Leslie Kelly - Terms of Surrender

“The Deputy to the Commandant told you why some midshipmen will be returning here before the official start of the summer semester?” asked the interviewer.

Mari nodded. “He said they are faced with washing out.”

“Yes. Some should, either for academic reasons or lack of seriousness about their decision to attend.”

“I’m sure there are some who apply for the wrong reasons.”

“Exactly. Others, though, might succeed, but they’re unsure about whether they can live a military life, or have unrealistic expectations about what that life entails.”

“Hence the need for a reality check.”

“Exactly.”

Bringing in guests to talk to these young men and women on their own terms, about real-life issues they faced—outside the day-to-day of the military—seemed like a very good idea. One guest speaker was an accountant who would be showing them what their financial futures might look like. Another was a diplomat who’d be talking about the big world picture.

And if she got the job, Mari—Dr. Marissa Marshall, who wrote a dissertation on the effect of the military on relationships and families—would be discussing their personal lives. Dating, marriage, children. Confusion over gender roles and the trouble sexism can bring into a household. The costs, the sacrifices, the potential pitfalls.

It made sense. A lot of sense. She only hoped the deputy agreed she was the right person for the job, and that he wasn’t too worried about her age, which he’d mentioned a couple of times during their meeting.

After a few more minutes of conversation, Marissa finished in Personnel and headed out of the building, toward the parking lot. Her thoughts were in a jumble. pImages** of a good job—doing good things for students in need of support—mixed with the picture of a stranger with her underwear in his hand.

His big, strong, powerful hand. Hmm.

But when she arrived at the parking lot, seeing the empty spot where her car had been parked, she began to imagine another scenario. Her, on the phone, reporting her car stolen.

Because it wasn’t in the parking lot.

God, had she really been so flustered, so worried about the time and her stupid freaking underwear, that she’d handed over her keys to a complete stranger? Where on earth was the smart, sensible Marissa, or even the suspicions, skeptical Mari?

“Hey, there, how’d it go?”

Relief washed over her as she heard a voice calling from the open bay of the garage building. The handsome Midas man emerged from the shadowy interior, still dressed in his mechanic’s coveralls.

“Pretty well,” she admitted, approaching him slowly. Then, not about to ask if he’d looked in the glove box, she added, “I guess you were able to get my car started?”

He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, pointing into the shadowy recesses of the garage. “Jumped it and drove it in here so I could work on it. Not a big deal, your battery was dead as a doornail. I ran out and picked one up and popped it in.”

Eyes widening, she replied, “Seriously?”

“Yep. I also changed the oil while I was at it.” He shook his head in disapproval. “Speaking of which, you do know motor oil’s supposed to be a liquid, right? The stuff that came outta there was the color and the consistency of tar. When’s the last time you had it changed?”

She’d been meaning to do that for a good year. Or two.

“I guess I forgot. Sorry.”

“Don’t tell me, tell her.”

She lifted a confused brow. “Her?”

He gestured toward her car again. “She’ll get even with you if you neglect her. Why do you think she was rattling like a bag of bones?”

He sounded like he was talking about a loved one. “I take it you like cars.”

“They do call me the Midas man,” he said, tapping the letters stitched on his chest.

“Yeah, I noticed.”

“But to answer your question, I sort of like cars. Maybe about as much as Winnie-the-Pooh likes honey.”

The very idea of this big, rugged man knowing who Winnie-the-Pooh was made her chuckle. And the fact that he’d actually admitted it? Even more noteworthy. Most guys would be too worried about being considered wusses to dare say such a thing.

“Fortunately, cars can be obtained without having to climb trees or fight off bees,” she countered.

“What’s the matter,” he asked with a grin, “your grocery store doesn’t carry Sue-Bee?”

She chuckled again, liking him more with every passing minute. She liked his wit, liked his smile. Adored those dimples. “So, how much do I owe you?” she asked, shaking off the mental lapse into la-la-lust land.

“Not much,” he told her, naming a figure.

He was right. It wasn’t much. In fact, it sounded far too low for an auto repair. “Wait, that’s just for the parts. What about the labor charges?”

He waved a hand. “It was a twenty-minute job. Piece of cake.”

“I couldn’t…”

“Sure you could. Let’s call it Be Kind To Others Day.”

What a nice sentiment, especially coming from such a strong, young man. He had surprised her again, revealing a depth of warmth and kindness she didn’t usually encounter in men she met. It seemed out-of-place with his raw, masculine good looks and his career.

“The next time you have the chance to do a simple, twenty-minute favor to help out a stranger, go for it and think of me,” he added.

Uh, interesting way to put it. Going for it while thinking of him…that might not be very difficult. But there they were again, back to quibbling about those its.

She could do as he asked—pay it forward—and she would. But she had another idea, too. She cast a quick look at the ring finger on his left hand, not seeing a band of gold. Though a mechanic might take a wedding ring off when working, she didn’t see any distinctive tan line, either. So she hoped she was right in deducing he wasn’t married. Whether he was unattached, she couldn’t know. But it was worth finding out.

Mari hadn’t been out with a man in a long time. It had been even longer since she’d actually been the one to ask for a date.

It’s not a date. It’s a thank-you.

Right. It was the least she could do. What anyone would do.

Would you do it if he was seventy, with a long, greasy gray ponytail, a hairy back and tattoos?

She told that little voice in her head to shut the hell up, then took a deep breath. Hoping she hadn’t misread interest when he was just being a nice guy who treated every woman like she was something special, she said, “You’ve got a deal. But can I also buy you a late lunch or an early dinner as a thank-you?”

She held herself rigid, waiting for his answer.

“You don’t have to do that.”

Not exactly a refusal. But not a yes, either.

“Here’s another idea,” he said. “How about you spring for a couple of burgers and come with me to the marina? We can take my boat out and watch the sunset over the water.”

Oh, wow. That definitely sounded more like a date than a thank-you. A very intimate, romantic kind of date, which was crazy since she didn’t even know this guy.

Don’t be stupid. Women go on blind dates all the time with men they’ve never met.

But in a boat, far from land? How crazy was that? What if he turned out to be some Freddy Krueger type? Her plastic-wrapped body parts might wash ashore all up and down the eastern seaboard. What if they never found her head?

He held up a hand, palm out. “Wait, scratch that. You don’t even know me—I shouldn’t have put you on the spot. You’re probably worrying I’m going to kidnap you or something.” Or something.

She didn’t say anything. Not a word. Especially not about her fear that they wouldn’t find her head.