The SEALs’ Single Mom Baby Surprise (Forbidden Fantasies #14)

1. Sloane

1

SLOANE

M y phone pings for the umpteenth time as I pull past the guard station and into the parking lot. Another ping has me flinching, my skin growing tight from anxiety and sweat building around my hairline. My eyes burn as I find a spot and park. Head falling into my hands, I can’t decide whether I want to scream or cry.

Ping.

Tears flood my eyes, but I close them to keep them from building any further.

He doesn’t deserve my tears. He deserves absolutely nothing from me.

Not anymore.

And it’s been two days— two days —since I finally packed up my things and rented my own apartment. Keeping it a secret was a feat.

All of the things I had to hide in order to get out of there without tipping him off… It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

It’s only been three days since I went into the federal bank on base and opened my own bank account. One without Alistair’s name on it. Just in time for my paycheck to be deposited into it yesterday, and my money is spread so thin right now…

Ping.

I fled while he was in class because I was a coward. I’m still a coward.

He’s been harassing me since, and I can’t answer the phone.

I can’t block his number, either. He’s still in charge of my account. I can’t afford a new one, so I just have to let those texts and phone calls build up. Let them go unanswered.

It’s fucking hard.

Ping. Ping.

Every one of them gets harder.

Taking some deep, deep breaths, I blow them out as slowly as I can manage, getting my emotions under control before I go into work.

A knock on my window jars me back in my seat, my heartbeat ramping up again as I look into the solemn face of my boss, Warren.

I wipe the sweat from my brow and shut my car off, grabbing my bag as he opens my door.

“Good morning, Montgomery. You alright?” His voice is gruff and uncomfortable, as usual, when he asks me that question. I hate that I’ve given him so many opportunities to ask it lately.

“Fine. Just a few bumps today. Nothing to worry about.” The lie comes easily. It’s the same thing I’ve been saying for years. And although I know he doesn’t believe me, we both appreciate the lie.

It keeps us from having to talk about it.

I’d rather just dive straight into work.

At the door to our office, I turn to my boss. “You know what? I plan on making this a good morning, sir.”

Warren offers me a small smile and a grunt. “You do that, Specialist.”

I will. Because I’m free.

I’m out.

And I don’t have to go back, no matter what my ex says.

My boss taps the side of my desk, pausing just long enough to nod at me, before he marches to his office. He knows my story, if only the obvious signs of how bad my relationship was.

But he loves my daughter and lets me bring her in when she doesn’t have school. He provides her with coloring books and crayons. Warren is a big softy. It’s one of his best-kept secrets, hidden behind his stern brow and deep grunts, and I’m grateful for it.

First things first. I check my emails, look at the incoming deliveries and pickups, and print the current inventory. Our first delivery is in an hour, so I have that much time to check on what we’d left last night. But as it was office supplies and we have plenty of time this morning to sort it out, Edmund and I didn’t stay late to finish up.

We’re both overtime employees. Warren has warned us of it plenty of times.

Double-checking the boxes, I mark off a lot of printer paper. Yellow notepads. Staples. Paper clips. Post-It notes. All of the general hoopla that we run through on a daily basis. We’re one box shorter than we were yesterday, and one of the serial numbers is off.

I highlight them, nodding at a recruit to load the trolly and bring them into the office’s storage closet. I’ll check on the missing one once everything is put away.

One of the cartons of toner is also misnumbered. What is going on? How did we not catch this last night?

Granted, my head hasn’t been as clear as usual, given the state of my week, but I’m never this careless.

So, what the hell?

I wipe my hand down my face and sigh before helping to gather up the boxes and unload them on their shelves. It gets my blood flowing, and I feel significantly better when I’m moving.

Something about putting everything in its place brings me a kind of peace that I can’t fully explain.

I find the missing box of paper sitting open on one of the empty desks in the office. There are four in the small open space, but only Edmund and I work in the office regularly and keep our own desks. Well, Warren, too, but he has a door to close, even if he rarely does so.

I have just enough time to grab the printout for the next delivery and meet it at the loading dock.

Eighty crates arrive and I mark them off as they’re unloaded, frowning when another serial number comes up wrong. But the contents read the same. Maybe a batch got mixed up? I’ll have to track them down.

Double-check. Again.

I feel the itch to figure out why as anxiety spreads along the back of my neck and down my shoulders. I don’t like things being out of order. I don’t like mistakes.

I’ve made too many of them.

Sucking in a deep breath, I force the negative spiral away. Alistair was unreasonable in his demands.

I’m not ungrateful for thinking so.

But it’s unfortunate that working for the military means messy. Most of the people I work with don’t have my obsessive drive to keep things organized.

I start logging the new intake and mark the anomalies I’ve found. Even if no action is needed, I feel better having it recorded.

The second shipment comes in soon after, and it takes us more than an hour to unload and mark everything off.

Only one mistake in this batch, but the number isn’t the only problem.

There’s an unusual entry—a batch of military-grade tear gas listed under cleaning equipment.

Weird. It has to be a mix-up.

The canisters don’t look anything close to cleaning equipment. They might want to drug test whoever labeled this thing. Or get the specialist some more coffee.

An obvious mistake means an easy fix.

Our warehouse doesn’t even get live weapons through as a supply, maintenance, and repair warehouse. Parts, maybe, but we do a lot more mock combat drills than anything. Most of the soldiers on the base don’t even carry weapons.

At least I can take action on this and get the tear gas where it’s supposed to be.

A few recruits operate the forklifts for the big crates, and I put away what I can otherwise.

Taking my clipboard back to my desk, I confirm what we’ve received and start to dive into the misplaced items we’ve gotten by mistake.

This batch isn’t in the original order, nor does it match any purchase orders I’ve been provided. The item IDs and serial numbers don’t match what’s been documented. It sends me in circles.

Warren stops by my desk, looming for a full minute without saying anything before I turn to him with a brow raised.

“Go to lunch, Specialist Montgomery.”

“Ooh, both names at once. I’m in trouble.” I turn back to the computer, flagging the cleaning equipment/tear gas, making a note, and sending it through the cogs.

I log out of my computer and face Warren’s pursed frown. He’s hiding a smile. I can tell by his eyes, but I hold my hands up to appease him.

“I’m going. I’m going.”