CHAPTER

9

Brad let Tressler scoot into the booth before he slid in himself. The younger Marine scowled, but pushed to the end of the bench. The other three Marines slid in across from them, nice and cozy. It was like a group date from hell.

Their server handed out menus, took their drink orders—waters all around—and went off to give them time with the menus.

Chalfant spent approximately seven seconds reading his before he let it fall to the table. “Can you show me how you worked that second combo you used with Armstrong today? The one where you . . .” He threw out his arms and nailed Tibbs in the side of the head.

“Damn, man.” Tibbs, a guy who gave Coach Ace a run for his money on size, gave Chalfant a death stare. “Check yourself.”

Chalfant blushed, fire flaming under his freckles. “Sorry,” he mumbled. His head drooped and he stared at the napkin roll in front of him.

Brad sighed inwardly. “I’ll show you tomorrow. It’s not hard, you just have to use it sparingly or else it becomes expected.”

He glanced up, and Brad could swear he saw the terrifying hints of hero worship in the young man’s eyes.

Their server showed back up with a tray full of waters, then took their orders. She spent more time than necessary coaching Tressler through the finer points of which cut of steak he should get, but seemed amused at his attentions, not offended. Brad didn’t bother to stop him from making an idiot out of himself.

When Brad ordered last, and realized he was the only one to order anything remotely healthy, he glared at each of them. “Are you kidding me? Steak? A freaking cheeseburger, Tibbs? And you,” he added with disgust to Tressler. “You loaded your freaking french fries.”

“They’re better that way. Everyone loves bacon and cheese.” He shrugged. “I dip ’em in ranch and—”

“Nope. No, stop there.” Brad covered his ears with his hands. “I can’t listen to the mess you’re making of your arteries.”

Tressler just smiled dreamily, like he already had a stomach full of fatty goodness.

“So, Coach—”

“Whoa.” Brad was nipping that shit in the bud right now. “Armstrong, I’m not your coach. I’m not anyone’s coach. I’m a teammate.”

“Maybe,” Tressler added, and Tibbs made the dun dun dun sound of doom. The table cracked up . . . except for Brad.

“I’m just babysitting you until Coach Ace has everyone whittled down to a smaller number. I’m not coaching anyone.”

Armstrong hesitated only a second, then asked, “But you’ll still help me with my block tomorrow, right?”

Tibbs leaned forward, which pushed the table into Brad’s chest. “I need some speed, man. Help me out.”

Chalfant just watched him expectantly, like he wanted reaffirmation Brad would be working with him as he’d already promised.

Brad’s brows lowered, and he looked to his left at Tressler. “Well? What do you want?”

Tressler pretended to consider that for a moment, then pointed. “That. I want that. Can you make it happen?”

Brad turned to see their server bending over another table, bussing glasses. Her ass, covered in tight black pants, was on display for anyone lewd enough to watch.

“No.” Absolutely not. He could tolerate being mistaken for a coach, though he didn’t like it. But he drew the line at playing pimp. “Get your own ass on your own time. Since you act like an ass most of the time, it shouldn’t be too hard. Like attracts like, right?”

At that, all four men burst into loud hoots and laughs, Tressler included.

Brad cracked a smile, but held back from a full-blown grin. He didn’t want to encourage this bonding any more than necessary.

You want to be a part of this team. So spend some time making a difference in something you volunteered for, huh?

He didn’t have to paint their toenails or tuck them into bed with a story and a cup of juice. But it wouldn’t be that hard to keep an eye on them and make sure they didn’t walk straight into any problems. Or get cut based solely on stupidity.

That was enough. For now.

*   *   *

MARIANNE crossed the final items off her list, satisfied to see she’d managed to work through the entire thing before bed. That only happened once in a blue moon. She was notorious for taking on way more than she could handle in any given day.

Feet propped up on the coffee table, she took a sip of the tea Kara had sworn by for nighttime relaxation and grimaced. It tasted like crushed up dandelions and cinnamon mixed together in tepid milk.

Or, at least, what she assumed those things together would taste like.

So, this tea was not her thing. No big deal. She put the mug aside and closed her eyes. She’d just meditate—aka “daydream”—for a few minutes, then head to bed for a good night’s sleep.

The knock on the door jarred her from her meditation two minutes in. Grumbling, she stood and headed to the door. It had to be a mistake. Her mom would have texted before coming over, Kara would never have left Zach so late at night, and nobody else she knew socially lived in the area anymore.

When she saw Brad through the peephole, she sucked in a breath. What the . . .

She started to undo the chain, then remembered she was in her pajamas. She looked down and took in the simple green shirt and Family Guy flannel pants. Uh . . . embarrassing.

Undoing the chain and the dead bolt, she cracked the door open enough to stick her head out. “Hi.”

Hands stuffed in his pockets, he turned to face her. He wore a light blue, striped button-down shirt, jeans, running shoes and a scowl.

“You owe me.” He walked toward the door and she opened it reflexively, though she hadn’t intended to let him in to begin with. Mostly because, well, Family Guy pants.

“I owe you?” She closed the door behind him and found him prowling her living room. Yes, prowling. It was the only word to describe what he was doing. He reminded her of the caged panthers at the zoo. Restless, confined, agitated by the boundaries their life had been reduced to, they paced from one end of the cage to the other in a fruitless effort to work off some frustration. Brad was doing the exact same thing now, only he was wearing a hole around her coffee table instead of a mock-jungle environment.

“You owe me,” he repeated, then stopped dead in his tracks to shoot an accusatory glare at her. “You told me I needed to get to know them. I needed to be a good leader. They look up to me. I should be a part of what I want to join.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “I did say those things, yes.”

“You called me a hermit.”

“I didn’t use the word ‘hermit,’” she argued.

“You implied it.”

“Maybe.”

“I just had the longest dinner of my life. I sat there with a bunch of nineteen- and twenty-year-olds and listened to them talk about scoring ass and getting drunk—not that any of them are legally able to—and the joys of being a general badass.” He sat on her couch so hard the frame squeaked. Rubbing his hands over his head, he sighed. “Longest meal ever.”

He was weary, and she felt bad about that. But the entire thing amused her. Tickled her, if she were being honest. “You took them out to dinner.”

He nodded without looking up.

Gathering herself together, she sat gently beside him on the couch. “You took your group of guys to dinner, and let them ramble on about women and drinking, because they wanted to impress you.”

He didn’t move, just sighed.

Rubbing his back lightly, she chuckled. “That was nice.”

“You owe me,” he said, his voice muffled.

“What do I owe you?”

“Decent company. I need a palate cleanser after that. Conversation with an adult who won’t talk about a stripper they know in Yuma—though her existence is sketchy, at best, if you ask me—or the last time you puked your guts out from a keg of Bud.”

“It was last Tuesday. And the stripper wasn’t from Yuma, but Houston.” She sighed and leaned her head against his shoulder. “Veronica. God, I miss her. She had this tattoo of a snake on her stomach, and when she did this one move . . .”

He laughed. Laughed, then choked while trying to hold it back and kept on laughing. Leaning back into her sofa, he draped an arm over her shoulder and let the chuckles die down. “I think your debt is already paid, just with that.”

“Good.” Because it felt so good to snuggle against him, she forced herself to stand up. “Want something to drink?”

“Water, thanks.” He propped a foot on her coffee table and picked up her notepad. Since there was nothing of interest on it, she didn’t care. Picking up the mug of cooled tea, she went to the sink to dump the failed experiment out. She came back and handed him a bottle of water. He raised a brow at her own drink of choice.

“Beer?”

“Yeah, well, tea wasn’t working for me.” She took a sip from the bottle and made a refreshed sound. “Screw tea.”

He nearly choked on his water in surprise. “Aren’t you trainers all supposed to be health nuts with a penchant for making athletes feel guilty about every little thing?”

“Why bother? You’ll feel guilty anyway.” She took another sip and settled the cold bottle on her stomach. To get her bare feet equal to his on her coffee table, she slumped way down on the cushions so it was mostly the top of her shoulders and her neck resting against the back. Uncomfortable, but a nice place to rest her drink. She tapped one of his running shoes with her bare toes. “I’m not someone who is into the organics, crunchy movement. I respect people’s choices. I’m more of the everything-in-moderation crowd. A beer’s fine, as long as you’re not pounding back a six-pack a night, or driving home.”

He glanced at his water, then saluted her with it and took a sip. She did the same with her own brew. “Ah. So good.”

“Show-off.”

She grinned at his disgruntlement. “Sorry. If you lived in this complex, you could have one and then walk home. Alas, you do not.”

“Alas,” he muttered, staring at her beer like it was a rabbit and he wanted to reach out and snare it with his bare hands. “I just watched four men devour cheeseburgers, steaks and fries dripping with cheese and ranch sauce. I’m not in the mood to be tempted right now.”

“Oh, that’s too bad.” She took the tiniest of sips. “Tempting is way more fun.”

He set the water bottle down on the table in front of them, then reached over for the beer. Since it was half gone, she figured he could have the last of it and still be okay to drive home within the hour. Safe bet. She let him take it from her, but he surprised her by placing it next to his water. “I’d rather just have a taste.”

She waved a hand. “Feel free to kill that one.”

“Nope, not what I want.”

She could get him a fresh beer, but then he’d have to wait at least an hour before going home. It was already . . . She glanced up for the clock, but found him watching her instead. And suddenly, she realized when he said taste, he didn’t actually mean the beer.

And she was totally okay with that.

*   *   *

BRAD waited for the signal to stop, slow down, back up.

It never came.

So he lowered his body over hers on the couch and kissed her. The taste of the beer on her tongue was nothing compared to the sweet pressure of her lips against his. Her arms looped over his neck and pulled him down over her. He let his tongue dip in farther to explore, and she met him with every stroke. As he turned to fit his mouth better over hers, her hands started unbuttoning his shirt. He had a white undershirt beneath it, but even just the feel of her hands bumping against his chest, knowing what they were doing, kicked his erection from “starting up” to “ready to go” in a second flat. His own hands cupped her head and massaged through her short, blonde hair. She moaned as he did, and he knew without being told she loved it.

Her fingers finished with the buttons and pushed until he slipped the shirt off. But he never broke contact with her mouth. He felt like he would rather give up a limb than stop kissing her. As her hot little hands streaked under his white T-shirt to play over his back, his shoulder blades tightened and danced with anticipation.

Her husky chuckle into his mouth echoed between them. “Like that, huh?”

“About as much as you like this,” he responded, scratching lightly through her hair. He pulled back enough to watch her eyes drift closed and her lips purse together with a hum of pure bliss.

“We’re a pair. Both of us getting off on scratches.”

She cracked one eye. “I like to think it means we’re both extraordinarily sensual people who take pleasure in the simple things. It’s not a negative.”

“Whatever you just said, I like it.” He kissed the tip of her nose.

With one knee on the couch and the other foot totally extended to the floor, his balance was precarious at best. And now that his mind wasn’t focused on kissing, he realized his knee was screaming. “Not that I don’t enjoy a trip back in time to neck on the couch, but can we take this to your bed instead?”

She blinked, and he swore for a second that his balls cried out in frustration. Please don’t let that have ruined everything.

But she smiled slowly, like a cat who had found where her owner hid the cream, and nodded. “Follow me.”

He stood back, fighting the wince as his knee protested, and helped her up. She glanced down at her pajamas and blushed a little.

“Guess I forgot to wear my lingerie.” She made a face. “Would you believe it was laundry day, and my usual sleepwear is in the rinse cycle?”

“If you tell me you have these pants because you watch Family Guy, then I’m going to say that’s sexier than a nightie.”

“Religiously,” she affirmed.

“That does it. Woman, I’ve got to have my way with you.” He charged at her and she shrieked and ran down the hall until she hit her bedroom, then flung herself on the bed.

He kicked off his shoes and socks at the door to the bedroom, then pulled his undershirt over his head. When she made a sound, he glanced at the bed before dropping it by his shoes. “What?”

She rolled to her stomach, her head pillowed on her arms. “The way guys do that is just sort of the best.”

He looked over his shoulder, then down at his hands. “Do what?”

“Take their shirts off like that. Just gripping it from behind and ripping it over their heads like that. It’s so aggressive. Like, Who cares about being calm and orderly? I’ve gotta get naked this second.” She grinned when he laughed at her imitation of a deep voice. “It’s just a girl thing we happen to like about guys.”

Not one to argue when the odds were in his favor, he shrugged and moved toward her. “I’d do it again, but I’m out of shirts.”

“You can borrow one of mine and try.”

He looked at her narrow torso in disbelief. “Let’s save it for next time.”

Eyes gleaming, she reached for him. He prayed his knee would respond better on a well-cushioned mattress and crawled to her. But she flipped the tables on him and pushed him until he was flat on his back. Then she did the sexiest thing he’d ever seen and straddled him, so her ass cradled his erection. Watching his eyes, she crossed her arms and reached to the bottom hem of her shirt. In one swoop of motion, she pulled it up and over her head, flinging it to a corner of the room.

Her breasts bounced free. She hadn’t been wearing a bra this entire time. How had he missed that? Thank Jesus he had missed that, or he would have been on her from the moment he walked through her door.

“Okay,” he said hoarsely. “Yeah, that’s sexy. I see the appeal.”

“It’s all about the rip.” She ran her hands down his chest, thumbs dipping into his navel for a moment. “And you’ve got to be careful. If you get caught up on a boob or an earring, it’s game over and you spend the next ten minutes trying to get unstuck or cutting your shirt off.”

“You know this from experience?”

“Girls talk.” She pressed a finger to his lips when he would have made a joke. “No more talking for you, though.” Her hands ran down his chest, nails scratching lightly. “I’m about to tell you something, and I hope you’ll understand what it means when I do.”

He hissed in a breath when she skirted around, but didn’t pull down, the waistband of his pants. “I’m a smart guy . . . most of the time.”

“Hmm.”

He wasn’t sure if that was an agreement or disagreement, but when the button to his jeans popped open, Brad wisely chose to give exactly zero fucks about which.

“You’re my first.”

At that, his eyes flew open. “Beg pardon?”

“My first athlete,” she corrected, smiling a little. Then she bent and pressed a kiss to his sternum. “I’ve never gotten involved with someone I was working with before.”

When she looked up, the teasing light was gone, replaced with a more sincere hope. And he was pretty sure he followed along.

“I get it. This isn’t a habit.”

She nodded.

Threading his hands through her hair, he pulled her close for a kiss. Of course it wasn’t. Nothing about them, about their spark, was normal for him, either. He’d never felt this pull before with a woman. Never realized that there would be a single person on the planet that would call to him without saying a word.

Love? No. There was no love at first sight. He would never buy it. But recognition? In spades. He recognized her, and she did him. They met each other on a level above normal interaction.

Unwilling to follow that rabbit hole any farther while the object of his thoughts was currently topless and straddling him, he pulled back and waved down his torso. “You can continue.”

She sent him a saucy grin. “Oh, can I? Maybe I should just get up and get dressed instead.”

When she started to throw one leg over him to leave the bed, he grabbed her waist with both hands and held her firmly down. “No way. You’ve got the anatomy training. Tell me what happens to a man with blue balls?”

“If he’s wise, he suffers in silence,” she said dryly, but finished unzipping his jeans and pulling them down. There was little art or grace to the movement, and he muffled a laugh when she nearly stumbled out of bed tugging the jeans over his knees. But he let her do it her way. The look of satisfaction that gleamed in her eyes when she dropped his pants on the floor was more than enough reward.