author of this book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Chapter One

  Tennyson

  WHEN I CAME into the world kicking and screaming my daddy called me Scarlet. Not after the famous character mind you, I was named Scarlet because I was born red-faced with hair to match. My mom’s contribution to my moniker was Tennyson as a middle name. Again, not because she enjoyed or revered a famous man’s writings, but because she went into labor on a Tuesday, during her weekly tennis lesson. She had pregnancy dreams that I was a boy, that I would be their first born son—tennis, and son. Shallow, embarrassing stuff disguised as a smart name. Scarlet Tennyson Kline.

  By the time I was fifteen when somebody asked if I was named after O’Hara. I would just lie and say I was. It was easier to be a liar than it was to tell the truth about my wacky name. It wouldn’t be so bad really, but the fact of the matter is I have an older sister and her name is plain ole’ Sue-Ellen Kline. Nothing flashy with hidden meanings, not even a middle name. Just Sue-Ellen. Because that’s what my great-grandma was named, and they both thought it a nice name. When I was eighteen and about to leave for college, I decided to go by Tennyson. I’d read all of Alfred Lord Tennyson’s works by that time and had become a super fan. Ironically, I only have my mama to thank for that. I’ll always hate tennis, though.

  The thwack of a volleying tennis ball across the park draws the memory to the surface as I feel the blades of grass, long and soft between my fingers. I braid the thick bunches, busying my hands as I fall back into reading the worn-out textbook sprawled under my nose. I’ve read this book, Advanced Marine Microbiology, a few times already for school as an undergraduate, but today I’m reading it for pleasure. It’s an old friend with dog-eared pages and words that I love so much. Books aren’t complicated. They don’t look at you funny or ask questions I don’t want to answer. They only give everything they have. Words. Knowledge. Power. Time after time, when humans fail me, books pick me back up and dust me off.

  Using one finger, I slide my thick rimmed reading glasses up my nose. A lawnmower engine fires in the distance, another immediate annoyance. I fish my earbuds and phone from the messenger bag holding down a corner of my blanket and shove the buds into my ears to drown out the distractions. I realize reading a chapter about microbial eukaryotes isn’t the way most people spend an afternoon off, but the hard realization is, I’m not most people. I belong to the tiny percentage of the population that is labeled, quite accurately, as a nerd. I don’t give up on things. Not ever. It’s how I graduated college early and went on to pursue my PhD. It’s why I’m here now, in Cape Cod, living my dream.

  I’m working at one of the top labs in the world. I study all of the biological aspects of the microorganisms in Earth’s water and their effects on aquatic life and the population. There is a rehabilitation facility for marine animals attached to the lab where veterinarians work diligently night and day. I’d spend my entire life there if they let me. I’m forced to take Sundays off and I spend them learning new things or brushing up on old skills. This schedule doesn’t leave much time for a social life, but honestly, I’ve never had a social life and it has never bothered me. I grew up in Greenton, Alabama, where one of the only things that matters is having a social life. A large one, with a calendar so full you may need to cancel a lunch here or there due to overbooking. Sue-Ellen had that in spades, still does. If I’m a dweeby, book smart, dully colored moth, Sue-Ellen is a brightly colored butterfly with a million-dollar smile and suitors lining the highway for fifty miles.

  My phone chimes with a text that breaks the music. Glancing over, I see it’s from the one and only Pageant Queen herself.

  Sue-Ellen: Are you okay? Tell me you’re using your day off to do something in the self-care realm. A brow wax? A manicure? A trip to the mall? Text me back so I know trolls aren’t eating your decaying body under a bridge.

  Sneering, I slide my cell over the book and text her back. She loves me and cares about me in her own kind of way. Even if it’s infuriating, I’ve never had one person in my life understand me. Not completely, anyway.

  More than likely it would be coyotes or a wildcat eating my decaying body under a bridge. I’m fine, Sue-Ellen. Just relaxing today. My self-care has always looked different than yours.

  Sue-Ellen writes back, Mom and Dad
want to come visit for Thanksgiving. You better have some semblance of a social life when we arrive. She’ll want to meet friends. See where you hang out and what you do. Other than work. Dad won’t care, but you know Mom will dissect your life like a frog in tenth grade. It can’t be like last time.

  It will be easy enough to appease her. There’s another scientist at work that I see daily. Grey Morgan. He’s about my age, and like me, he’s obsessed with work and not much else. Surely, I could ask him to do friendly things outside of work. Right? Maybe a dinner or lunch, or a meeting at the bookstore for coffee. We have the same career, interests, and hobbies. Even though he’s a man and I’m a woman, there’s no way he looks at me as more than a friend or colleague. I’m not that kind of woman. Grey is a safe bet. I tap back a quick text as confirmation of the impending visit, telling Sue-Ellen not to worry about me once more, and turn the volume up on my playlist.

  My family, all of them, reside in Greenton and I knew they would want to come visit again soon. The pit in my stomach widens when I think about the first time they came here. It was a disaster. We sat around my kitchen looking at each other. I’d just moved in and I knew very little about the area and could only tell them details about my job—which bores them to tears. Before you get upset at them for not taking an interest in my world, you should know that my career would bore anyone to tears. My passion is microscopic, foreign, and hard to explain. My studies are lengthy and tedious. The words are confusing and the proximity of my interests lay in my backyard. Literally. The view from my ninth story condo is the lab, the rehabilitation center and all of its docks, and the ocean.

  Whenever there was a lull in conversation, I’d look to the window, think of work, and start speaking of a study. My parents would stare blankly—undoubtedly wondering what in the world they created. Sue-Ellen would bring up her most recent fundraising function and I’d be relieved because that’s easy territory, something my whole family has championed since her first foray into the charitable scene. I hate that I harbor resentment, but I know I can’t control where my parents’ interests gravitate, and it’s surely not Sue-Ellen’s fault. She only brings up herself in those awkward situations because she knows she has the ability to take the pressure off of me.

  I love you. I send one more text. She replies with the same seconds later. Laying on my stomach, I readjust my book while looking at the tennis players. They seem to be finishing their game, faces red, and movements less precise than they were when they began.

  I’m vaguely aware of the lawnmower moving in my direction because the hum of the engine grows louder. I pull on the tip of my ear, a nervous habit, as I try to clear my mind of everything but the words on the page. The engine cuts off, and I feel an alarming presence. Popping an earbud out, I turn my head and glance behind me without rising from my prone position. My mouth goes dry. A shock of electricity races through my veins. Run, Tennyson. Run. Run far and fast. The man, if you can even call this creature that is well over six feet, padded with muscles that were probably gained by the use of illegal substances. He’s wearing one of those neon vests that prisoners wear when collecting garbage on the side of the road. It takes mere seconds for me to label this dude a Bad News Bear. Not the bad kind of man some women seek out because they are deluded and want to change them into something else, I’m talking ax murderer. A gang member who belongs to multiple gangs and no one minds, a fully deranged lunatic on a sabbatical from slaying kittens. My mouth opens, and it feels like cotton is stuffed down my throat. My pleas don’t come. I’m rendered speechless—a state I’m unfamiliar with.

  “I’d love to mow right over you, but I’m afraid I’d catch even more community service for that. Move your loser party somewhere else. Maybe to one of the benches that were specifically put here for those” —he gestures to my blanket and my book— “those kind of activities.”

  Leaning up on my knees, I haphazardly start gathering my bottle of kombucha, rice cakes, and the tub of garlic noodles with chopsticks hanging out the side. “I’m sorry,” I mumble, clutching the book to my chest. “I come here every Sunday and it’s never been a problem. Me, you know, reading over here on the grass.” Why am I apologizing? This park is open to the public. It’s him. He’s making me so nervous I can’t think straight. Surely if he were a murderer, they wouldn’t let him out here with the average citizen. There isn’t a prison van anywhere in sight, and I don’t see any other orange-vested men. Still, the man looms, thick arms folded across his broad chest, like I’m the biggest annoyance in his world. I cram the book in my bag with the rest of my stuff and the hair tie holding my unruly hair breaks, sending a furious cascade of red, frizzy curls flying into my face. When everything is in my bag, and my heart rate is in the cardio zone, I stand, keeping my back to him.

  “If you went any slower, you’d be going backward,” the man growls, words slicing like razors.

  Slinging the bag over my shoulder, I crouch down to pick up one side of my blanket and spin on my heel to face him. Fluster me, sure, but insult me? Nope. Not even if I’ll surely die a slow death by standing up for myself. “Way to perpetuate the stereotype that all criminals are rude, unmannered, solipsistic brutes. I’m sure your parents are proud.” For the first time, I let my eyes meet his. They’re a light blue. Like the color of the sea in the Caribbean. Where you can stand in water chest deep and look down and still see your toes. He’s not looking at my eyes though, like the piece of uncultured swine that he is, his gaze is on my chest, and then it drops to my waist and back up to my chest. The price I pay for wearing a shirt that is a tad too tight. I clear my throat.

  He swallows hard, winces, and focuses on my face. There’s a softness that wasn’t there moments before. “What’s your name?” I ask, interrupting whatever far off land he’s descended into. “So I can report you to whoever I need to report you to.”

  He shakes his head, perfectly bowed lips forming a smirk. “I don’t report to anyone.”

  I nod once. “Well, I’m Tennyson Kline and you should remember my name because I’m the one who is going to make sure you never do your time in this park again.” I jerk my head to the mower and my dang hair whips across my face, covering my eyes. With all the fake bravado I’ve dealt, I’m shaking on the inside, fearful that he’s going to follow me. If I were less of a chicken, I’d go to the bench and continue reading, but I don’t want to be in the same vicinity as this man. Turning instead, I decide to go to the parking lot where my car is.

  “Hey, Fire,” the man calls to my back.

  Furrowing my brow, I glance over my shoulder. “Excuse me?”

  “Nice whale tail,” he says, stance wide, arms down by his sides.

  Looking down, I realize he’s talking about my blue “Save the Whales” t-shirt—an old ratty thing I picked up at the second-hand store because it was distressed, the perfect shade of blue, and I obviously care about saving of whales. Like this mammoth jerk would really understand the sentiment. He’s just another person on the list of cruel individuals I have to reside on this planet with. Before tears fall and I let him get the best of me, I take off running toward the parking lot. My long maxi skirt catches on my sandal and trips me up. Going down hard, my bag breaks my fall, but not before my chin scrapes against the hot, gritty pavement. Noodles seep out of my bag, the smell of garlic pungent. Getting to my feet is awkward with my wild hair inhibiting my vision. I crank open the driver’s side door of my car and toss in my bag and blanket. Blood is running down my chin and onto my neck, but I don’t pause to clean it up, I start the engine. Embarrassment floods me. I curse the stars for making me different, for determining a fate I can’t control.

  Before I put the car into reverse, I see him staring in my direction. He’s closer, like he was moving in to get a better view of the ugly girl who wears second-hand shirts flailing on the ground bleeding. I’m a spectacle of obscene awkwardness. Fools believe that this goes away after middle school or even high school and college, but we’re stuck with it for
life. I grab a beach towel from my backseat, hold it on my face, and tear out of the parking lot for home.

  My heart rate doesn’t slow until I walk out of my parking garage and make my way to the docks at work, the scent of seawater lulling me like a false security blanket. Nothing can hurt me here. No one judges. They’ve blocked my keycard—I can’t enter the lab on Sundays so I can’t do what I really want to do but I can be here, and it is close enough. I fish my garlic-scented cell from my bag and call Sue-Ellen even though texting is easier. She picks up after the first ring.

  “Can you call Clover? I know she lives here, and I might want to do self-care your way after all.” Clover Ballentine grew up with Sue-Ellen and she lives in Cape Cod with her Navy SEAL husband. She owns a salon in the nice part of town. Sue-Ellen agrees to call her, but not before asking me what’s wrong a dozen times. Even she knows I’m not one to care about girly things.

  I don’t tell my sister it’s because I need a friend and I can’t think of anyone else who will listen, I merely tell her she’s right about what my Sunday should look like. Sue-Ellen doesn’t believe me, but that’s okay. I hang up and she texts me Clover’s phone number a few minutes later and tells me that she’s expecting my call.

  My finger hovers over the call button, but I don’t have the courage to follow through. Shaking my head, I leave the docks and head back toward my condo. Once inside, I find a hair tie and fix my hair, avoiding the reflection in my bathroom mirror. I throw my bag into the washing machine and painstakingly wipe the textbook clean. I spend the rest of the day replaying the confrontation in the park, and the fifteen different ways I could have handled it differently, the words I should have said, the confidence I should have had, and the balls I should have kicked.

  Chapter Two