Marianne snapped her gaze back. “Am not.”
With a small smile, her mother traced the rim of her wine glass with a fingertip. “You know the reason I find it fun to flirt with men? Men I have no intentions of being with, and whom I know have no intentions of being with me? When I’m happily married to your father, and have been for almost thirty years?”
“I’m not sure I want to,” she muttered and killed the bottle with one last gulp.
“It’s because it makes me feel feminine and pretty. A little alive. Your father pays compliments, but it’s nice to be . . . seen, by other people. It’s fun, and harmless. And it makes me happy. What makes you happy?”
“Work.” The answer was easy enough, on the tip of her tongue before she could even think. “I love my job.”
“Of course you do. But I don’t see you looking at athletic tape and Icy Hot the way you just looked at that young man’s ass just now.”
“Things you never want to hear your mother say,” Marianne said to the ceiling.
Her mother raised a light brow. “Am I wrong?”
She was saved from having to answer when the server sat down another light beer and glass of wine. Marianne waved her hand to catch the woman’s attention before she made herself scarce again. “We didn’t order these.”
“Sent over from the bar. Guy says he’s sorry for the trouble and hope you weren’t offended by his friend’s intrusion.”
“Oh, that sweet boy.” Mary gulped the last of her wine and pushed the empty glass to the server before reaching for the fresh one. “He shouldn’t have.”
“No, he shouldn’t have. We don’t need drinks,” Marianne said quickly, stalling her mother’s arm. “Can you tell him we appreciate the gesture but—”
“Nope. He’s already gone. And that was definitely no boy.” The server winked and headed back to the bar.
So the other one—the one not using horrible pickup lines—had sent them. As an apology for his friend? Or more? She found herself searching the thinning crowd around the bar, just in case. But the server was right, both he and his younger companion—along with most of the crowd they’d come with—were gone.
“Looking for our mystery Marine, are we?”
She threw a crumpled up cocktail napkin at her mother. “Don’t start. And I can’t drink this. I’m driving home. My boxes aren’t going to unpack themselves.”
“Oh relax.” Mary leaned back in the booth. “Sip slowly, drink water, and slow down for five minutes. You’re having a drink with your mother, it can’t be that sinful.”
She debated for a good twenty seconds before grabbing the bottle and having a fresh sip of cool, refreshing beer. Fine. Five minutes, then back to real life.
Mystery Marine, no thank you.
***
Tressler eyed Brad with a childish mutiny from a corner of the wrestling mat. “You didn’t have to fuck up my night, man.”
Not even minute one of training camp, and already he was making lifelong friends. Brad closed his eyes and stretched his back on the mat. Tuck right knee to chest, rotate back until crossing body, and feel the stretch. Stare up at ceiling and not at idiot.
They were in some semblance of a semi-circle, waiting for the coaches to begin day one. Several sleepy eyes in the crowd, a few who looked like they’d been pushed out of bed with a bulldozer. And of course Tressler, who would have been worse off if Brad hadn’t stepped in and “encouraged” him to make an early night of it.
But did he get thanks for being the mature, level-headed one and keeping him from making an ass of himself? No. Of course not. Should have let the kid keep talking to the mother-daughter combo. He would have gotten a healthy slap eventually.
He’d almost done just that. Walked on by, hit the head, and gone home alone to get a solid night’s rest. But something in the way his blond-haired prey had looked—an interesting mixture of boredom and concern—stopped him in his tracks. And though she probably hadn’t meant it, the gratitude and relief when he’d taken Tressler in hand shone in her eyes, making him feel eight feet tall.
“You’re not my CO here.”
“Nope,” he agreed easily, staring at the exposed beams that criss-crossed over the high ceiling of the arena. He dropped the leg and let it fall a bit more, letting the pull stretch his muscles.
“I don’t have to do what you say.”
“Okay then.” Switch sides, stretch away, ignore moron.
“I could have had her,” Tressler continued, almost to himself.
Brad snorted. And he wasn’t the only one.
“Knock it off, you two.” Higgs, who looked a little rough himself, slapped a palm on the mat. The smack of flesh echoed off the high rafters of the gym. “I’m not listening to a bunch of whiny pussies for months.”
Brad took the insult the way it was intended, with equal parts camaraderie and respect, and a little warning tossed in for good measure.
Sadly, Tressler didn’t seem to have the maturity to do the same. “Who are you calling a pussy, pussy?”
“Jesus,” Brad muttered, closing his eyes again when Higgs stood. “Knock it off.”
“I agree.”
The low growl took them all by surprise. Every Marine was on their feet, at attention where they stood as the coach approached. He was a mountain of a man, solidly built but still huge. His dark skin only made the contrast of his white teeth, bared in a grimace, and his shocking white hair stand out that much more.
“Bunch of ladies, bickering and moaning. ‘She stole my boyfriend. She wore my favorite shirt. I saw her texting Tommy,’” he mocked in a high-pitched faux teen girl voice.
A few chuckled before coughing.
“Yeah, it’s humorous.” He let his clipboard fall to the mat with a rattle. “Funny, when men can’t be five seconds in each others’ presence without acting like a bunch of middle school girls who got snubbed for the big dance.”
Brad bit the side of his cheek to keep from smiling.
The man walked between the Marines, through them, weaving in and out on silent feet. Brad kept his eyes forward, the only warning of the coach’s presence the change in atmosphere when he passed by. For a man who must have weighed two-fifty, he moved like a ghost. “I’m sent the few, the proud, the, what? What was that delicate term you used?” He paused by Tressler, who stared straight ahead. “Pussy, was it?”
Tressler said nothing. Kid caught on, finally.
“Well, if that’s true, then we’ve got our work ahead of us, don’t we?” He made his way back to the front of the mat, where they could all see him. “At ease, boys. This isn’t formation, this is practice. I don’t expect you to salute and stand at attention around me. I’m Coach Ace, and these are my assistants.” He pointed a thumb over his left shoulder, toward a tall, lanky man with almost no hair and glasses. “Coach Cartwright.” Thumb jerked to the right, to the short man with a shocking orange-red moustache that would make the Lorax proud. “Coach Willis.”
He spread his arms out wide. “Coaches, this is what we have to work with. Let’s see what we’ve been given. Men? Are you pussies, or are you Marines?”
As one, for the first time, the entire squad gave a loud, “Oo-rah!”
Jeanette Murray spends her days surrounded by hunky alpha men . . . at least in her imagination. In real life, she’s a wife and a mother, keeping tabs on her husband, her daughter, and the family dog on the outskirts of St. Louis. She is also the author of One Night with a Quarterback.