Go ahead, sweetheart, give it your best shot
Cuz you might get bit back
"I hope you're hungry,” he said.
That perked her up. She tilted her head, arched a brow. “So tell me what's on the menu here."
How about… me?
Forcing back a chuckle, he gestured with his head to the first plate. “What do you say to butter balls to start with, followed by a second course of chocolate kiss peanut butter cookies, a main course of mini pecan pies-"
"Did you say pecan pie?"
"Sure did."
More lip licking. God help him.
"Is there anything else?"
"Greedy little thing, aren't you?"
She waited. Stared him down.
Hooooaa, she was feisty. He loved it.
"Last, but not least,” he finally said, “brown sugar chocolate fudge, which I have hidden away in a cooler for after the festivities."
She closed her eyes, and he could practically see little pecan pies and hunks of fudge dancing in her head. This was going to be fun. He pulled out a box of plastic Baggies and red ribbon, handed her a supply, and began loading each with a sampling from each plate. Annabelle followed his lead, but instead of mimicking his efficient assembly line, she added a step.
One for the bag, one for Annabelle, one for the bag, one for Annabelle…
"Gee, not much of a sugar junkie, are you?"
She laughed, a gorgeous sound he wanted to bottle up and take with him. “I could eat this whole spread in about five minutes flat."
He scoffed. “Yeah, right. What do you weigh, a hundred and ten pounds?"
"Didn't anyone ever tell you not to ask about a woman's weight?"
"It was a compliment. You're in phenomenal shape."
"In other words, you've been checking out my butt."
He threw back his head and laughed, putting his hands in the air. “Fine, guilty as charged.” She was a sharp one, for sure. Sobering, he swiveled to face her and scooted to the end of the seat. “Admit it, Foster, you've been checking mine out, too."
"Have not."
"Have too."
She sent him one of her ‘back off’ looks again, but she didn't move away. Instead, she licked her lips again, leaned back against the seat, and looked him straight in the eye. “All right. So what if I was?"
"The question is, what are you going to do about it?"
"Absolutely nothing,” she said.
"I don't believe you."
Her mouth fell open. “You sure are confident, aren't you?"
"Likewise."
She shrugged. “I'm good at what I do."
"As am I,” he said. “So I guess we have something in common."
Her brows shot up.
Oh, so she wanted to be all holier than thou because she was a member of the Coast Guard ‘elite.’ “Don't believe me?” He leaned closer, enough to smell the ivory soap on her skin and an unexpected hint of something floral, maybe her shampoo. “Come by the station holiday party this Friday night at the Northern Lights Rec Center. 1900 hours. You won't be disappointed."
Chapter Two
The week breezed by in a flurry of training exercises, false alarms, and administrative blah. Annabelle retreated home each night to a steady diet of frozen dinners, leftover cookies, and fudge from the parade. Not exactly the fuel of champions, but it comforted her in her sparsely furnished, lonely one-bedroom town home located five minutes off base.
Not so comforting was the constant reminder of the dashing Tony Lombardi.
And that stupid holiday party. Which was-tonight.
She curled her legs underneath her, nestled into the hideous, brown mustard Barcalounger Dad had passed on when he moved to Florida. It was the only piece of furniture she'd paid to move all the way from New Orleans to Alaska. Some comforts of home were simply priceless.
Tonight, she loved the feel of the familiar, indented upholstery at her back. It would be so easy to stay right here, order a pizza, and polish off the couple of beers she had left in the fridge. Or had she finished those the other night?
Annabelle walked into her matchbox of a kitchen and yanked open the refrigerator door. The shelves were barren save for a bottle of hot pepper sauce, a mostly empty jar of kosher dill pickles, and the plate of fudge Tony Lombardi had sent home with her after the parade.
The one he'd exchanged for a promise to join him at the holiday party.
She dug the heel of her hand into her forehead. Parties were so annoying. She could see it now. Mucho decorations, blaring Christmas music, a bunch of holiday drunks, and her, wishing she was tucked under a blanket at home with a tub of chocolate peanut butter ice cream.
What a blast.
But then again, a certain Food Service Specialist would be there. One who might volunteer to keep the drunks at bay and provide more of those excellent cookies. Oh, and he did have the finest rear end she'd ever seen on a man.
Not that Tony Lombardi, or any man, was anywhere near the top of her to-do list. Was he a nice guy? Sure, probably. Did he give good food? Hell yeah. Beyond that, whatever had passed between them last weekend was dead in the water. She didn't have time to get cozy with anyone. Her head belonged squarely in the game of search and rescue, not in the game of flirting.
But she had to be honest; dinner pickings were slim. There were only two pieces of fudge left. The freezer offered nothing but frozen peas, several blocks of mystery meat, and the corpse of a dead mouse in an improvised Ziploc body bag.
Oops, forgot about that.
"Ugh.” She slammed shut both doors.
It was a toss up. Pizza, Chinese, or…
Dinner a la Tony Lombardi.
Annabelle pulled out the collection of takeout menus the former tenant had left and perused the options. What was it gonna be? Meat lovers’ pizza, Sesame Chicken, egg rolls… Or Butter balls
… Or Mini Pecan Pies…
No contest! She tossed the menus on the kitchen table.
So what if Lombardi got all up in her Kool-Aid again? She could handle him. She could handle anything. And it would buy her a decent meal, a night away from the deafening quiet of her new home, and maybe, some entertainment.
What the heck?
Ho ho ho… here I come.
Or maybe she should have been thinking, bah humbug.
Annabelle stopped dead at the main entrance of the Rec Center. Not only was everyone dressed to the nines, they were wearing Santa hats. Every stinking one of them. Annabelle peered down at her dark-wash boot cut jeans, forest green cable knit sweater, and practical brown snow boots.
Will someone, please, shoot me now?
Underdressed was the understatement of the year. Especially since every other woman in the room was wearing some sparkly top with a pretty skirt or a dress. Stares were already heading in her direction. Maybe they were spouses? Guests? Whatever. She was an enlisted woman. She had to retain some level of dignity, right? Right.
Now, where was the bar?
Annabelle squeezed her way through an obstacle course of warm bodies and strong perfume before finally reaching an empty bar stool, where she planted her too-casual rear and ordered a Guinness.
"A woman after my own heart,” crooned a caramel voice in her ear. “Make that two."
She jumped and turned in her seat to meet the bracing blue stare of Tony Lombardi, looking good enough to eat in a brick-red button down shirt and camel trousers. He tossed a ten-dollar bill on the bar.
So that's what his hair looked like. No longer covered by a hat, his near-black curls looked like someone had just run their hands through them. Something she could imagine herself doing in a different time and place.
Now where did that come from?
"You snuck up on me,” she said.
He threw his arm across the back of her chair and leaned in close, inserting his aura of home and hearth cooking smells and a woodsy aftershave into her space. “You're the one that snuck in without saying hello."