Hot SEAL Sinful Harvest Read online

  Hot SEAL, Sinful Harvest

  Parker Kincade

  Copyright © 2021 by Parker Kincade

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Dedication

  To my gal pal, my partner-in-crime, my ride-or-die chick, Mandy Harbin. You helped me find peace within the chaos, and I am forever grateful.

  * * *

  To the SEALs in Paradise authors: Again and always, I am humbled and honored to be among you.

  * * *

  And to Cash. Your scowls and growls will live on in my dreams.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Epilogue

  Note from the Author

  More SEALs in Paradise

  Excerpt from One Night Stand

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  About the Author

  Also by Parker Kincade

  1

  Cash “Inferno” Mancini slammed on the brakes. The rental car skidded to a stop, stirring up a cloud of dust. He shoved the gearshift into park but didn’t bother to shut off the ignition. Throwing open the door, he surged out of the car.

  Gravel crunched under his boots as he stalked toward the edge of the road. Dropping his hands to his hips, he scowled at the field there the ancient, damn near illegible sign had been located for longer than he’d been alive.

  What. The. Fuck.

  The monument stood where it had always been, but it was no longer faded. No longer cracked and weather worn. No longer familiar.

  The sign for Mancini Orchards and Cider Mill, resurrected in bold, bright white and red brush strokes, rose from the cornfield like a beacon. Cartoon apples, adorned with stick appendages and ridiculous smiles, appeared to dance along the scalloped wooden frame.

  Cash dropped his gaze to the two smaller boards dangling from the main structure with what appeared to be eyehooks, one board hanging underneath the other.

  Bakery and coffee bar? A fucking petting zoo?

  His grandparents had been busy. Apparently too busy to mention they’d decided to expand the family business after sixty years.

  Cash ran a hand over the back of his neck and cursed. He wanted them to retire, not add new areas that required a hell of a lot more work. Not to mention resources.

  What the hell were they thinking?

  Cash turned and strode back to the car. Instead of getting back behind the wheel and heading home—or better yet, stopping by to see his grandparents first—he grabbed the flask from his duffle bag and rounded the vehicle. He propped his ass against the hood and leaned back, crossing his boots at the ankles. Staring at the new, improved sign, he wondered about its significance and how it might affect his plans.

  There were two reasons for his extended leave, one of which included convincing his grandparents to sell their home, property, and business—with its fancy new sign that mocked him—and relocate to California. Holden and Lila Mancini were both well into their seventies. Cash had noticed the handful of prescription medication bottles on the kitchen counter the last time he’d been home. He’d also noticed his grandfather slowing down in stamina, if not in pace.

  Working and managing a farming operation was a younger man’s game. His grandparents deserved to relax and enjoy their golden years, preferably on a beach, close to Cash’s condo where he could look out for them.

  Absently, Cash unscrewed the cap on the flask.

  His grandparents had always kept him up to date about the goings on at home, so why hadn’t they mentioned big changes at the mill?

  He tossed the question around in his head, searching the various angles, but couldn’t come up with a reasonable answer. He’d been out of the country for a while, but he hadn’t fallen off the face of the earth. They could’ve at least sent him an email.

  Cash took a healthy swig from the flask. He wasn’t big on surprises. Hated them, in fact. In his line of work, surprises could get a man killed.

  Or eight men. Eight sons, brothers, husbands, fathers, nephews, friends.

  Fuck.

  Cash tipped the cool metal against his lips again, willing the whiskey to dull the ache in his chest and smooth the rough edges of his mood. He rubbed his jaw, and the bite of scruff that had surfaced since he’d left the base forty-eight hours ago scratched his palm.

  He should’ve shaved. He should’ve stayed another night at the hotel near the airport. Taken more time to get his shit together. He’d been back from Africa less than a week and had only arrived in Michigan late last night—much too late to surprise his grandparents with his unexpected arrival. He hadn’t been ready to head to his parents’ house either, knowing those memory-filled walls would’ve quickly closed in, abrading the raw, open wounds that plagued him.

  Not my parents’ house. Mine. My house.

  The reminder wasn’t the kick in the balls it had once been, but Cash felt it all the same.

  He’d inherited the old farmhouse and the surrounding acreage at the ripe old age of eight, shortly after his mom and dad had been killed in a car accident. Cash had moved down the road to live with his paternal grandparents, who had taken on, not only the responsibility of raising him, but also the upkeep of his parents’ house in hopes that Cash would one day live there.

  Cash had taken over the financial burden of his parents’ house—he would never be able to think of it as his—years ago. Since his job took him out of the country on a regular basis and for various lengths of time, his grandparents still took care of things for him. He’d paid off the mortgage several years ago, but every month, Cash deposited more than enough money that his grandparents then used to pay the maintenance and any monthly expenses required to keep the electricity on and the water flowing.

  He made a decent living as a Navy SEAL, but lately, Cash had begun to question the rationale of continuing to pay for a house he only slept in a few times a year when he visited. Less, if his team were deployed. His life belonged to the Navy—first in Virginia, and now, with his team in California where he intended to stay. It no longer made sense—not that it ever had—for him to own a house in Michigan, a place he couldn’t put down roots.

  He’d held on for too long, out of respect for his parents and grandparents, but it was time to get the old farmhouse fixed up and put on the market—the second reason for his trip home. The place deserved to be the real home it had once been, with laughter, happiness, and the subtle scents of the seasons filling its spaces.

  It’s what his parents would’ve wanted. It’s what he wanted. All he had to do was convince his grandparents to follow suit.

  Easier said than done.

  Holden Mancini had put all his blood, sweat, and tears into Mancini Orchards and Cider Mill from the time he was old enough to hold a shovel. He’d learned and nurtured the land alongside his own father—Cash’s great-grandpa Lee Mancini—until the fateful day when a lifetime of non-stop, back-breaking work had culminated into a fatal heart attack among the apple trees.

  That his grandad might very well suffer the same fate haunted him.

  Cash stood and drew in a crisp, apple and manure scented breath, a plan taking shape. The echo of his slow exhale mingled with the distant moos from old Mr. Franklin’s herd down the way. He tipped his head toward the side of the road in a mock toast, accepting the challenge the new sign represented. Whatever changes his grandparents had made would only increase the value of the business, making it a more desirable purchase for someone. He could work with that.

  I’ve got this.

  As long as there were no more surprises, he’d have this shit wrapped up by Thanksgiving.

  2

  “Well? What do you think?” Aspen nibbled along the edge of her thumbnail. Excitement mixed with a hefty bundle of nervous energy made it difficult to not bounce on the balls of her bare feet.

  Lila and Holden Mancini were as close to grandparents as she’d ever had. Their approval meant more than was probably healthy, considering they were her employers. And her landlords. And she’d known them for less than two months.

  Aspen had hightailed it out of Michigan’s upper peninsula eight weeks ago without a destination in mind, but by the time she’d hit the southbound lanes of the Mackinaw Bridge, a fantasy had taken shape. Once clear of Michigan’s southern border she’d head west. She’d buy a map—a real one—and let her seven-year-old son, Sean, help plan a route to the California coast that would allow them to experience as many states as possible. What better way to learn geography, right? Then, at the end of their cross-country adventure she would find a safe, quiet little town close to the beach where she could raise Sean. Far, far away from the hatred of his father’s family.

  She had thought they’d take it slow. Spend an entire week or two enjoying the countryside before settling into a new life.

  They’d made it three hours.

  In desperate need of a bathroom break, as well as a break from Sean’s repeated attempts to convince her that he would absolu
tely die from hunger if she wouldn’t feed him soon, Aspen had taken the first offramp that promised the slightest indication of a nearby civilization. Fifteen minutes down a lonely, two-lane country road, they’d found Shale Valley. Another fifteen minutes after that, they’d found the Mancini’s.

  “Holy hot damn,” Holden said around a mouthful of pastry, earning a playful forearm slap and a snorted admonishment from his wife. He ignored both. He pointed at the plate of half-eaten dessert. “That’s delicious. What is it? Some kind of apple cake?”

  Aspen laughed, pure joy making her feel as if she had champagne in her veins instead of blood. She’d spent more time in the kitchen in the last two months than she had in her entire life. Who knew she had a knack for baking? Certainly not her, but the rush of creating food that brought people pleasure had become something of an addiction. “It’s apple cinnamon crumb cake with maple icing.”

  Holden wiped his mouth with a napkin. Tall and fit, he appeared twenty years younger than his seventy-four years. His full head of silver-streaked hair, brown eyes, and careless grin gave him a roguish appearance that still turned heads.

  Holden stretched his arm around Lila’s waist and tugged her closer to his side. Several inches shorter than Holden, Lila’s petite frame molded seamlessly against his. He leaned down to kiss her, muttering something against her lips that colored Lila’s pretty cheeks.

  Aspen picked up her phone, a blush heating her own face at witnessing the gentle affection. She snapped a few pictures of the single square of dessert she’d placed on a plain, white plate. She made a few adjustments to the angle until she perfected the shot. Once satisfied, she created a caption, added the appropriate hashtags, and posted the picture on the main Mancini Orchards and Cider Mill’s social media account. She’d push it to other sites later, but she wanted to tap into the winter festival traffic that had been building in anticipation of its start next week.

  Within seconds, the post had gained several likes. A sense of satisfaction filled her. In the last eight weeks, the mill had gone from zero online presence to being fully emerged. They had a long way to go, but Aspen loved her new job and was proud of what she’d accomplished so far.

  Holden stabbed more of the crumb cake onto the fork and fed it to his wife. “What do you think, Lilly-girl? Is this the one?”

  They were so cute Aspen couldn’t help but smile. The love Holden and Lila shared shone in every look, every action, every gentle touch. The kindness and respect they showed for one another made Aspen’s chest ache with longing. Her own marriage had been a happy one, but she would never know if she and her husband had shared the kind of devotion that stood the test of time. They hadn’t been given the chance.

  Lila finished chewing, her warm brown eyes sparkling. “I do believe it is.”

  “Oh, no.” Aspen held up her hands. “Don’t get excited. The crumb cake is just a recipe I’ve been playing with for the last few days.”

  Lila frowned. “Why ‘oh no’? I think this would make a lovely signature pastry for the coffee bar.” As if to prove her point, Lila took the fork from Holden and went back to the plate for more.

  Aspen laughed. “It took me fifteen tries to get the balance of sweet and tart right. I’m glad you both like it because I do want to add it to the bakery’s fall offerings. But this…” She grabbed the two plates from the counter behind her and set one down in front of each of them. “This is the signature treat I’ve been working on.”

  Holden looked confused. “It’s a cupcake.”

  “Ahhh, not just any cupcake,” Aspen said with a dramatic wink. “It’s an apple cider cupcake, made with fresh cider from the mill.” She let that sink in. “That’s brown sugar cinnamon buttercream on top. I drizzled a tiny amount of Mr. Franklin’s maple syrup over the buttercream for an added flair and taste of the season. I convinced him to let us use and sell his syrup in the store, so I thought, why not?”

  Holden peeled the decorative baking paper away from the cupcake. “We’ve been trying to get that old coot to let us sell his syrup for years. How’d you do it, girl?” His gaze narrowed. “He didn’t make you promise to do anything inappropriate, did he? He’s a decent neighbor—aside from his wandering herd—but I’ll kick his ass ’til the sun don’t shine, if need be.”

  A few of Mr. Franklin’s cows had the remarkable ability to bust out of any fence the man could build. Finding one or more of them grazing in the orchard, pumpkin patch, or throughout the garden plots had become a common occurrence for her.

  “No, Gramps.” The name Holden had insisted she and Sean address him as flowed easier now. “No butt-kicking necessary. Mr. Franklin was a total gentleman…who charged us double what I’ve been paying per bottle for the first case.”

  “That motherfu—”

  “Holden!” Lila interrupted. “Language! Sean is around here somewhere.”

  “It’s all right,” Aspen said. “As you know, Mr. Franklin never planned for his syrup to become a legitimate business, so our supply will be limited until he sees the potential. I’m not worried. We can still sell the bottles for more than we paid and come out on top. And don’t be concerned about Sean. He’s next door helping Ms. Bailey winterize her chicken coop.”

  “Such a good boy you’ve got there,” Lila remarked. “Always willing to lend a hand.”

  Being a single parent was the hardest thing Aspen had ever done. The validation warmed her chest. “I think I’ll keep him,” she teased, then clapped her hands together. “Now, come on. No more stalling. I’m dying here. I’m literally going to shove those cupcakes into your mouths if you don’t hurry up and try them.”

  Lila and Holden shared a look. With synchronized precision, they picked up their respective cupcakes. They knocked them together in a mock toast, and then dove right in.

  Aspen held her breath while they each took their first bite. She knew what they were tasting. The tart bite of the cider. The sweet sugar of the buttercream. The spice of the cinnamon. The cupcakes were the best she’d ever tasted. The unique recipe required some finesse to get just the right amount of moisture into the cake without leaving it heavy, but the results far outweighed the time and effort she’d spent to get it right. The distinct cinnamon and cider flavors screamed fall in rural Michigan and perfectly represented the core business of the mill.

  Her gaze darted between the couple, not wanting to miss a moment of their experience. Lila’s eyes rolled back as she hummed in pleasure. Holden’s gaze locked onto his wife, clearly interested in her enjoyment more than his own.

  Holden was the perfect example of the kind of man Aspen wanted, if she ever decided to settle down again. A man whose lust rivaled his love. Did they even make men like Holden Mancini who were closer to thirty? If so, sign her up.

  Aspen ran her hands along the edge of the granite-topped island—the newly installed centerpiece of her rented farmhouse kitchen. “All right, you two. Let’s have it. Don’t keep me in suspense.”

  “This is the one,” Lila pronounced with a smile and all the air left Aspen’s lungs in a whoosh of relief. “I don’t know how you managed to capture it, but this cupcake tastes like the very essence of what we do. I’ve never had anything quite like it.”

  Holden nodded around another mouthful and tipped a thumb toward Lila in a “what she said” gesture.

  “Yes!” Aspen threw her arms up and did a little victory dance on her toes. “This is just what we need to bring people into the mill. Think of the possibilities! Customers will get a taste of this and realize that apple cider isn’t just for drinking.” Aspen hesitated. “Wait. That would make the perfect caption for the photo.”

  Aspen reached for her phone as the front screen door opened with a metallic creak followed by a bang, as if it had been thrown open so hard it had hit the outside of the house, only to bounce back and slam shut seconds later.