SEAL'D In Deep

164 Pages·2017·0.43 MB·english

by  Day Jolie

Table of Contents
About this Novel
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
About the Author
Table of Contents
SEAL’D In Deep
SEAL’D In Deep

Hell’s Seven MC Biker Romance

Jolie Day
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author.

The characters, places, and events portrayed in this book are completely fiction and are in no way meant to represent real people or places.
Warning: This story contains mature themes and language. It is intended to be enjoyed by an 18+ audience only.

Copyright © Jolie Day
ISBN-13: 978-1976346910
ISBN-10: 1976346916
Table of Contents

About this Novel
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
About the Author
About this Novel

He has been through hell and back.
Now she could be the one to save him.

Carter
They call me a hero. One of the world's toughest elite soldiers. But they didn’t warn me about the
nightmares. It can be exhausting to fight a war inside your head.
The Navy SEALs are giving me a second chance to go back, but only if I follow their rules.
It never occurred to me that I’d find the woman of my dreams and not want to go back.
But as soon as Liz literally bumps into me, I look into her soft, beautiful eyes and I know that I
can’t leave.
My plan has always been to remain detached, to fight for my country. But now I find myself wanting
to fight for her love.

Liz
I’ve lived my life jumping from one place to the next, too focused on my career to settle down.
But when I run into him in the coffee shop, I can’t think of anyone else.
Carter is sexy, smart, and just what I’ve always dreamed of.
Still, I can’t seem to shake the feeling that he is hiding something. It’s obvious he has something
deep and dark in his past, something he isn’t sharing.
Should I risk it all to get involved with a man who may just be my soul mate? Or should I listen to
my instinct and run?

If you like bad boy romance novels, then you’ll devour Jolie Day’s witty, steamy „Hell's Seven
MC“ series.
Start the sexy, addictive adventure today!

Disclaimer: SEAL’D In Deep is a steamy standalone contemporary romance. No cliffhanger. No
cheating. With a HEA. Contains mature themes and language.
SEAL’D In Deep
Chapter One

Elizabeth Morgan had a schedule that was sometimes hard to keep up with.
She awoke each morning (even Sundays) at half past five. In the summer, she watched the sun rise
above the Los Angeles skyline while she stretched on her balcony, breathing in the fresh air and
allowing her body to be warmed by its rays. She never spent more than five minutes doing this,
however, and was out the door by 5:45, her running shoes tied tightly on her feet and music blasting in
her ears as entered the elevator.
Most days, she was joined by Tim, who lived in 504 and was three times her age. He was always
chipper and enthusiastic for such an elderly man. He reminded her of her grandfather with his bushy
eyebrows and pastel sweaters. He walked with a cane, but reminisced about the days when he
might’ve joined her for her jogs.
At the lobby, Liz waved goodbye to Tim, promising to pick up his usual coffee order on her way
back. Every day, he told her not to waste her money on such things, but she ignored him every time. It
was their dance.
As soon as her feet hit the pavement, Liz felt a jolt of electricity that made the hair on the back of
her neck stand up, her red ponytail bobbing as she made her way down the street, smiling at passersby
on their way to work. They smiled back and some even addressed her by name, moving to the side
like second nature. It felt as if the whole world had gotten used to her schedule, as Liz always had a
clear path down the sidewalk; she hadn’t had this the first time she went running in L.A.
When she ran, she could feel the beat of her heart in her ears, thrumming along with the music the
beat of her sneakers on the sidewalk. The music kept her going, but her racing pulse was a much
better motivator than any song ever could be. Music had always been the thing that kept her going,
even as a kid.
She used to listen to her Walkman while she studied or did her homework. When she walked home,
the music that floated from her headphones filled her with electricity and had her practically dancing
down the sidewalk. Sometimes, when she stopped to take a picture of the sunset or an interesting
landmark, she imagined herself in a music video, as the central romantic character, and she would
laugh to herself afterwards, shaking her head. She’d always been an imaginative person like that.
Even somewhat goofy.
Typically, Liz ran five miles before she called it quits. Sometimes, she tried to push herself an extra
mile, but never more. She didn’t want to risk a sprained ankle or something worse happening to her
body. She knew that she didn’t look like the stereotypical runner, what with her curves and her
cleavage and the small rolls on her belly, clearly visible through her running tank. Her thighs,
however, were muscular; runner’s thighs. She loved them. Loved the tightness of her calve muscles
and the strength in her legs as they vibrated with energy after a long run, begging for a longer workout.
She often found it hard to sit down after a long jog, which was why she preferred to run so early in
the morning. It was the perfect wake up call.
But, then again, so was coffee.
After her run, Liz made her way to a coffee shop at the corner of her block for a latte and a scone—
which she always earned, several times over—and flirted a little with the barista for a free drink
upgrade and an extra shot of espresso. Typically, this meant she walked out of the shop with his
number written down on the lid.
She never kept it, but he never gave up.
For Tim, she bought a small, plain coffee with a splash of cream and two sugars.
It was a short walk to their apartment building where she, without fail, found him sitting in the
gazebo in the private park attached, where a life-sized Chess board was set up. Tim always took the
black pieces and left Liz with the white. After she handed him his coffee, they played for exactly one
hour, rain or shine.
Though, in Los Angeles, they rarely had to deal with rain.
They made idle chitchat—she about her work and he about his late wife, Evelyn, who had passed
away five years into their retirement from teaching. His face always lit up when he spoke about his
“Evie” and their children. And grandchildren. And two great-grandchildren, that she had not even
gotten to meet. It seemed that he had a new picture to show her every time they played.
More often than not, Liz would leave partway through a game and Tim would shoo her away when
she offered to finish it.
“I know how you are about your schedule,” he would say. “Go on. It’s alright. I’ll beat you
tomorrow.”
“In your dreams, Tim.”
As soon as she stepped through the front door, Liz would make a beeline for the bathroom, stopping
for a moment to rest her hand on the photograph in the hall of her mother and father. The framing was
crooked and slightly blurred, because her father had been holding the camera in his hand and had
barely paid any attention to what he was doing as he kissed his wife. Her mother’s ruddy, freckled
cheeks were raised as she seemed unable to stop smiling.
Liz always took a moment to just stare at them; young and so, so in love. They’d never fallen out of
it and she strived for that. But she always had things to do and places to be.
Her shower lasted three songs, exactly. Mostly the same ones. She sang along as she scrubbed her
body and shampooed her hair.
When she stepped out, she quickly dried herself off and dressed for the day. There was no office to
go into, but she was always out the door before nine AM, her camera hanging from her neck.
Liz didn’t have a car—which was almost unheard of in Los Angeles. Everybody had cars or bikes
or used car services to get from place to place. But not Liz. She had two perfectly fine feet and no
destination. A big part of her schedule was walking aimlessly through the city that she loved. Despite
the many tourist traps and coinciding foot traffic, she found the city mesmerizing in ways that she
couldn’t begin to describe without her camera permanently affixed to her fingers.
Her father had been the same way, back when they lived on the East Coast. She could remember the
days she spent on his shoulders, looking out at the ocean as he took photographs of the lapping waves
and lighthouses in the distance. He’d given Liz her first camera when she was barely out of diapers.
But as much as Liz loved the beaches they visited all over the Coast, she very much preferred to
take photographs of cities and the people that lived in them. After college, she’d traveled around the
country, from city to city, taking photographs of all the different tourist traps that she’s seen so many
times on the internet and in travel brochures. Those photos were all staged, though. There wasn’t a
centimeter that wasn’t perfectly planned down to the amount of light in the frame. Every smile and
frozen laugh was manufactured by the directors behind the lens. Small children were given treats to
keep them from complaining and giving sour pusses to the camera.
Nothing was genuine.
Except when it came to Liz’s photographs.
She loved the candidness of photography. She liked catching her subjects off-guard, when they
were their realest self. She liked watching the glitter in a newcomer’s eyes as they took in an
unfamiliar city, their smile wide and genuine and full of childlike wonder. She loved catching couples
holding hands as they walked down a famous street, their fingers extended toward famous landmarks,
their teeth shining in the bright hot yellow sun.
Yet, as much as she loved to catch the expressions of the people that visited these spots, Liz always
liked to wait for the rare lull in activity, when the tourist attractions were all but deserted in the
middle of the day. These moments were so fleeting that she would have to keep her camera lifted for
long stretches of time, watching tourists and locals bustle past each other through the lens of her
camera until there was nobody there. With the way the light shifted with the time change from day to
day and the way she changed her angle with every single visit, she never took the same photo twice.
Even when they were taken in rapid succession. She was always able to point out the subtle
differences in each developed photograph.
Liz’s morning shift lasted until two in the afternoon, when she would wander to any nearby
restaurant for a bite to eat. She allowed herself an hour to relax and go through any of the pictures that
she’d taken up until then. Once or twice, she had stopped just to take a photograph of a nearby couple
locked in an intimate moment across their table. She made sure their faces weren’t visible before she
pressed the capture.
After lunch, she walked around a bit more until she returned home at exactly eight PM, on the dot.
There, she turned her camera off and placed it on the charger while she made dinner and answered
emails from her clients. Her photographs were perpetually in demand, partly due to her father’s fame,
but mostly due to her talent. She got requests for certain landmarks to put in travel brochures and
offers to showcase her work at high-end galleries all over the country. Invitations to submit her work
to magazines were a staple in her inbox, as were offers to come and work for private companies,
taking nature photos or doing work for gossip magazines and newspapers.