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Authors: Mary Kay McComas
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grinned at her. And while her stomach embarked on an Olympic-style acrobatic routine, he turned the exact same grin on the hostess and asked for a table for two. Ellen sighed, disgruntled, and followed the woman toward their table.
Seated, menued, watered, and alone again, they simulated a detailed investigation of the meals available while their minds pondered their next moves and their hearts yearned to return to the parking lot. When their gazes met over the tops of their menus, they recognized themselves in the other’s expression and smiled. They were the same really. Both nervous. Both attracted. Both wanting the night to go well so there could be others. Both needing. Both a little shy and reserved. Both remembering the kiss, and both a little overwhelmed by it all.
First dates were so tedious, she thought. Really. So regimented and traditional. Why should a passionate kiss in the parking lot less than twelve hours after they met throw the whole thing off? Or had it? Maybe their instincts knew best.
“Just don’t tell me you’re a mercenary, okay?” she said, forcing herself to break the silence first, using the playful, carefree attitude he seemed to like. “I’m not at all sure how I’ll react to that.”
He chuckled and grinned, laying his menu on the table, folding his hands on top.
“Okay,” he said, simply enjoying the sight of her across the table from him. “I’m not a mercenary.”
“Or a spy. You say it out loud and, date-wise, you think ... unreliable.” The twinkle in her eyes was humorous. “Like he’ll go to make a phone call between dinner and dessert and disappear—leaving you with the bill and a long walk home.”
Silent laughter.
“Spies have gotten a bad rap. Most of them live very normal, very ordinary lives.”
With the humor fading quickly, she whispered, “You’re a spy ?”
She would have bet her last dime there wasn’t one word of advice in the little green book that addressed the dating and charming of spies. And she really wanted to charm him.
“No. Not exactly.”
“FBI?”
“Not exactly.”
“CIA?”
“No. Not quite.”
“Oh God.” She moaned. “You’re not one of those special forces guys they make the movies about who go off alone to do all the dangerous stuff no one else will do, are you?”
He laughed heartily this time. “You mean women aren’t really attracted to the action-adventure types?”
“Well, in the movies, yeah. But in real life?” She looked mighty dubious.
Still amused, he said, “In real life I rarely go off anywhere anymore outside the United States, and what I do is probably less dangerous than what you do.” He chuckled again. “But the truth is I’m a captain in the United States Navy, attached to the Naval Sector of DIAC in Washington, D.C. Most days I work nine to five in an office with no windows.”
“The Navy? Really?”
“Disappointed?”
“No. Not at all,” she said. “Relieved. And you live in Washington? Oh, that must be fascinating. So many things to see. The museums and the people and historic buildings and—have you seen the president? In person?”
“Several times,” he said, highly entertained by her reaction. Pleased to have pleased her.
They ordered and their meal came while she rattled off the names of people he may or may not have seen or met, and asked him about the places he’d been to and things he’d done. She was making this getting-to-know-you period—this impossibly frustrating part of his relationships—so easy. Granted, he generally chose women who could care less about who he was or what he did, but there was a reason for that. He simply thought that no one really wanted to know. But Ellen did. She hung on his every word. She’d grow quiet and thoughtful, then ask questions. Correlated the answers into what it meant to him or for him and was genuinely interested. No little thing was too little for her; it all intrigued her. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d
Seated, menued, watered, and alone again, they simulated a detailed investigation of the meals available while their minds pondered their next moves and their hearts yearned to return to the parking lot. When their gazes met over the tops of their menus, they recognized themselves in the other’s expression and smiled. They were the same really. Both nervous. Both attracted. Both wanting the night to go well so there could be others. Both needing. Both a little shy and reserved. Both remembering the kiss, and both a little overwhelmed by it all.
First dates were so tedious, she thought. Really. So regimented and traditional. Why should a passionate kiss in the parking lot less than twelve hours after they met throw the whole thing off? Or had it? Maybe their instincts knew best.
“Just don’t tell me you’re a mercenary, okay?” she said, forcing herself to break the silence first, using the playful, carefree attitude he seemed to like. “I’m not at all sure how I’ll react to that.”
He chuckled and grinned, laying his menu on the table, folding his hands on top.
“Okay,” he said, simply enjoying the sight of her across the table from him. “I’m not a mercenary.”
“Or a spy. You say it out loud and, date-wise, you think ... unreliable.” The twinkle in her eyes was humorous. “Like he’ll go to make a phone call between dinner and dessert and disappear—leaving you with the bill and a long walk home.”
Silent laughter.
“Spies have gotten a bad rap. Most of them live very normal, very ordinary lives.”
With the humor fading quickly, she whispered, “You’re a spy ?”
She would have bet her last dime there wasn’t one word of advice in the little green book that addressed the dating and charming of spies. And she really wanted to charm him.
“No. Not exactly.”
“FBI?”
“Not exactly.”
“CIA?”
“No. Not quite.”
“Oh God.” She moaned. “You’re not one of those special forces guys they make the movies about who go off alone to do all the dangerous stuff no one else will do, are you?”
He laughed heartily this time. “You mean women aren’t really attracted to the action-adventure types?”
“Well, in the movies, yeah. But in real life?” She looked mighty dubious.
Still amused, he said, “In real life I rarely go off anywhere anymore outside the United States, and what I do is probably less dangerous than what you do.” He chuckled again. “But the truth is I’m a captain in the United States Navy, attached to the Naval Sector of DIAC in Washington, D.C. Most days I work nine to five in an office with no windows.”
“The Navy? Really?”
“Disappointed?”
“No. Not at all,” she said. “Relieved. And you live in Washington? Oh, that must be fascinating. So many things to see. The museums and the people and historic buildings and—have you seen the president? In person?”
“Several times,” he said, highly entertained by her reaction. Pleased to have pleased her.
They ordered and their meal came while she rattled off the names of people he may or may not have seen or met, and asked him about the places he’d been to and things he’d done. She was making this getting-to-know-you period—this impossibly frustrating part of his relationships—so easy. Granted, he generally chose women who could care less about who he was or what he did, but there was a reason for that. He simply thought that no one really wanted to know. But Ellen did. She hung on his every word. She’d grow quiet and thoughtful, then ask questions. Correlated the answers into what it meant to him or for him and was genuinely interested. No little thing was too little for her; it all intrigued her. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d
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