Robyn Carr - My Kind of Christmas

She sat back on his sofa, shock on her face. She took a drink of her Sam Adams and then continued to stare.

“What?” he asked.

“How’d you do in the Academy?” She wanted to know.

“I did fine.”

“How fine?”

“Well. I did well. I graduated second in the class. Got a couple of awards.”

“And flight school?”

He narrowed his eyes. First in his class. Every class. “Well,” he said.

“You little pisser, teasing me about my nubile brain. You were an overachiever.”

“Who spent about four years in diapers…”

“With a binky in your mouth. There isn’t a single prescription for brainiacs, except it sounds like growing up with four older brothers might have put you in want of a brotherhood and the Academy. Flight school and a military career would fit right into your pattern. And apparently you were a lot more social than I was.”

“Do you know everything?”

“I read.”

“I read, too. But not about stuff like that.”

“I know. You’re reading weapons systems, math, aerospace, combat strategy, et cetera. I’m a science major who loves psychology. My degrees are in biology and chemistry with a minor in psych. I’m kind of drawn to the study of genetics, statistics, environmental science, DNA studies, that sort of thing.” She shrugged and said, “That’s how I relax. Reading that stuff.”

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