She planted her elbows on the table. “You’ve got to get over how I look, Griffin. We’ve been together day and night for weeks. Surely you’re used to my appearance by now.”

He shrugged. “There’s no getting used to you. I turn around and catch sight of you when I’m not thinking about it, and it smacks me in the face. Your beauty is like a physical blow.”

She smirked. “Do I have permission to actually smack you in the face going forward?” Goodness knew, she would like to punch him about a hundred times per day, every time he taunted her for being weak or unworthy, in fact.

He arched one brow at her as if to dare her to try hitting him. She knew better—they’d started a training evolution in unarmed combat a few days back. She had yet to lay a finger on him. She’d had martial arts training, but none of it had prepared her for the vicious, hybrid street-fighting style the SEALs practiced. It was all about the brutal, silent takedown.

She sighed. “Can you at least try to see beyond how I look?”

He laid down his spoon and leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. His biceps bulged in a display that had her gulping gumbo and burning her mouth in the process.

“Oh, I see past the looks, all right,” Griffin said quietly. “So does Cal. That’s why you’re here.”

“Do tell.”

He shrugged. “I can only speak for myself.”

“Please do.”

Another shrug, accompanied by a display of clenched and relaxed muscles across his shoulders that had her gulping gumbo too fast again. Tight T-shirts ought to be outlawed on men built the way he was. At least when she was trying to concentrate on the conversation at hand.

He spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully. “I’ll admit, you ladies have surprised me.”

Really? Awesome.

Griffin continued, “We’re in a weird conundrum here. This isn’t the BUD/S course, and our only orders are to prepare you women however we see fit to survive BUD/S. So far we’ve simulated the way the instructors there will act to the best of our ability. I’m not overtly trying to be an asshole.”

“You’re doing a magnificent job of being one anyway.”

One corner of his mouth turned up in what might be a smile. “The boys at BUD/S will make me look like a pussycat.”

“I have to be honest: that’s a little scary.”

“And therein lies my dilemma. I have to be both BUD/S instructor-jerk and a teaching mentor to you. The two are diametrically opposed.”

“Whoa, Caldwell. That was a big word you just used there.”

He rolled his eyes at her. “I do have a master’s degree in military history.”

“From where?”

“Harvard.”

Her jaw sagged. “Get out. For real?”