Terms of Surrender. Leslie Kelly

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.”