Takes Two to Tackle

by Jeanette Murray

  “Yes, ma’am.” He grinned, thinking about Mags meeting his mother and sisters. God, they’d get along famously. “So I’ve been thinking about life after football. Honestly, I’ve got just a few years left in me. That’s the nature of the game. What’s after that? I’m not quick enough with words to be a commentator, and I don’t think I’d enjoy being a coach. Maybe mentoring one-on-one, through AA or something, but that’s small potatoes. I need to get my hands back into something.”

  “I’m available. You can get your hands into me,” she said, giving him a cheeky smile.

  “You’re not available. You’re taken, woman.” He squeezed her side and watched her squirm. “But you weren’t far off. I’ve got my eye on an investment opportunity.”

  “Oh.” That seemed to confuse her. “Okay?”

  “It’s a small firm, just getting started.” He could tell from the way her eyes glassed over, she had no clue. “I really believe in the owner; I know they’ll do some great things with it. They’ve got firsthand knowledge of the business, which helps.”

  “Uh-huh.” She toyed a little with the buttons of his shirt. “Sounds fun.”

  “Plus, I’m in love with the owner, so that helps.”

  She jerked, loosening one of his buttons. “What? Oh!” The smile bloomed as understanding seeped through her. “Me! My cleaning business. I have an investor? That sounds so grown-up. You’re investing!”

  “I already did.” Confusion fuzzed her gaze. “The check.”

  “The check,” she said slowly, shaking her head. “Did you mail me something?”

  “No. The check I gave you the day you left.” She kept shaking her head. “Did you lose it?”

  “I never opened it,” she admitted, blushing and ducking her head. “I just . . . I wasn’t ready. I needed a little time first. It felt like a kiss-off, and it was like, if I saw it in your own handwriting, it would be the final nail in the coffin.”

  “Damn it, woman. Where is it?”

  “My apartment.”

  Gripping her under the butt, he walked out of the room. Her arms scrambled to gain purchase around his neck. “This would have ended a week ago if you’d just opened the damn envelope the day you left.”

  She gasped breathlessly as he hitched her higher to walk out the front door. “Stephen, you can’t carry me all the way to the apartment. This is insane.”

  “Mrs. M!” Irene’s voice carried from around the side of the house. “Are you watching this?”

  “Come away, sweetheart; I need to show you my rosebushes in this back corner back here.”

  “Are you kidding me? This is the hottest thing I’ve seen since . . . dang it,” the teen ended on a grumble. Neither Stephen nor Margaret looked. They just grinned at each other.

  Entering the unlocked front door, Stephen set her down and gave her a swat on the butt. “Where is it?”

  “My nightstand. Hold on.” She jogged the three feet to the bedroom and came back out a moment later, looking at him. “Should I open it?”

  He suddenly felt foolish. He’d envisioned her reading the check, and the note attached, in private, where he couldn’t watch every nuance of her reaction. It felt oddly unnerving. Like watching a secret unfold. “I can step out if you—”

  “No, stay.” She ran a finger under the back to pop the flap. “It should only . . . oh.” When she realized the check was folded inside a note, she turned to the wall so he couldn’t see her face. But he could tell she started with the note first, tucking the check behind it in her hands.

  Her breath hitched, and his fists clenched. Her shoulders shook, and he wanted to hold her, wanted to run. The two sides warred when she turned back to him, tears tracking down her cheeks.

  “You really do believe I can do this?”

  “The business? Hell yeah, I do.”

  “You actually think I’m all these things you said in here? Smart and resourceful and amazing?”

  “I love you. Of course I think that.”

  “And you want to be my silent partner.”

  “Silent to start. Probably going to be hard to keep the partnership a secret when we get married.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “Is that . . . are you . . .”

  “No.” One side of his mouth quirked, and he ran a hand over his hair. “I’m doing this out of order. No, I’m not proposing. Not yet. Just know you’re not getting out of this. I’m considering this a forever thing.”

  She nodded, mouth still hanging slightly open. Then she shifted the check to the front. He watched her eyes track as she examined the date, her name on the Paid To line, the amount—the full amount, plus a little extra he considered starting capital—his signature . . . and then she reached the memo line.

  Come back was all he’d been able to write, in shaky handwriting.

  “Bread crumbs,” she murmured. “You loved me enough to let me go so I could start again.”

  He took the check and note gently from her hands and set them on the nearby table. “I loved you enough to let you start. But I’ll love Us, capital U, enough to not let either of us go.”

  “It’s too much.” She wrapped her arms around him, squeezing hard enough he fought to breathe. “You’re making it all come true. All the dreams at once. It’s too much to take in.”

  Stroking a hand down her hair, he smiled and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “That’s funny, because you showed me there was something worth dreaming for.”

  He let them sink to the couch, still holding on to each other. He figured they wouldn’t let go for a while, and that suited him just fine. He’d found the one he could hold forever, and who could hold him right back.

  Keep reading for an excerpt from

  BELOW THE BELT

  Available now from Berkley

  First Lieutenant Bradley Costa tossed his pack on the bed and sank to the mattress beside it. Fucking hell, what had he walked himself into?

  The best—and most terrifying—opportunity of his life, that’s what. He stood and shook his hands, a habit he’d yet to break, to release the nerves. He couldn’t let it get to him, or else he’d be screwed before he hit the gym on the first day of training camp.

  A knock at his open door jarred him from his self-induced pity party. He turned and saw a guy holding his own ruck, wearing a civilian “uniform” of khakis and a button-down polo shirt that was similar to what he’d worn on his own trip to Camp Lejeune.

  “Hey, you Costa?”

  “Yeah.” Brad strode over to shake the outstretched hand. “You Higgs?”

  “One and the same.” The other man grinned, then squeezed a little in friendly warning before letting go. He was an inch or two shorter than Brad, with a more wiry build. But there was strength in the grip, and Brad didn’t doubt the man could likely run circles around an opponent. Pushing past Brad, Higgs walked in and observed the tiny room, nodding in acceptance. “Seems we’re lucky roomies while we’re here.”

  “Seems like.” Brad watched him warily. “I’ve claimed this one. Yours is that way.” What the hell was this guy doing? The small single bedrooms of the Bachelor Officer Quarters were connected by a tiny sitting room and shared bathroom. Obviously, this was his room.

  Making himself at home, Higgs tossed his pack next to Brad’s on the bed and sat in the chair. “I like company.”

  Oh, good. He got the Chatty Cathy for a roommate. He could wait it out. He went to his own ruck and started unpacking.

  “So you think you’ll be here awhile, huh?”

  God, he hoped so. He glanced up as he organized the top drawer with his workout gear. “Wouldn’t have made the trip otherwise.”

  “I’m not big on unpacking, myself.” Higgs stretched and laced his fingers over his stomach. “I figure I’ll just leave things the way they are for now. See if I like the setup. If not, easier to ditch and go if my shit isn’t spread out from here to kingdom come.”

  Brad snorted. “What, like you’re just going to walk away from this if you
don’t like how it’s playing out?”

  “Why not? Life’s too short to do shit you don’t like.”

  Brad’s hands tightened into fists around the top drawer. He’d tried for years, nearly a decade, to get the chance to come to training camp for the Marine Corps boxing team. Had been working for the goal—even just indirectly—since watching his father compete at age six. For the next twenty-three years, the goal had been at the top of his bucket list. And this moron was willing to just walk away from the opportunity?

  Fucker.

  And yet, if he did, it would be one less fucker Brad had to step over to make it onto the team. He shut the drawer and shrugged. “Probably right.”

  Higgs watched him for a minute, then snorted and stood. Most likely disappointed Brad didn’t invite him to stay to paint their toenails and gossip about boys. As Higgs grabbed his bag, he said, “A bunch of the guys who arrived today are heading down to Back Gate.”

  Back Gate, as anyone who had been stationed at Lejeune knew, was a well-known bar frequented by Marines in their off time. Ironically enough, it was accessed the easiest from the main gate. “Okay then.”

  “You coming?”

  Training day one started at oh-seven hundred tomorrow morning. And these jokers were heading out to get wasted the night before?

  “Oh, yeah, I’ll come. I’ll even drive.”

  He wouldn’t miss this train wreck for the world.

  ***

  Marianne Cook slid into one of the remaining booths at the Back Gate, and wondered why, God, why, had she agreed to meet here for drinks with her mother again?

  That’s right, because her mother was boy-crazy. The woman—half her namesake—was nearly sixty, and still got giggly around hot men young enough to be her sons, if she’d had sons. So meeting in a bar where Marines hung out after hours was, quite frankly, Mary Cook’s idea of a perfect night out.

  Fortunately, her father was not only aware of Mary’s boy-craziness but found it amusing. And since her mother would never even consider cheating on her father, Marianne found the entire thing amusing as well.

  Until she was an unwilling accomplice.

  The server stopped by, a little harried and definitely short on patience, and took Marianne’s simple order of a bottle of light beer and an ice water and left. Knowing her mother, she’d be zooming in about twenty minutes late. The water would make the beer last longer. Only one, since she would be driving home.

  A shout, a few jeers and a male insult erupted from the bar area. She glanced over for a moment. Nothing much to see. A group of Marines doing that weird man thing where harassment passes off as bonding time. Add in a few beers and it just cranks the volume up. Nothing she hadn’t seen before. Though she’d missed the sight since she moved down to Wilmington for college, then stayed there for her first post-grad job.

  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 wine glass 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.

  “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.