CHAPTER

5

Hair behind the ears or in front? Front. No, up. Clipped back. That’s more casual. Makeup? No . . . okay, yes, because otherwise it would just look like she didn’t care about her appearance at all. She wasn’t vain, but a girl had her pride.

And this. This was exactly what Marianne had been attempting to avoid when she decided her career was more important than dating for the moment. This utter waste of time she was going through for this dinner. A dinner that was not even an actual date, but just a meeting between two people to hash out stuff and pass the time. Not a date.

Nope. Not at all.

Heels. Yes, definitely heels.

Pride, after all.

She sat on the edge of the bed and debated between two pair of heels, choosing the taller ones. Mostly because she was just short and taller heels made her more confident on a daily basis. And also, a small sliver of her admitted they made her ass look particularly fantastic with the dark jeans she was sporting. The tank top she’d picked out was an old favorite, with enough skin to look fashionable but not so much that if she bent over, she flashed her ta-tas for the entire restaurant. And the ombre pale-blush-to-hot-pink coloring was subdued and playful at the same time.

Holy shit, she was putting way more thought into this than she had dressing for any date in the last two years. And it was Not. A. Date.

A date might actually have a better shot at sneaking in behind that tough shell Brad Costa threw up at every turn. The man was a turtle. No matter which way you approached him, he would just duck into his hidey-hole and stay put. He was determined to keep himself aloof, for some bizarre reason. And not just from her. She’d seen it in action with the other guys, as well.

Just fine. Marianne was determined to crack the shell and find his soft center. Every man had one; some were just harder to find than others.

Brad’s soft center was better at hiding than Carmen Sandiego.

Marianne was debating between two shades of—admittedly nearly identical—lip glosses when her cell rang. She groped for it, relishing the distraction from her wandering mind. “Hello?” she answered as she forced herself to just grab one and slather some on.

“Your father is holed up in his study for the evening. Come out and meet me for dinner.”

“Hi, Mom.” She blew a strand of hair away from her mouth. Why was it the instant anything glossy went on her lips, they became magnets for stray hair? Was this some sort of universal female rule, like you’ll always have cramps during important life events, be on your period when you travel and be wearing granny panties when you get the chance for some impromptu sex? “I can’t tonight. I have plans.”

The instant the words left her lips, she forehead-slapped herself. If she’d had plans with friends, she would have said with whom. Which meant her mother would automatically assume it was a date.

“Ooooh, you do?” Mary purred. “Who is he?”

Yup. Marianne knew her mother all too well.

“Crap, Mom, I’m running late. I’ll call you later, okay? Have a good night!” She hung up and threw the phone on the bed like it was a cobra waiting to strike. As if that would somehow prevent her mother from calling her back immediately.

As her mother’s ringtone played, muffled by the bedspread, Marianne sighed. Not how she wanted to start the evening. But time to be a grown-up. She picked up the phone, careful not to accidentally hit a button and answer the call, turned the phone on silent, and sent her mother to voice mail purgatory.

She was a good daughter. She’d call her mother back.

Eventually. Like tomorrow. Night. Or the day after, at the latest.

Every good daughter has her limits.

On the drive to the restaurant, she reminded herself it wasn’t a date. There was no reason to be nervous. And she’d only embarrass herself if she walked in there with anxiety. Go in like a professional. It’s almost like a business meeting.

Yes. A business meeting. She was pitching her product—her services as a damn good trainer—to the client and hoping he would agree. An unusual venue for her profession, but anything to keep her mouth from tripping over words or—God forbid—blurting out something like, “You don’t think this is a date, do you?”

The hostess at the restaurant pointed her in the right direction, and she made her way there with confidence. Brad stood as she approached the booth, and she inwardly sighed with relief at seeing he’d dressed casually, like she had. His dark jeans and light green button-down shirt looked fantastic, but was definitely more comforting than if he’d dressed up.

“Hey, sorry I’m late. Last-minute call tied me up.” She slid in across from him and waited while he settled down. “Have you ordered yet?”

He raised a brow. “No, I was waiting for you.”

“Oh. Right.” Dumbass. The server passed by and took her drink order of a glass of water and a bottle of Yuengling. At her order, he looked surprised.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just impressed.”

“Because I’m a lady who knows her beer?”

“I’m always impressed with anyone who knows decent beer. Most of the guys I know don’t even go for the good stuff.”

“Well, I could order a girly cocktail and pay nineteen dollars for a quarter of a shot of vodka and three ounces of cranberry juice, but I’m just not in the mood.”

He grinned, then turned his bottle so she could see the label on his own drink.

Yuengling.

The smile crept across her lips before she could stop it. “Nice taste.”

“I think so.” He watched her while he took a sip. The server brought by her drink and water then took their orders. He surprised her by ordering the salmon, grilled, fresh vegetables and a salad with oil and vinegar. Meanwhile, her steak, chicken tortilla soup and baked potato suddenly sounded like a gluttonous splurge.

“Training diet?” she asked.

He nodded. “I try not to go too crazy. I want a beer with dinner? Dinner’s gotta be decent. I’m not in the mood for alcohol or carbs? Maybe I go crazy and order dessert.” He shrugged. “Moderation.”

“Healthy,” she added. “Realistic. I see athletes sometimes who go insane with their diet, thinking they’re doing the right thing. And I can’t fault them for wanting to be healthy.” She debated a second, then grabbed one of the rolls from the untouched basket on the table. “But after a certain time, your body just needs a little something extra, you know?”

He was smiling at her a little, like he enjoyed her snatching a roll as if it were the last one instead of one of four. “Burnout’s a real thing. I’ve known guys who wanted to make it into training camp as badly as I did and pushed it too hard.”

“Is this the first year for you?”

“Yup. Life—and the Marine Corps—has a way of stepping in front of the best laid plans. Deployments, training missions or commanders who didn’t want to sign off on the waiver to let me come. This is my first real chance.”

He sounded so passionate, so determined. But not in a scary, slow-down-big-boy sort of way. “Why boxing?”

He smiled at the server who delivered his salad and her cup of soup, then glanced back to Marianne after picking up his fork. Their server hovered, as if waiting for Brad to notice her and suddenly swoop down and carry her to the back for a quickie. Brad didn’t cooperate, and, with a sigh, the server disappeared.

“Why not boxing?”

She waited a moment, then set her spoon down in mock-disgust. “You’ve really got to stop monopolizing the conversation. I mean, really, Brad. It’s just rude.”

His lips curved, but he ducked his head toward his salad to hide it.

“Boxing is just my sport. I’ve been boxing since I was a kid. I would have joined the Marine boxing team years ago, if I could. And it seemed like every year that was denied to me, the desire grew. But, in retrospect, I probably would have taken it for granted if I’d made it in at nineteen like some of these kids have. So it’s almost like the goal took on a life of its own in my head.”

“I can relate to that one.” She blew steam from her soup and tasted. “I’ve got my eye on a bigger goal, too. It’s been hovering over me for a while. I think the longer a dream stays in your head, the bigger it grows, until sometimes it takes on mythological proportions.”

He pulled an offended face. “Working with the few, the proud wasn’t your ultimate dream in life?”

She couldn’t help but laugh. The so-serious Brad, joking around. It was relieving to see his more human side. “Sorry to burst the ego bubble. It’s great and all, don’t get me wrong. And a step up from having to baby the high school basketball stars who were in my training room begging for Midol.”

He froze with the fork halfway to his mouth. A piece of tomato plopped back onto his plate. “Why in the world . . . Were they on a dare?”

“No. It’s mostly pain reliever, but it’s got caffeine, which can cut headaches faster than straight ibuprofen.” She shrugged. “Mostly I think they thought it was hilarious to ask. Some rite of passage. Look at me, I’m so tough I can ask for Midol and not care. I guess the trainer before me gave them out like candy. That had to stop fast.”

“No kidding.” He grimaced. “Do you like your job?”

“Not like; love.” She ignored her soup completely and leaned forward, careful not to plop a boob in the bowl. “It’s amazing what the right trainer can do for the right athlete. When they click, and they can work together on rehabilitation, or even prevention, or maintenance, it’s fantastic. Seeing the athlete’s performance skyrocket, and knowing you had a hand in that, is special. The human skeletal system is an amazing and complex thing.” She cut herself off. “Sorry. I was about to dive off the edge of total nerdiness.”

“No, I like it. I like seeing people enjoy what they do.”

“Yeah. It feels good to have found that niche that was meant for me.” She waited while the server collected their salad plate and soup bowl and replaced them with dinner plates.

It was good, she mused, to have this easy flow with him. Without mentioning his injury, she’d gotten why the team was so important out of him, and he’d learned why she honestly loved her job. Perhaps later on, if it was still applicable, he’d come to her for help.

But more than that, she just enjoyed talking with him. He was listening. And not the fake listening she knew some men did where they nodded and made soft noises all while mentally calculating how fast they could unbutton the fly to her jeans or whether she would want them to come inside after their date.

Frankly, the entire evening had been better than a lot of dates she’d been on in the recent years.

But it is not a date, she reminded herself sternly.

Cutting into the steak, she sighed in pleasure—then shot him a mischievous grin. “Your salmon looks . . . not as good as my steak.”

He scowled, but she could see the humor in his eyes. “Your arteries disagree.”

“I’ve trained them to appreciate when I feed them red meat.” She took a bite and moaned in pure pleasure, maybe just a little louder than usual to bait him. But when her eyes opened again, he wasn’t laughing or shooting her a playfully angry face. He was watching her mouth intensely, like he was memorizing the shape of her lips.

“What?” She used her napkin to wipe her mouth and chin.

He just shook his head and stabbed at a piece of broccoli . . . a little harder than necessary, in her opinion.

“The broccoli would like you to take it easy,” she joked, trying to regain the teasing lightness they’d had moments before . . . before what? What had she done wrong?

He stared at his plate for a second, then up at her. “Sorry. Tired. I just zoned for a few seconds.”

That she could understand. “I hope you take your day off to rest up. At the rate Coach Ace is going to push you, you’ll need all the reserves you can grab.”

He nodded and went back to eating. But a moment later, when a carrot landed smack in the middle of her split-open baked potato, she grinned.

*   *   *

NEVER had Brad had to argue for so long in the parking lot of a restaurant about following a woman back to her house. Not because he wanted inside, but because, as he’d told Marianne repeatedly, he wanted to make sure she got back safely.

And of course, being who she was, she argued. Only one beer and switched to lemonade, lived here almost her whole life, could drive around town blindfolded, yada yada yada.

Jesus H., the woman loved to argue. He’d just kept his mouth shut and indicated she go ahead. She could fight it, but he’d still make sure she got back safe. It wasn’t a date; he wasn’t trying to get in her pants, good as they made her ass look. But his stepfather would kill him dead if he knew he’d gone out with a woman for any reason and not made sure she’d gotten home safely.

He preferred to avoid his stepdad’s wrath whenever possible. That was self-preservation. The Marine Corps liked their officers to carry a decent amount of self-preservation instinct.

The entire drive back to her place, Brad debated whether to actually walk her to the door. Would she think he was a creeper who couldn’t take a hint? Maybe just parking and making sure she got to the door would suffice. She’d just moved back; likely she moved back in with her parents, since the job was short-term. If it was anything like his parents’ house, it would be well-lit and in a typical, nice neighborhood.

He was pleased with the thought that it would be safe enough to just drive past her driveway and do the honk-and-wave before making his exit when she surprised him and pulled into an apartment complex. The complex was decent, with good access to one of the side gates to base that would be less busy during the mornings. Smart.

But it also meant his theory of leaving her in her parents’ well-lit driveway was kaput. He could still just pull the honk-and-wave. She wouldn’t care. In fact, he’d bet Marianne would prefer it if he just drove off and left her to get inside herself. He should just count his lucky stars they’d made it through the entire meal without her harping on his leg or him slipping up and confessing about the pain.

The mere thought of annoying her had him smiling as he parked three spaces away and stepped out of his car.

He knew he was right when he found her standing on the sidewalk, hands on hips, eyes narrowed. The faint parking lot light made her pale shoulders glow.

“I can get into my apartment by myself, thank you.”

The words were polite, but the way she forced them through her teeth told him she wanted to add a not-so-nice Buzz off at the end of that thank-you.

Why that made him grin, he had no clue. “I know you can get into your apartment. Humor me.”

“Remember when you used to avoid me? That was fun.” She rolled her eyes as he merely stood there, waiting, then shook her head and headed for the stairs.

“Nice complex,” he said as they walked up. “Good view.” The fact that her butt was directly in his line of vision didn’t hurt.

“Easy access to base, and decent safety. I didn’t need much more.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t move back in with your folks.”

“I love my parents, but by doing that, I would have been committing myself to the loony bin. This one’s got a six-month rental, which is perfect for me. And I’m surrounded by Marines. Best theft deterrent I know.”

He glanced over the railing by the stairs to see a parking lot full of SUVs, motorcycles and pickup trucks, almost all with the Eagle, Globe and Anchor sticker on the back. No Marine’s vehicle was complete without the EGA somewhere. “Probably true.”

She walked to a door with a doormat out front. In bold black letters, the mat proclaimed, “Oh, no, not you again!”

She caught his chuckle and glanced down. “Yeah, housewarming gift from my dad. He’s got a warped sense of humor. But it’s also why he can put up with my mom like he does.”

“She seemed like fun—the kind of mom you can have a good time with as an adult.”

“She is. It was a little embarrassing as a kid. She’s a strong personality,” she added with a wry smile. “But now, I appreciate the ability to treat her like a friend as much as anything.”

He watched her dig through the large purse she’d brought—or was that a duffel bag?—and come up with a key ring with about forty keys on it.

“Do you moonlight as a security guard or something?”

“What?” She glanced up as her fingers flipped through the stack of brass, silver and gold keys. “No, half of these are for stuff in the gym I need to get to. The main gym door, my training room, storage room, offices, more storage rooms. Then the apartment, the key to the twenty-four-hour gym, my storage locker here, my parents’ place . . .”

He stepped closer, just for a moment, while she was distracted. He couldn’t help himself. Away from the scents of the restaurant, he could appreciate her clean, cool fragrance. Like laundry and the ocean breeze mixed together.

She glanced up suddenly, startled at seeing him closer than she expected and dropped the keys to the concrete ground with a clang. Her fingers clench into fists, as if fighting the urge to shake.

Her eyes watched him, like a rabbit watched a chained dog in the backyard. How long was the dog’s rope?

Even he wasn’t sure, all of the sudden. Because in an instant, he wanted to kick down her door, throw them through the entryway and slam it shut with her back against it and him pressed into her like they could melt into one person. He leaned down just an inch, then she ducked.

Or rather, bent over to grab the keys, smoothly stepping two feet back when she popped back up. Her laugh was a little brittle, but she didn’t look at him again as she continued to flip through the keys. “Stupid things. I do that once a day at least.”

Wake up, Romeo. There’s your sign.

“Here it is.” She held it up, as if he needed verification, then inserted it into the lock and opened her door a crack. “Thanks for walking me up, and the company.”

Rabbit running scared. He had the most absurd urge to let out a soft Woof. “Yeah, sure, no problem.” His foot itched to block the door’s closing, as if that would prolong the evening rather than have her calling the cops.

Time to go, Romeo.

“Have a good night.” Hands in his pockets, he stepped back, gave her a nod and watched the door close.

*   *   *

MARIANNE’S fingers lost their grip on the clip hook key chain and forty billion keys and let them tumble to the entry laminate with a sharp thump and jangle.

Oh. My. God.

Had she honestly been that socially awkward just then? She turned, rested her shoulders against the door then thumped her head back against the closed door once, hard. Maybe some sense would rattle back in place.

“Marianne?”

She froze, staring into the dark living room.

“Hey, are you okay?”

Brad. He hadn’t left yet. Why hadn’t he left yet? She could ignore him. Pretend she hadn’t heard him calling out.

Except he must have just heard her drop her keys and bang her head against the door. So that would only make her look like the coward she was and create even more problems later on. With dread, and more than a little confusion, she turned and opened the door sheepishly. Just enough to stick her head out. “Yeah?”

He watched her, and she got the vague sensation that he was mentally searching for signs of trauma.

“What did you need, Brad?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Just heard a really heavy thump. I worried you’d fallen or something.”

“I’ll press my Life Alert button if I can’t get back up.” At her snappish tone, he raised a brow. She sighed. “Sorry. Yes, I’m fine. I just dropped my keys and . . . hit my head against the door.”

Not really the full story, but it was technically all true.

He smiled a little. “Those keys seem pretty slippery.”

“Sure are.” When he didn’t move, she looked around the breezeway. “Did you need something else?”

“No, I . . .” He huffed out a laugh. “No.” Then his face changed as he watched her, and she knew instinctively what he was thinking. Just as he leaned in, he whispered, “Yes.”