Below the Belt(3)

“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 on the young man never loosened. 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 as it 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 thinking What a 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 watching 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 of.

“You’re staring,” her mother murmured.

Marianne snapped her gaze back. “Am not.”

With a small smile, her mother traced the rim of her wineglass 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?”

She was saved from having to answer when the server sat down another light beer and glass of wine. Marianne waved her hand to catch the woman’s attention before she made herself scarce again. “We didn’t order these.”

“Sent over from the bar. Guy says he’s sorry for the trouble and hopes you weren’t offended by his friend’s intrusion.”

“Oh, that sweet boy.” Mary gulped the last of her first wine and pushed the empty glass to the server before reaching for the fresh one. “He shouldn’t have.”

“No, he shouldn’t have. We don’t need drinks,” Marianne said quickly, stalling her mother’s arm. “Can you tell him we appreciate the gesture but—”

“Nope. He’s already gone. And that was definitely no boy. They’re paid for, so enjoy.” The server winked and headed back to the bar.

So the other one—the one not using horrible pickup lines—had sent them. As an apology for his friend? Or more? She found herself searching the thinning crowd around the bar, just in case. But the server was right, both he and his younger companion—along with most of the crowd they’d come with—were gone.

“Looking for our mystery Marine, are we?”

She threw a crumpled up cocktail napkin at her mother. “Don’t start. And I can’t drink this. I’m driving home. My boxes aren’t going to unpack themselves. I’ve got a to-do list a mile long, and I want to have some pamphlets ready to print for—”

“Oh, relax.” Mary leaned back in the booth. “Sip slowly, drink water, and slow down for five minutes. You’re having a drink with your mother; it can’t be that sinful.”

She debated for a good twenty seconds before grabbing the bottle and having a fresh sip of cool, refreshing beer. Fine. Five minutes, then back to real life.

Mystery Marine, thanks for the drinks, but no thank you.


*

TRESSLER eyed Brad with childish mutiny from a corner of the wrestling mat. “You didn’t have to f*ck up my night, man.”

Not even minute one of training camp, and already Brad was making lifelong friends. He closed his eyes and stretched his back on the mat. Tuck right knee to chest, rotate back until crossing body, and feel the stretch. Stare up at ceiling and not at idiot.