Читать книгу Terms of Surrender - Leslie Kelly - Страница 10

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 with teens and young adults. She could relate to them—maybe because she’d still been a kid herself when she’d been thrust into such an adult role.

She could manage both mindsets. Could dish with her eighteen-year-old sister about some hot guy she’d met in Bio 101, but also put on the cautionary Mom hat and remind her that college was about learning, not about guys.

She could support her twenty-one-year-old brother when he decided to go to art school rather than finish college, and also worry about how he was going to support himself drawing comic books.

And as for her twenty-six-year-old brother, well, hers would be the shoulder he would lean on when he finally decided to come out to their incredibly old-fashioned, rigid father…who so wasn’t equipped to deal with having a gay son.

Yes, she was definitely part old soul, part young adult, and had been for fifteen years. So she had the right background to deal with college kids.

Plus, she’d grown up in the military. She’d been a victim of one of its most common negative side effects—spouses unable to deal with it, families wrecked because of it. Kids raised by distant, rigid, militaristic parents. She knew what happened to the children of weak mothers who couldn’t cope and cheating fathers who couldn’t love.

“The Deputy to the Commandant told you why some midshipmen will be returning here before the official start of the summer semester?” asked the interviewer.

Mari nodded. “He said they are faced with washing out.”

“Yes. Some should, either for academic reasons or lack of seriousness about their decision to attend.”

“I’m sure there are some who apply for the wrong reasons.”

“Exactly. Others, though, might succeed, but they’re unsure about whether they can live a military life, or have unrealistic expectations about what that life entails.”

“Hence the need for a reality check.”

“Exactly.”

Bringing in guests to talk to these young men and women on their own terms, about real-life issues they faced—outside the day-to-day of the military—seemed like a very good idea. One guest speaker was an accountant who would be showing them what their financial futures might look like. Another was a diplomat who’d be talking about the big world picture.

And if she got the job, Mari—Dr. Marissa Marshall, who wrote a dissertation on the effect of the military on relationships and families—would be discussing their personal lives. Dating, marriage, children. Confusion over gender roles and the trouble sexism can bring into a household. The costs, the sacrifices, the potential pitfalls.

It made sense. A lot of sense. She only hoped the deputy agreed she was the right person for the job, and that he wasn’t too worried about her age, which he’d mentioned a couple of times during their meeting.

After a few more minutes of conversation, Marissa finished in Personnel and headed out of the building, toward the parking lot. Her thoughts were in a jumble. pImages** of a good job—doing good things for students in need of support—mixed with the picture of a stranger with her underwear in his hand.

His big, strong, powerful hand. Hmm.

But when she arrived at the parking lot, seeing the empty spot where her car had been parked, she began to imagine another scenario. Her, on the phone, reporting her car stolen.

Because it wasn’t in the parking lot.

God, had she really been so flustered, so worried about the time and her stupid freaking underwear, that she’d handed over her keys to a complete stranger? Where on earth was the smart, sensible Marissa, or even the suspicions, skeptical Mari?

“Hey, there, how’d it go?”

Relief washed over her as she heard a voice calling from the open bay of the garage building. The handsome Midas man emerged from the shadowy interior, still dressed in his mechanic’s coveralls.

“Pretty well,” she admitted, approaching him slowly. Then, not about to ask if he’d looked in the glove box, she added, “I guess you were able to get my car started?”

He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, pointing into the shadowy recesses of the garage. “Jumped it and drove it in here so I could work on it. Not a big deal, your battery was dead as a doornail. I ran out and picked one up and popped it in.”

Eyes widening, she replied, “Seriously?”

“Yep. I also changed the oil while I was at it.” He shook his head in disapproval. “Speaking of which, you do know motor oil’s supposed to be a liquid, right? The stuff that came outta there was the color and the consistency of tar. When’s the last time you had it changed?”

She’d been meaning to do that for a good year. Or two.

“I guess I forgot. Sorry.”

“Don’t tell me, tell her.”

She lifted a confused brow. “Her?”

He gestured toward her car again. “She’ll get even with you if you neglect her. Why do you think she was rattling like a bag of bones?”

He sounded like he was talking about a loved one. “I take it you like cars.”

“They do call me the Midas man,” he said, tapping the letters stitched on his chest.

“Yeah, I noticed.”

“But to answer your question, I sort of like cars. Maybe about as much as Winnie-the-Pooh likes honey.”

The very idea of this big, rugged man knowing who Winnie-the-Pooh was made her chuckle. And the fact that he’d actually admitted it? Even more noteworthy. Most guys would be too worried about being considered wusses to dare say such a thing.

“Fortunately, cars can be obtained without having to climb trees or fight off bees,” she countered.

“What’s the matter,” he asked with a grin, “your grocery store doesn’t carry Sue-Bee?”

She chuckled again, liking him more with every passing minute. She liked his wit, liked his smile. Adored those dimples. “So, how much do I owe you?” she asked, shaking off the mental lapse into la-la-lust land.

“Not much,” he told her, naming a figure.

He was right. It wasn’t much. In fact, it sounded far too low for an auto repair. “Wait, that’s just for the parts. What about the labor charges?”

He waved a hand. “It was a twenty-minute job. Piece of cake.”

“I couldn’t…”

“Sure you could. Let’s call it Be Kind To Others Day.”

What a nice sentiment, especially coming from such a strong, young man. He had surprised her again, revealing a depth of warmth and kindness she didn’t usually encounter in men she met. It seemed out-of-place with his raw, masculine good looks and his career.

“The next time you have the chance to do a simple, twenty-minute favor to help out a stranger, go for it and think of me,” he added.

Uh, interesting way to put it. Going for it while thinking of him…that might not be very difficult. But there they were again, back to quibbling about those its.

She could do as he asked—pay it forward—and she would. But she had another idea, too. She cast a quick look at the ring finger on his left hand, not seeing a band of gold. Though a mechanic might take a wedding ring off when working, she didn’t see any distinctive tan line, either. So she hoped she was right in deducing he wasn’t married. Whether he was unattached, she couldn’t know. But it was worth finding out.

Mari hadn’t been out with a man in a long time. It had been even longer since she’d actually been the one to ask for a date.

It’s not a date. It’s a thank-you.

Right. It was the least she could do. What anyone would do.

Would you do it if he was seventy, with a long, greasy gray ponytail, a hairy back and tattoos?

She told that little voice in her head to shut the hell up, then took a deep breath. Hoping she hadn’t misread interest when he was just being a nice guy who treated every woman like she was something special, she said, “You’ve got a deal. But can I also buy you a late lunch or an early dinner as a thank-you?”

She held herself rigid, waiting for his answer.

“You don’t have to do that.”

Not exactly a refusal. But not a yes, either.

“Here’s another idea,” he said. “How about you spring for a couple of burgers and come with me to the marina? We can take my boat out and watch the sunset over the water.”

Oh, wow. That definitely sounded more like a date than a thank-you. A very intimate, romantic kind of date, which was crazy since she didn’t even know this guy.

Don’t be stupid. Women go on blind dates all the time with men they’ve never met.

But in a boat, far from land? How crazy was that? What if he turned out to be some Freddy Krueger type? Her plastic-wrapped body parts might wash ashore all up and down the eastern seaboard. What if they never found her head?

He held up a hand, palm out. “Wait, scratch that. You don’t even know me—I shouldn’t have put you on the spot. You’re probably worrying I’m going to kidnap you or something.” Or something.

She didn’t say anything. Not a word. Especially not about her fear that they wouldn’t find her head.

“But lunch would be great, thanks. I’m glad you asked.”

“You wanted me to?”

“If you hadn’t, I would have. Believe me, I wasn’t going to let you leave without at least getting your name.”

“It’s Mari…Marissa.” She extended her hand in greeting.

“Mari,” he said, zoning in on her nickname, as though he’d immediately decided it suited her better than her formal one. It was like he could see past the rigid hairstyle and the plain clothes and the reason she was here and already knew the more free-spirited woman who lay beneath all that. “Nice to meet you, Mari. I’m Danny.”

He took her hand in his larger one, and she forgot to breathe for a second, wondering why such a simple touch made her shiver. His skin was warm, his grip firm, the fingers strong and the palm rough. And he didn’t let go right away, hesitating for the briefest moment, as if he, too, were savoring the first connection of skin-on-skin.

Their stares met. He’d pushed his sunglasses onto the top of his head and the late afternoon sunshine brought a brilliant gleam to those amber eyes. The gentle smile of pleasure on his face told her so many things—that he was glad to have met her, that he had wanted to ask her out, that he did look forward to getting to know her.

That he was interested. Maybe even as interested as she was. And she, being totally honest with herself, was very interested. More interested in him than she’d been in any man for a very long time.

They might have nothing in common, might not know each other, but they definitely had sparks. Electricity. Plus he was kind, thoughtful…and sexy as hell. Anyone with a fully functioning vagina would be interested.

Finally releasing her hand, he said, “Can I admit I was grateful for your dead battery?”

“Really?”

“Yeah. It saved me from having to dump a box of nails in the parking lot, hoping you’d run over them and flatten a tire, so I’d have to help you out.”

She laughed softly, liking that he’d been so serious about seeing her again…even if his methods sounded a little outrageous. Then again, it wasn’t like he’d acted on them.

“Mental note. Potential stalker,” she said, her tone wry.

“I just know a good thing when I see it.” He lowered his voice to add, “You’re somebody I want to get to know better.”

“Why? Because I’m nervy enough to park illegally at a naval academy?”

“Well, yeah,” he said, his mouth quirking higher on one side. That twinkle reappeared and he seemed wickedly amused as he added, “Plus, I just have to know more about a girl who takes off her underwear and leaves them in her car right before a big job interview.”

DANNY PROBABLY SHOULDN’T have said anything about finding Mari’s undergarments in her glove compartment. He’d caught her off guard, and the gentleman he’d claimed to be definitely wouldn’t have brought it up. He could easily have pretended he had never seen a thing, saving both of them from embarrassment.

But Danny was ungentlemanly enough that he couldn’t help it. Mari was just too sexy to resist, and too contradictory not to try to figure out.

He couldn’t deny he’d been very curious about her even before he’d found the wadded-up ball of fabric in her car. And once he had? Whoa. Reaching in for the manual to check the engine specs and winding up with his hand covered in soft, silky, woman-scented material had been a delightful shock. He’d already been sure he wanted to get to know her better. That surprising discovery had changed the very meaning of the word know to a much more carnal variation.

It hadn’t taken a lot of imagination to put everything together and figure out what she’d done. There’d been their previous conversation, her nervousness, the way she’d been fiddling around in her car when he’d first come out to warn her away from the Employees Only parking lot.

He had to admit, he hadn’t been sure how she would react when he told her she’d been busted. But she hadn’t slapped his face or stalked away or cussed him out.

She’d groaned once. Her pretty face had turned a little bit pink. Then she’d burst into laughter, as if she couldn’t hold it in anymore. Even now, several seconds later, unrestrained giggles erupted from her lips as she tried to explain.

“You…aren’t supposed to know that!”

He wagged his eyebrows. “I didn’t, not 100%. Not until you just confirmed it, anyway.”

She slapped her palm against her forehead. “I can’t believe I fell for it. I should have pretended I had no idea what you were talking about.”

“That might have worked, but, uh, I was pretty sure. Now, fess up…is that what we were really talking about earlier?”

“’Fraid so.”

Remembering everything he’d said before, he added, “So you thought I was offering to get in your car and, what, give you directions on how to pull up your own underwear?”

“Something like that.”

He snorted. “The day I need to use a line like that is the day I trade in my single-man-on-the-prowl club card.”

Her smile might have faded the tiniest bit. “Are you?”

“Am I what? Single?”

“And on the prowl?”

Knowing she was questioning her own instincts, wondering if he was some kind of sleazy on-the-make playboy, he answered her truthfully. “Yes and no. I’m single, but I haven’t been accused of prowling since I was ten and played my last game of Ding-Dong-Dash at old Mrs. McCurdy’s house.”

“Ding-Dong…”

“You know. Ring the doorbell and run? Didn’t you ever play that as a kid?”

She shuddered. “I grew up on military bases. No doorbells. And not much of a sense of humor from most of the guys who lived behind those doors.”

“Yeah, well, old Mrs. McCurdy didn’t laugh much, either.”

One corner of her mouth went up. “You got caught?”

“Uh-huh. She was pretty spry for being on the verge of mummification.”

Tsking, she shook her head. “Couldn’t outrun an old lady. Bet your friends didn’t let you live that one down.”

“Nope, even though they all bailed on me when she grabbed me by the back of the shirt and dragged me into the house so she could call my parents.”

“Uh-oh. Sounds like the opening of a horror movie on the Chiller channel.”

“Just about. Get this, while we waited for my folks to show up, she made me look at her poor, swollen feet to show me how horrible I’d been to make her get up to answer the door.”

“Eww!”

“Tell me about it. Old lady feet—is there anything worse to a ten-year-old boy?”

“Bet you never rang any doorbells and ran again,” she quipped.

He held his fingers up in a Scout’s promise. “Not once.”

“She sounds like a smart old lady.”

His lips quirked. “She was. I felt so guilty afterward I always brought her paper up onto her porch instead of tossing it into the driveway.” Then he added, “And she definitely taught me a lesson.”

“About ringing doorbells?”

“About feet. If you ever need something to kill a fleeting moment of happiness, or a glimmer of sexual interest? Just think of old feet.”

“Noted. But for the record, I happen to have great feet and I don’t intend to let that change.” Her smile was bright and comfortable, as if she’d finally let down all guard, and was being completely herself for the first time since they’d met.

“Great feet, huh? Most people wouldn’t claim that.”

She shrugged. “Don’t ask what I think about my goofy-looking ears or my thin, flat hair, but I have supreme confidence in my feet. Even pedicurists compliment them.”

He glanced down at the sexy, spike-heeled pumps. He’d like to pull them off and closely examine those feet. Then work his way up. Inch by devastating inch.

He already knew he’d have to add her calves to the list of fabulous body parts. And he suspected if he kept going up those legs, he’d find quite a few more.

Danny shook his head, hard. Jesus, this woman was turning him into some kind of hound dog. He never started immediately thinking about how sexy a woman was right after meeting her. If she was attractive? Sure. Smart? Yeah. But downright I-think-I’ll-die-if-I-can’t-go-to-bed-with-you-soon thoughts? Uh-uh.

He knew why. It wasn’t just how attractive she was—he’d met plenty of attractive women. It was because of the sharp bolt of utter, mouth-watering want that had roared through him when he’d stuck his hand in her glove compartment and found himself wrist-deep in sexy, feminine undergarments. The flood of pImages** that had gone through his brain, the sweet scent lingering in the air, the silky feel against his skin. All that had combined to put him on red alert.

Even changing her car’s battery and checking her oil had done nothing to cool him down. Because he’d thought about nothing but charging her battery and slickening up her engine.

“I might not ever be in line to model Dior in Paris, but I bet I could sell a lot of Dr. Scholl’s at Target. So you might just be in luck when it comes to my old lady feet,” she said with a laugh. “I might even be able to pull off flip-flops at seventy and not make you want to hurl.”

Her words brought an image to his mind—him still knowing her, all those years in the future. And for some reason, Danny didn’t laugh with her.

Maybe it was that crazy karma thing—fate, serendipity. Whatever the reason, despite being a thirty-three-year-old bachelor, he suddenly found the idea of being with someone for that long, knowing someone that intimately, a little appealing.

Oh, it had always appealed to him when he thought of his parents and grandparents, all of whom were alive and happy back in Chicago. But he hadn’t really given much thought to it for himself. He’d been focused on so many other things.

First, of course, on flight. That he’d focused on from the age of five when his mechanic father had first taken him to a field beneath a landing flight path at O’Hare and he’d felt the power of a 747 shaking his small body like an earthquake.

Then, during a family trip to Disney World, he’d gotten his dad to take him over to Kennedy to watch a shuttle launch. And he’d suddenly begun to dream about another kind of flight altogether.

Everything he’d done since that point had been with an eye toward space.

He knew it would take years—and he’d planned his route carefully, knowing how most astronauts made their way into the manned space flight program. He’d listed his goals—air flight, navy, NASA—and pursued them with diligence from the time he hit high school, making sure he got the grades to get into Annapolis. Succeeding at this very academy had been key. Not just for everything that would come later, but also to justify the expense and sacrifices his family had made to get him here.

Then, on to the navy. He’d finished at the Academy, gone to Pensacola, then to Whiting.

Then to Afghanistan.

And there, everything had sort of fallen apart.

Not anymore. Now he was back on track. Back on schedule.

So why the hell was he suddenly thinking about what it might be like to grow old with someone, when his focus should be entirely on awaiting word on his application to the Astronaut Candidate Training Program?

“Anyway, back to my little wardrobe malfunction,” she said, apparently not having noticed his distraction. “I had a run in my hose, and…”

“You panicked.”

“Exactly.”

Part of him was tempted to ask her if she’d had a run in her sexy black panties, too, but he figured that might be pushing his luck.

Besides, he didn’t want to think about her sexy black panties any more than he had to. He especially didn’t want to think about the fact that she wasn’t wearing them right now. That just wasn’t good for his sanity.

But it was tough to turn off the mental pImages**, knowing she wasn’t wearing a thing beneath that sinfully tight skirt. Under that simple black fabric was soft skin, curves and hollows and everything deliciously female.

You’re an officer and a gentleman. An officer and a gentleman.

“So I made a spur-of-the-moment decision.”

“Sure, I get that,” he said, pulling his mind out of his own pants. “I mean, I once spilled tomato juice on my dress whites and had to go on duty in my skivvies.”

She rolled her eyes. “Ha-ha.”

“Look at it this way—I bet your, uh, state of undress provided a distraction from the interview, so maybe it made you a little less nervous.”

“Are you kidding? I remembered they were in the glove box halfway through my second meeting, and immediately panicked, thinking you might find them.”

“Well, I did,” he admitted. “But trust me, I’m not some perv. They’re not hanging from my rearview mirror or anything. I put them right back where I found them. In case you, uh…have need of them.”

“Believe me, I usually do.” She sighed heavily. “I know you won’t get this—no guy would—but I just couldn’t deal with a bunch of he-man jerks staring at my butt today.”

He’d been staring at her butt today. But he didn’t think it wise to point that out. And he wasn’t a he-man. Plus, he wasn’t entirely sure what going bare-ass naked beneath her skirt had to do with it. Men stared. Period.

“And panty lines would have just begged to be stared at,” she continued, quickly explaining her thinking on the whole nylons-smoothing-things-out theory.

Which, frankly, was just bullshit. Men definitely didn’t need panty lines acting as little arrows to guide the eye to the perfect female posterior. Maybe other chicks would notice and care. If he did see them, a guy wouldn’t be thinking about anything except pulling those elastic panty lines down. Preferably with his teeth.

“I’m afraid ass-appreciation is just part of our genetic code,” he admitted. “Like flicking other naked guys with towels in the locker room, and our inability to ask for directions when we’re lost.”

“Yeah, what’s with that?”

He shrugged. “It’s a mystery.”

“And one I’m not sure I want to solve.”

“Some things you’re better off not knowing.”

“Like men shouldn’t really want to understand why women go to the bathroom together?”

He leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “It’s all prearranged, right? So you can compare notes on the guys you’re with, and escape together out the window if they suck, right?”

“Busted.”

Nodding, he said, “So I guess that means you’re in trouble today, since you’re flying without a wingman when we go out for lunch.”

She smiled up at him, her eyes gleaming in anticipation. “You mean on your boat?”

Growing still, Danny eyed her steadily, liking the idea, but also knowing she’d hesitated earlier because she’d been unsure. “We don’t have to.”

She glanced outside at the beautiful late afternoon sky. “I’d love to.” Then she looked down at herself and sighed. “But unfortunately, I’m not exactly dressed for it. My only spare clothes are, well, you know…”

Yeah. He knew. Her spare clothes were in her glove compartment and just the thought of her in nothing but them was enough to send an extra pint of blood toward his cock. Of course, knowing she was currently without them was doing a damn fine job of that already.

“How about this,” he said, “it’s only three-thirty, hours until sunset. You go to the nearest store and grab a cheap pair of jeans, I’ll go take a shower. We can meet again at that Irish pub on West Street in exactly forty-five minutes. We’ll get to know each other. Then, if you’d like, we’ll go to the marina and take the boat out for a little while.”

She nibbled her bottom lip between her teeth. “You’re sure? I mean, you didn’t rescind your invitation earlier because you’d changed your mind and don’t want to, right? Did I back you into a corner on this?”

He held his arms up, gesturing to the wide-open space of the garage bay that surrounded them. “No corners. No arm-twisting.” Then, stepping closer—close enough that his boot-covered feet nearly touched the pointy tips of her sexy shoes, hiding what were rumored to be magnificent feet, he added, “Let’s just go for it and see what happens, okay?”

“There’s that it again,” she mumbled.

“What?”

Shaking her head, she stared up at him, those big blue eyes softening. Her lips parted and she drew a slow, audible breath over them, as if she realized he was talking about going for a lot more than lunch.

He didn’t mean sex. At least, not right away. What he wanted to go for was a chance. Just an opportunity.

They’d clicked on sight. Now he wanted to know if that click could ignite something even more than a spark of sexual attraction.

A kiss would be a good start. One slow, deep, wet kiss, just to see what happened.

He wanted that—at least that—before this day was out. And if the kiss was as good as he suspected it could be, well, then they’d just have to see what happened.

“Okay,” she finally said. “I think we’ve got a date.”