Terms of Surrender. Leslie Kelly

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СКАЧАТЬ him add, “Maybe I’ll see you when you’re finished.”

      She stopped and turned around, looking…interested.

      Interesting.

      “You’ll be working all afternoon?”

      He gestured toward the shop. “Lately it seems like I never get out of here. Some of these officers can man a billion-dollar nuclear submarine but don’t know how to drain the transmission fluid out of a Chevy.”

      She nodded once, slowly. “Okay then. Maybe I’ll see you.”

      If he had his way, she most definitely would. In fact, he might just have to make sure of it. Though it didn’t need it, maybe he’d pop the hood on his much-babied ’67 Impala and give her another oil change. A lengthy one.

      He wanted to see this woman again. He didn’t know her name—God, how could he not have gotten her name?—but he definitely wanted to learn it.

      As she got in the car, he almost yelled to ask what he should call her if they happened to bump into each other again. But it seemed a little too pushy. If he was meant to know it, he’d know it. If he was meant to see her again, he’d see her again…oil change or no oil change.

      Danny was a big believer in fate. That John Cusack movie, Serendipity, was a major chick flick and he’d pretended to gag his way through it when his sister had made him watch it once. But deep down, he kind of liked the idea.

      He wasn’t a very spiritual guy, but he did believe in things like karma and putting out good thoughts and getting them back in return. What goes around, comes around, that kind of stuff. Call it fate, or destiny, whatever.

      Things happened for a reason. People came in and out of your life because they were meant to. And if the beautiful blonde was meant to come back into his, she would.

      He stood by the motor pool, watching as she got into her little sedan, prepared to wave as she drove by. But a minute went by, and then another, and she didn’t move.

      It appeared she wasn’t leaving his life quite as quickly as he’d thought.

      Her door opened. One beautiful leg appeared, then she stepped out and turned to face him.

      “My car won’t start.”

      Danny lifted his eyes toward the sky and smiled.

      Serendipity.

      2

      Saturday, 5/7/11, 02:40 p.m.

       www.mad-mari.com/2011/05/07/quickone

      Just checking in between interviews on my phone. I was so busy last night getting ready for 2day that I forgot to put up my usual “Saturday Sinners” post.

      Newbies—every Sat I talk about somebody who has been very bad this week. Last Sat was about that jerk whose wife found a YouTube vid of him marrying another woman…without getting a divorce first. “Sunday Saints” is about someone very good.

      I guess I’m the sinner today ‘cause I forgot to blog.;-)

      Anyway, how about you guys take the floor? Say h’lo to each other. I’ll check in when I get home. L8er—

      Mari

      MARISSA WAS HALFWAY THROUGH her meeting with a woman from Human Resources, feeling confident she’d rocked the interview with the Deputy to the Commandant, when she remembered her underpants.

      Oh, not that she wasn’t wearing them. That was impossible to forget. She’d picked a hell of a first time to go commando.

      No, she didn’t have to worry about panty lines, but there were definitely other distractions. Like getting used to, uh, everything being exposed to any random updraft.

      So, no, she hadn’t forgotten for one minute that she was pantyless beneath her skirt. But she had forgotten—however briefly—what she’d done with those panties. When the woman interviewing her made a comment about a white-glove ceremony, it popped into her mind that she’d left her silky black undergarment, along with her pantyhose, in her car’s glove box.

      And an adorably sexy, very nice mechanic was right now working on her car, having insisted he didn’t mind trying to find out what was wrong with it while she was at her interview.

      And in order to check out what was wrong with the car, he might need to get the owner’s manual.

      And while reaching into that glove box for that manual, he might just grab a fistful of recently worn lingerie.

      Oh, God.

      Under normal circumstances, a superhot, sexy dude touching her underwear might give her a little thrill. Normal circumstances being if said underwear happened to be on her person at the time.

      But superhot, sexy dude finding them balled up in her car, and wondering what the hell kind of psycho takes off her underwear right before an important job interview?

      Uh, yeah. Not so much.

      “You are so screwed,” she muttered with a groan.

      “I’m sorry, what did you say?” asked the woman.

      Things just go from bad to worse.

      Fortunately, her interviewer was distracted, flipping through a file, and had barely glanced up. Yanking her thoughts together, Marissa stammered, “Uh, you’re so…shrewd. I mean, the way you have everything organized.” Forcing a laugh, she added, “My home office is a mess, I can never find anything.”

      “I see.”

      The woman offered her a tight smile. It could have been genuine, or it could have been her way of humoring Mari while she figured out a way to make sure the crazy blonde who talked to herself in the middle of a meeting didn’t get hired. The woman probably already disliked her because she had to work on a Saturday, the Deputy to the Commandant being too busy with end-of-the-year activities to schedule a weekday interview.

      Sighing deeply, Mari said, “Forgive me, I’m a little nervous. I’m mumbling.”

      The woman’s face softened. “It’s okay.” Lowering her voice and leaning closer, she added, “And don’t worry—you’re not screwed. In fact, I think you did very well.”

      Oh, Lord. Definitely bad to worse. “I’m so sorry!”

      “Don’t worry about it. Believe me, I work around a bunch of sailors all the time. The language can be…salty.”

      The ice broken, they spent the next half hour talking about the job, which Marissa wanted more than ever. At first, it had just been about employment—getting paid to do something other than peddling overpriced shoes at a Harbor Place boutique so she could pay the bills. Now that she’d come here and learned more about the guest lecturer position—what she’d be doing, who she’d be talking to, why she was needed—she knew she wanted it. Badly.

      As someone who’d had to play mom for her younger siblings from the age of fourteen, Marissa knew she was good СКАЧАТЬ