A Seal's Touch. Tawny Weber

brows pulled together. She wasn’t sure why she didn’t trust the expression in his eyes.

      “Want to do me a favor?”

      She wanted to do him any way she could get him. But she didn’t think he’d want to know that.

      “What kind of favor?”

      “It’s a little complicated,” Taylor said, leaning against the counter and crossing his legs at the ankle.

      Cat held her breath, heat spiraling low in her belly as she looked up the length of those long, muscular legs all the way to his zipper. From where she was kneeling, all she had to do was lean forward a little and she could grab that zipper in her teeth and tug it right down.

      “Cat?”

      “Hmm?” she murmured, wondering if he’d be able to stop her before she got a peek at the good stuff.

      “Favor?”

      Huh?

      Oh.

      She blinked, wrinkling her nose before meeting his questioning look with a sheepish smile.

      “Whatever you want,” she said, forcing her attention—and her gaze—off the size of his package and back to the conversation. He lived on base, so it couldn’t be construction related, unless it was for a friend. Maybe he needed his bike tuned or some help for his mom.

      “Go out with me Saturday.”

      “Wh—?” She cleared her throat and, figuring she needed all the help she could get, slid to her feet. “I’m sorry, I must have misheard. What was the favor?”

      “I need a stand-in date. It’s no big deal.” Taylor grinned, reaching out to tug her ponytail. “Just some friends getting together.”

      “Uh-huh.” Cat searched his face, trying to see what that meant. Did they get together naked?

      “A few of my friends on the team. Their ladies.”

      Cat’s heart raced. Afraid she’d hyperventilate at any second, she focused on her breathing instead of the idea of her and Taylor, naked. Together. Naked together.

      With his friends, she reminded herself.

      But that didn’t dull the heat of the fantasy. After all, someone had to take pictures.

      Mmm, pictures.

      Cat rubbed her hand over her mouth to make sure she wasn’t drooling.

      “You wanna go? Be my date for the night?” The way he said “date” with that little laugh made it clear that while she might be fantasizing about the night ending with mutual tongue baths, he was just looking for a buddy for the evening.

      And probably not a bootie buddy.

      “Why me?” Cat couldn’t help but ask.

      “Over the last year or so, the guys on the team have been hooking up. You know, marrying, living with their ladies, that sort of thing? It’s like an epidemic.”

      “And you’re afraid you’ll catch it?”

      “Nah, I’m immune,” Taylor said with a grin as he folded his arms over that gorgeous chest.

      She pouted over the loss of view, but the sight of his bulging biceps was a nice consolation.

      “If you’re immune, what’s the worry?” Then Cat grinned and answered her own question. “The ladies are planning a mission of their own?”

      “If I don’t bring a date—a nonbimbo date—they’re going to execute Operation Bachelorhood Screw-Up,” he agreed with a laugh.

      And that was it for bootie buddy fantasy—poof, all gone.

      “It’ll be fun. You’ll like everyone and you’ll fit right in. You know, like one of the guys.”

      Cat’s bottom lip trembled. To keep him from seeing, she grabbed her crowbar and went to work on the broken tile.

      One of the guys.

      Except she wasn’t. She was a girl—no, a woman.

      Maybe it was time Taylor realized that.

       3

      “YOU CAN’T GO on a date with Taylor Powell looking like that.”

      Ashlynn Brown, BFF and big mouth extraordinaire, sounded horrified. Cat would put it down to a dramatic personality, but while Ashlynn was definitely dramatic, she was also a makeup artist at one of the posh boutiques downtown. And ever since her family had moved down the street from Cat’s fifteen or so years ago, she’d proven time and time again that she knew way more about all things girly than Cat could ever hope to.

      Or would ever want to.

      Still...

      “What’s wrong with the way I look?”

      Cat frowned at her reflection in the dresser mirror. Instead of her usual ponytail, she’d pulled her hair back in a French braid. Her blue-and-white-checked shirt was tied at the waist, cuffed at her elbows with enough buttons open to show the slick black fabric of her tank-style swimsuit. She could only see herself from the hips up, but her knee-length, cuffed shorts should be fine.

      “Is it the sandals?” she asked, inspecting the leather straps and the turquoise polish on her toes. “Should I wear skids instead?”

      “The shoes are the least of the issue,” Ashlynn declared, throwing her hands in the air. “You’re going on a date. A date with the sexiest guy to ever graduate from State High. Taylor Powell.”

      Ashlynn paused to give her heart a little pitty-pat.

      “The oh-so-fine, wish-he-were-mine Taylor Powell. Abs-of-steel and buns-too-good-to-be-real Taylor Powell. I-wish-he’d-do-me—”

      “I know who Taylor is,” Cat interrupted with a laugh. “All of that aside, he’s a friend. A good friend who needs a favor.”

      “The favor being a date.”

      “A fake date,” she pointed out absently as she checked her wallet. Cash, cell phone, keys. All set.

      “Fine. Fake date. Whatever. It’s still a date. Going on a date with a man like Taylor Powell looking like just one of the guys is wrong. You owe it to His Hotness to look your best. No—” Ashlynn dropped her head and lifted one hand in the air “—you owe it to yourself.”

      “Oh, I do, do I?” Dropping her wallet onto the purple-striped comforter, Cat settled on her bed to watch the show. Ashlynn was nothing if not entertaining when she went on these rants.

      “You do. You’re living the dream.”

      “You dream about dating Taylor?” Cat gave silent thanks that she’d kept her own Taylor fantasies to herself. Not that dating factored into any of them. Bonking, boinking, bouncing—they were all there, though.

      “Everyone dreams about dating Taylor Powell. Women who haven’t even met the guy are dreaming about him, they just don’t know his name. Fake or not, this is a dream date. Which means you go on it looking like a woman. Not a beer buddy.”

      “Hey, I’m wearing my date sandals. I even polished my toenails.”

      “You always polish your toenails. That and your sexy underwear are the only signs you ever show that you’re a girl.”

      “Comfy undies are a priority.”

      “Cat,” Ashlynn groaned, drawing the single syllable out into three.

      Cat rolled her eyes. She had no illusions about tonight. It was a favor for a friend. No different than if the two of them went to a ball game or grabbed a couple of beers after working together on his car.

      “Get