Below the Belt(15)

Damn, she was funny. “They can be pretty intense.”

As she rolled to a stop in front of the BOQ, she waited while he grabbed his bag and the ice-bag-turned-water-balloon.

“Muscle or tendon?”

He stared at her for a minute in the dim light from the dashboard and street lamp. “It’s nothing.”

She bit her lip, and he could almost see her mind turning over another angle to approach it with. She wasn’t going to let up. She was the teddy bear, and she could go on whacking him forever until he broke. There was no way he’d hold up under her scrutiny. So, he just said the first thing he could think of to hold the questions back.

“Have dinner with me tomorrow.”





CHAPTER


5


Hair behind the ears or in front? Front. No, up. Clipped back. That’s more casual. Makeup? No . . . okay, yes, because otherwise it would just look like she didn’t care about her appearance at all. She wasn’t vain, but a girl had her pride.

And this. This was exactly what Marianne had been attempting to avoid when she decided her career was more important than dating for the moment. This utter waste of time she was going through for this dinner. A dinner that was not even an actual date, but just a meeting between two people to hash out stuff and pass the time. Not a date.

Nope. Not at all.

Heels. Yes, definitely heels.

Pride, after all.

She sat on the edge of the bed and debated between two pair of heels, choosing the taller ones. Mostly because she was just short and taller heels made her more confident on a daily basis. And also, a small sliver of her admitted they made her ass look particularly fantastic with the dark jeans she was sporting. The tank top she’d picked out was an old favorite, with enough skin to look fashionable but not so much that if she bent over, she flashed her ta-tas for the entire restaurant. And the ombre pale-blush-to-hot-pink coloring was subdued and playful at the same time.

Holy shit, she was putting way more thought into this than she had dressing for any date in the last two years. And it was Not. A. Date.

A date might actually have a better shot at sneaking in behind that tough shell Brad Costa threw up at every turn. The man was a turtle. No matter which way you approached him, he would just duck into his hidey-hole and stay put. He was determined to keep himself aloof, for some bizarre reason. And not just from her. She’d seen it in action with the other guys, as well.

Just fine. Marianne was determined to crack the shell and find his soft center. Every man had one; some were just harder to find than others.

Brad’s soft center was better at hiding than Carmen Sandiego.

Marianne was debating between two shades of—admittedly nearly identical—lip glosses when her cell rang. She groped for it, relishing the distraction from her wandering mind. “Hello?” she answered as she forced herself to just grab one and slather some on.

“Your father is holed up in his study for the evening. Come out and meet me for dinner.”

“Hi, Mom.” She blew a strand of hair away from her mouth. Why was it the instant anything glossy went on her lips, they became magnets for stray hair? Was this some sort of universal female rule, like you’ll always have cramps during important life events, be on your period when you travel and be wearing granny panties when you get the chance for some impromptu sex? “I can’t tonight. I have plans.”

The instant the words left her lips, she forehead-slapped herself. If she’d had plans with friends, she would have said with whom. Which meant her mother would automatically assume it was a date.

“Ooooh, you do?” Mary purred. “Who is he?”

Yup. Marianne knew her mother all too well.

“Crap, Mom, I’m running late. I’ll call you later, okay? Have a good night!” She hung up and threw the phone on the bed like it was a cobra waiting to strike. As if that would somehow prevent her mother from calling her back immediately.

As her mother’s ringtone played, muffled by the bedspread, Marianne sighed. Not how she wanted to start the evening. But time to be a grown-up. She picked up the phone, careful not to accidentally hit a button and answer the call, turned the phone on silent, and sent her mother to voice mail purgatory.

She was a good daughter. She’d call her mother back.

Eventually. Like tomorrow. Night. Or the day after, at the latest.

Every good daughter has her limits.

On the drive to the restaurant, she reminded herself it wasn’t a date. There was no reason to be nervous. And she’d only embarrass herself if she walked in there with anxiety. Go in like a professional. It’s almost like a business meeting.

Yes. A business meeting. She was pitching her product—her services as a damn good trainer—to the client and hoping he would agree. An unusual venue for her profession, but anything to keep her mouth from tripping over words or—God forbid—blurting out something like, “You don’t think this is a date, do you?”

The hostess at the restaurant pointed her in the right direction, and she made her way there with confidence. Brad stood as she approached the booth, and she inwardly sighed with relief at seeing he’d dressed casually, like she had. His dark jeans and light green button-down shirt looked fantastic, but was definitely more comforting than if he’d dressed up.

“Hey, sorry I’m late. Last-minute call tied me up.” She slid in across from him and waited while he settled down. “Have you ordered yet?”