The Sailor's Secret Baby

By Frankie Love

Sampson never wanted to settle down — that’s why he became a sailor.Then he meets Sweetie, with her pouty pink lips and innocent body. For the first time in his life he’s ready to drop anchor.But Sweetie’s burly brothers won’t let their little sister be taken so easily.Punches are thrown and lines are drawn in the sand—and Sampson is sent off to sea before anything can be set straight.Sweetie is alone, longing for her sailor.She needs him more than ever.Especially now that she is carrying his child.Dear Reader,This patriotic story is sure to set off fireworks! Sampson is more than a sailor—he’s a hero worth fighting for! With a body like that, he can board my ship any day!#ClimbMyMast #FullSteamAhead #AllHandsOnDeck #AnchorsAweigh #NiceBuoy xo, frankie

• Language: English
• Publisher: Frankie Love
• Release date: Dec 3, 2021

Frankie Love

Frankie Love writes filthy-sweet stories about bad boys and mountain men. As a thirty-something mom who is ridiculously in love with her own bearded hottie, she believes in love-at-first-sight and happily-ever-afters. She also believes in the power of a quickie. Get ready to fall in love … you deserve it! **Frankie also writes under the name Charlie Hart!

Book preview

Chapter One

Sweetie

Ineed to get my own place.

Nights like this make that fact more than crystal clear. The music booming from the five-foot-high speakers grinds on my last nerve. The raucous laughter of dozens of people I’ve never seen before has me clenching my jaw, and the smoke, oh the smoke. Why exactly do these strangers feel the need to leave the front door open while they smoke on the porch?

Sharing a house with my three brothers is not my idea of a good time. Give me a mug of tea, a new book on my Kindle, maybe a scented candle, and I'm good to go.

Not wild and crazy, but I like living in my little bubble when I'm not behind the front desk at my brothers' shop. Grim Reapers Tattoos. Not exactly warm and cozy.

It's Friday night, and Nixon, Smith, and Porter have invited over their fifty closest friends, plus whoever decides to crash the house party.

The music pounds in my ears and, as I leave the sanctuary that is my bedroom, I see Nixon reach for the volume on the speaker and turn it up.

Frustrated, I push past people in the kitchen and reach for the kettle that's whistling, adding hot water to my mug. I'm not letting the people here ruin my night.

After I fill my mug, I reach into the cupboard for my fancy chocolate, I feel a man's eyes on me. And not just any man. A man who is broad-shouldered, in a plain white tee stretched tightly across his ripped chest — all muscles, all strength. And when I look at him, even for a moment, my pulse quickens.

I know just how out of my league he is, but still, his eyes rake over me. Feeling the power he holds with just one look, I adjust the hem of my bathrobe. It hits mid-thigh and suddenly seems way too short. Why didn’t I think to put on pants before I left my bedroom? Maybe because I shouldn’t have to. After all, this is my house too.

I refuse to let on just how badly he turns me on. Turning to leave, I push my wavy brown hair from my eyes, stopping only to say, A photo lasts longer.

His eyes meet mine. I think I’ve memorized you well enough.

His words are flirty, but I don't flirt with my brother's friends. Ever. They are the same guys who hang around our tattoo shop, and I swore them off about the same time I swore off sailors. I may live in a Navy town, but that doesn't mean I have to sleep with the ship when it comes to port.

Classy, I say, rolling my eyes, all the while fighting to keep my composure. Truth is, he is the kind of man I want to give myself to. A man who is so sure of himself that he makes my heart all woozy with just a few words. A man with dark hair and darker eyes.

As I leave the kitchen, I try to figure out what this guy is doing here. He doesn't look like the rest of my brothers’ friends. They are rough and rude and rarely appreciative of the fact, that without me behind the front desk, they would never get their artwork done. My brothers aren't exactly the brains behind the business; they drink way too much, make crass jokes and put way too many demands on me.

This man, though? He looks different. And it isn't just the fact that he doesn't have any facial piercings or neck tattoos.

He's darker, more intense as if his mind is somewhere else.

I've never seen him before. But we live in a small Navy town in the Puget Sound of Washington State and there are a lot of people who come and go. Refusing to give this stranger any more of my attention, I adjust my tortoiseshell eyeglasses, turn from the kitchen and head down the hall. I want to sink into my bed and disappear in the pages of a romance novel.

As I pass Smith on the way to my room, he scowls. Put some damn clothes on, Sweetie.

I'm going to bed, I hiss, not slowing down. I was so clear about no more parties. The neighbors keep complaining about the noise and I don't want cops here again.

As I head down the hallway, I see a large group of people flood in through the front