That Thing Called Love. Susan Andersen

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      The Ohio-class black nuclear submarine suddenly surfaced from the depths and they turned their attention to it. Nearly as long as two football fields, sleek as a shark and quieter than death, it was an impressive, ominous sight. “That doesn’t make me want to break into a chorus of ‘Yellow Submarine,’” Jake said, raising the Nikon D3 to his eye.

      Max laughed. “No shit. But I never get tired of watching it. It’s like the Darth Vader of submarines. Strategic deterrence at its best.”

      He lowered the camera long enough to shoot the other man a sardonic glance. “Spoken like a true soldier boy.”

      “Wasn’t a soldier, sonny. I told you before, I’m a Marine.”

      “Ex.”

      Max snorted. “No such thing as an ex-Marine. Former, maybe, if you wanna be picky about it.”

      “Whatever.” Jake shot a couple frames of Max, who immediately scowled at him. “So, tell me. I know there’s more than one of these subs stationed at Bangor—so why are they all called the Trident?”

      A bark of laughter exploded out of Max. “For a guy with a bachelor of business from a fancy u—”

      “I never actually got that degree,” he interrupted. “I interned with National Explorer my junior year, got a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to show my photography skills when their usual photographer was laid low with dysentery, and never went back to school.”

      Max nodded. “Explains why you’re not the brightest bulb, I guess. None of the subs are named that. There’s eight of them out of Bangor, and except for the USS Henry M. Jackson, in honor of our late, great Senator Scoop Jackson, they’re all named after states. Alaska, Alabama, Nebraska—and who cares what all. Tridents are the missiles they’re packing.”

      “Huh. Who knew?”

      “Not you, obviously.”

      A short while later the submarine submerged as quietly as it had come up, and Max abruptly morphed from fairly friendly for a guy who “wasn’t ever going to be your bud” to blank-faced deputy. He stepped back. “I’ve got work to do,” he said and pointed to where Jake’s SUV was blocking half an access that nobody was using. “Get that off the ramp,” he growled. Then without another word, he turned and strode up the slope in question to his rig.

      Leaving Jake with an inexplicable smile on his face.

      * * *

      WORRY OVER HIS NONPROGRESS with Austin had replaced the unexpected moment of good humor by the time he got back to the inn. He headed straight for Jenny’s office.

      He heard her voice before he reached it. “...forecasting staff needs for next week, and I need to set up a meeting with you before you leave for the day to discuss doing one of those Groupon or LivingSocial discounts. Reservations will get the immediate brunt of extra work,” she said, then laughed. “Well, if it does what I’m hoping, at any rate. What’s a good time for you?”

      He stopped in the open doorway. Jenny sat facing the door, but twisted slightly to the left as she glanced back and forth between a weekly planner and a spreadsheet laid across the desk, the phone receiver wedged between her ear and a hunched shoulder. Light from the overhead fixtures and the lamp on her desk detailed the creamy curve of high cheekbones and picked out the sheen of her dark hair on either side of her center part. She’d tucked the long layers behind her ears, and they tumbled over the girly, not-quite-but-damn-near sheer fabric of her little black blouse, their blunt ends curving slightly in alternating lengths against the petite thrust of her breasts. He could almost distinguish the outline of a black bra beneath the top.

      If he didn’t mind giving himself eyestrain.

      “Five o’clock is perfect,” she said. “I’ll see you then.” Hanging up the phone, she leaned forward, made a notation in the planner, then turned her attention to the worksheet.

      He could have sworn he didn’t make a sound, but her head suddenly jerked up and she looked straight at him, eyes startled and slender fingers spread like starfish on the oversize spreadsheet. And for just an instant their gazes melded with a spark that wasn’t solely on his side.

      His whole body perked up.

      He didn’t get it. He’d come away from his relationship with Kari with a carved-in-stone belief that there was no such thing as true commitment and a determination to never again put himself in the position of testing that belief. From the age of eighteen, he’d chosen women who knew the score. They understood they’d have a good time but that any relationship with him had a finite shelf date.

      Jenny was so not the cool, casual-sex kind he usually went for. Yet she still had a way of making his hormones come to attention and lock on her like heat-seeking missiles.

      Eye on the prize, Bradshaw! Shoving the attraction down where it belonged—in the subterranean depths of his mind—he stepped inside and for a second wasn’t sure where to start.

      Her brow furrowed. “Are you okay? Can I do something for you?”

      He walked over to her desk, spread his hands against its messy surface and leaned into them. His head drooped for a nanosecond before pride put some bone back in his spine. “He wouldn’t even talk to me.”

      “Who wouldn—?” Jenny blinked. “Austin?” The breath she exhaled wasn’t one of those exasperated, big sighs that females excelled at, but it wasn’t exactly a “poor baby,” either. “And you think this is my problem why?” she asked drily. “I gave you an opportunity. What you did with it was up to you.”

      “I know.” Noticing a luscious, amazing whisper of scent rising off her—a female aroma he could’ve happily gone all day without detecting—he straightened and took a step back. “I do know that. Damn.” Using one hand to massage the knot of tension from the back of his neck, he tried to explain. “It’s just—they got in the backseat.” He could see she didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. “Austin and Nolan, they got into the backseat like I was the damn chauffeur!”

      The delighted laugh that rolled out of her lit her up like a little girl presented with a princess dress. But even as he was drawn to her unfettered enjoyment, even as he felt a spark of warmth take root low in his gut and high in his chest from the sound of her mirth, he found himself snapping, “It’s not funny!”

      Amused appreciation for the boy’s tactics dropping from her face, Jenny’s laughter died even as her warm brown eyes sobered. “Yes,” she said quietly, “it actually is. It’s rebellious, yet polite, which has a certain creative charm. What isn’t funny is the fact that you ignored your son for thirteen years but expect him to get with your damn program in one week. Well, guess what, Bradshaw?”

      She got up from her desk and circled it to the door. “It’s not all about you. So here’s an idea—quit expecting me to do your legwork for you, and try figuring out a few things for yourself.” She tapped the toe of one sexy high-heeled shoe against the carpet, her arms crossed beneath those cupcake breasts.

      It couldn’t be any clearer she wanted him to leave, and his first impulse was to apologize for intruding and saunter past her as if her words hadn’t drawn blood.

      Only...

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