Loving Him Off the Field (Santa Fe Bobcats #2)(83)

“Sorry ladies.” He grinned lopsidedly, dark eyes lighting up, and Marianne instantly knew he was, if not drunk, well on his way to becoming so. “Didn’t mean to bump the table.”

“It’s fine.” Marianne smiled briefly then turned to her mother, who was smiling not-so-briefly.

“Totally understandable. It’s just so crowded in here, isn’t it?” Mary played with the thin gold band necklace she wore every day, her own patented flirtatious gesture. Marianne rolled her eyes into her water glass.

“Maybe it was just the sight of two such beautiful sisters,” the younger man said with a cheeky grin.

Marianne tried not to laugh, she really did. But a snort worked its way up. Seriously. The guy was twelve. Okay fine, twenty-one, max. But boy did he have some good, classic lines. Her mother glared.

“Ignore my sister,” Mary said firmly.

“Oh, please,” Marianne muttered.

“Can I buy you ladies another round to apologize?” He motioned a hand toward the sliver of bench left by Marianne, silently asking if he could also have a seat. She ignored the gesture and looked straight ahead, past her mother’s shoulder.

Seriously. Hot Marines. Been there, done that. Okay, not done that, done that. That sounded wrong. But you couldn’t grow up in Jacksonville and not have had a teenage fantasy or two about the constant influx of good looking, uniform-wearing hotties driving through the front gate every morning. Naturally, if she’d actually dated any of them during her teens, her father would have killed her.

She was older now. More mature. Immune to the hype. Could easily see through that cocky you want me grin the infant wore.

And yet, her mother ate it up with a spoon. “You don’t have to do that.” But she scooted over a few inches.

“I insist. I . . . need to . . .” A hand clamped down on his shoulder. His speech slowed down—way down—and watching the young man’s face change was almost like watching a gear physically click into place when he turned to see who stepped up behind him.

“Ladies.” Another man, only this time, he was a man, stepped up beside the infant lady-killer. “I hope my friend here isn’t bothering you.” He slung an arm around the other Marine’s shoulder in a grip that even Marianne could see was designed to restrain.

“We’re fine,” Marianne said easily. The infant was a little obnoxious, but she didn’t want him in trouble. “Really, no harm done at all.”

“This just makes things perfect, doesn’t it?” Mary said cheerfully, missing the undertones. “A Marine for each of us.”

“Marine? What gave it away?” The taller, older one smiled easily, but his grip never loosened on the young man. Like his younger friend, he wore the same distinctive military markers—medium brown hair in a high and tight, polo tucked into jeans without any designer rips or holes—but it wasn’t so much a definition of who he was, just something he wore comfortably. He was probably in his late twenties, early thirties tops, she’d guess. Not old. But old enough to flip a switch from silly little infant over to Oh boy, that’s good to look at.

And God. Hadn’t she just told herself Marines did nothing for her? Bad, Marianne. Bad.

“The high and tights, of course. And the impressive . . . physiques. Impossible to miss!” Mary ran a hand through her hair, smoothing it behind one ear. “Will you join us?”

“I think we’re quitting for the night. We’ve got an early day tomorrow. Don’t we, Tressler?” He said it so mildly, Marianne wouldn’t have picked up on the not-an-order order if she hadn’t been watching their body language.

A little sullen now, like a child being told playtime is over, Tressler gave them a weak smile. “Thanks for the conversation, ladies. Sorry to interrupt your evening.”

The other one waved and led his now-subdued friend off.

She couldn’t help but watch him as he approached the bar to pass off the man-child to another Marine while he settled his tab. Damn, now that was an ass made for jeans. The dark blue denim stretched comfortably over a butt she could easily guess would be tight enough to bounce a quarter off.

“You’re staring,” her mother murmured.

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?”