Alana Albertson never was fortunate to get cast as the snow queen though she did play the soldier. She has extensive collections of snow globes and nutcrackers but none of them have ever been enchanted.
Sure, the media tries to brand every Navy SEAL as some kind of Batman dressed in cammies. There’s even a line in one of our cadences: Superman is the man of steel, he ain’t no match for Navy SEAL. You’ve seen the movies—we’re infallible, invaluable, invincible. But that night, the one you read about in the papers … all I really wanted to do was get lucky.One night with an Aruban whore, no strings attached. I picked her out of a lineup—wild, dark hair, long legs and a crooked smile. Afterwards, I relaxed back onto the creaky cot, thankful for the blissful moments she gave me when I actually forgot for a second the faces of my buddies who died because I made the wrong call, the tears of the children I couldn’t save, and the eyes of the enemies I slaughtered during their last seconds of life.
A one-night stand with a San Diego coed. I picked her out of a steamy nightclub—sexy blonde hair, full breasts, nice ass. I savored her warm touch, the scent of her perfume, and the sound of her laughter. After she rode me all night, I took in the ocean view from my condo, thankful for the blissful memories she gave me to get me through my long deployment.
I cross paths with Miss San Diego again halfway across the world in Afghanistan. Turns out she is a professional cheerleader on a patriotic tour sent to entertain my Team.
I gaze into her beautiful blue eyes and give her my word that she’s safe with me. And my word is my bond.
Then she is kidnapped.
Whoever took her, took the wrong girl. Because I will tear this country apart to find her.
I’ll never win MVP, never get a championship ring, but some heroes don’t play games.
Preston Evans is a legend in and out of the bedroom. He’s six foot two, gorgeous, and famous because his celebrity ex snapchatted his huge package. I hate him. I hate his stupid puppy store, Doggy Style. I hate the way he looks at me like I’m a piece of meat. I don’t care that his abs are chiseled, his arms are tattooed, and his face belongs on the cover of a magazine. Every dog bred means a shelter dog dead!
I chain myself to his store in protest, but instead of calling the cops, he throws me a bone.
If I spend one week with him in Hawaii pretending to be his fiancée to snag an investor, he will transform his store into a shelter dog adoption center, saving thousands of dogs’ lives.
One week and I never have to see this sexy, dirty-talking jerk again. How hard can he, uh I mean it, be?
Sex is off the table. So why do I want him to bend me over it?