Below the Belt(2)

And, she realized with a smug smile as the server wordlessly delivered her beer and water, nothing she wouldn’t be seeing up close and personal, for a few months, at least. She was about to pick up the glass of water when her mother breezed in.

“Sorry, I’m late, I know.” Mary slid in the booth in front of her. Before Marianne could lift the water, her mother snatched it from her hand and took a gulp. “Better.”

“I’m glad,” Marianne said dryly, taking the water from her mother and having a sip for herself. “What held you up this time?”

“Myself, of course. Then I was late leaving, and Western was a parking lot.” Mary patted her hair, a mix of silver and blonde much like Marianne’s just plain blonde. Where her mother kept her hair longer—eschewing the tradition of cutting it shorter as she got older—Marianne had chopped hers off to a short bob in college. They shared the same icy blue eyes, though. “Had to spruce up a bit, didn’t I?”

“So you could turn all the men’s heads.” Marianne smiled and shook her head while her mother gave her order—a glass of wine—to the server when she buzzed by. “Daddy’s a tolerant man.”

“My favorite kind. As long as I come home to him at the end of the night, he’s never considered it a big deal to flirt. There’s never harm in flirting with a cute young man.” Mary’s light eyes laughed as she took another sip of water from her daughter’s glass. “I thought I taught you that.”

“Among other things.” Marianne waited for the server to plop her mother’s subpar wine down and scoot away before saying, “I got all settled into the apartment. Still have a few more boxes to get to, but I should be done with those tonight.”

“I’m so glad you’re back in town.” Her mother took a sip and grimaced. “This is awful.”

“You picked the location,” she reminded her mother, taking a sip of the much safer selection of bottled beer. “And you remember I’m only here for a while, right? I’m not moving back to Jacksonville permanently. When the All Military games are done, my job’s over.”

“But you’re here for now. And that makes both of us happy.” Mary laid a hand on her daughter’s arm, and Marianne couldn’t help but smile back. She loved her parents; adored them. She knew she was fortunate to have been raised by people who taught her a love of independence tempered by a healthy dose of respect for those who reared you.

“I know. But if this job leads to bigger and better things . . .” She shrugged. No big deal.

Except it was. That was the entire reason she’d left her old job, taken the chance and moved back to Jacksonville. It was the opening to making her dreams come true.

“I think if you—oh!” Mary grabbed for her wineglass as something jarred their table. But her flushed, slightly annoyed look smoothed into sweet cream and dimples when she looked up and found a handsome young Marine standing before their table. And there was no doubt he was a Marine. They were impossible to miss. His dark, almost black hair was in a razor-sharp high and tight, his face was baby-smooth and he was wearing the unofficial off-duty uniform of a clean polo shirt and nice jeans.

“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 teenage years, 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 had 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.