A Few Good Men (12 page)

Attaching the photo file to a new email, Maureen considered what to write. She had decided already that she wanted this man. All she had to figure out now was how to get him. Oh, and have Jazzy confirm he was single.

This picture was step one. Telling him she would love it if he called her by her real name, step two. Figuring out how or when he’d want to meet her would hopefully be in there too, but she didn’t want to skip ahead. Maureen set to writing the email.

Once she’d hit
Send
, she opened the photo of the tank crew again and gazed at John, so tall and solid with his strong jaw and serious eyes. Her heartbeat quickened even more just looking at him. Shit. She might very well have fallen in love. What the hell did she do now?

John was tired. Really tired. He wasn’t sleeping much between late-night missions and staying up thinking about Maureen, not to mention re-reading her book over and over. When he did sleep, he was awakened by dreams of making love to her. Dreams so good he couldn’t wait to get back to sleep to finish them, but that rarely happened. Instead, he lay awake in frustration, wanting her even after whacking off to thoughts of her.

Tonight, he gave in to temptation, got up and wandered to the MWR in hopes he’d find an email from her. He was never disappointed. Now was no exception.

When he saw there was also a picture attached, he held his breath.

This was it. The moment of truth when he discovered if she was the woman he’d imagined. And if she wasn’t? He loved her mind so much already, he wasn’t sure there was anything he could find in the attached picture that would change that.

Had he really just thought the word love? John tried not to read too much into that errant thought. After all, a man could love lots of things—good pizza, cold beer, sleeping late…sleeping at all.

With a pounding heart, he clicked on the attachment and waited for the picture to load. Once it did, he couldn’t take his eyes off her face, until he let his gaze drop to her cleavage.

Wow.

John leaned in closer to the screen and smiled. She looked sweet and sexy and exactly as he had imagined her. Actually, she was more than he’d dreamed. He let his attention drop one more time to the round globes of her breasts framed beautifully by the low-cut dress.

Damn. His dreams were going to be good tonight when he finally got back to his rack and hopefully back to sleep for more nighttime dalliances with his dream girl.

He tore his gaze away from the photo long enough to reread the email. She explained her job and her reasons for the fake name. The same reason why she didn’t post a photo on her website. She even apologized for not telling him about it sooner, saying she felt so close to him now she didn’t want even that small secret between them.

Maureen felt close to him. That was good news. He felt close to her too, but at the same time he wanted to be closer. Much, much closer.

How could he have such intense feelings toward her? He considered the answer to his own question. Because he was deployed and lonely?

No. Because she was amazing, that’s why. She genuinely cared about people she had never met. She was smart, talented, funny and beautiful, yet so humble she didn’t even realize it. Mostly, she made him feel alive at a time he hadn’t even realized that something inside him had died. She had filled a hole in him he hadn’t been aware existed.

And she was still going out on those damn dates each and every week.

What his men found so funny was not so comical to him. He realized he was jealous…and scared. What if she met someone she actually liked and wanted to keep seeing? The thought of her having sex with another man after he’d spent so many waking and sleeping hours imagining her with him made him ill.

Could he put a stop to her serial dating? Should he? What the hell kind of boyfriend would he make anyway? While in Iraq there wasn’t much more he could do than continue to email her, or ask for her mailing address and write her some real letters. That might be nice, but letters weren’t enough for some women.

John was a career Army man. Would Maureen be okay with that? With him being on active duty for another ten years or more? And why was he thinking things like this? He hadn’t even met her yet. That was the first order of business. He could worry about the rest later.

If they didn’t get extended, his tour was up in about a month. Then, he might be able to get to the States on leave before starting active duty again at the garrison in Germany, or getting shipped off somewhere else.

He didn’t dare mention any of this to her, because if past experience was any teacher, they would probably be extended a few months. But even if that happened, hopefully afterward he could get a few days off and go to New York to meet Maureen.

Maureen
. That’s how she’d signed this most recent email. He liked it, and he really liked that only he, her publisher and her best friend, Peter—the other half of her blasted dating experiment—knew the truth.

John let his mind wander to what he’d do when he met her. He knew what he
wanted
to do, and it involved stripping her out of that sexy dress and making her forget every one of the many men she’d dated. But as much as they had flirted over email and discussed sex in abstract terms in the books she was reading, they’d never even come close to discussing it openly between the two of them.

He realized he was punch-drunk tired, but he couldn’t help himself. He would let everything, well, nearly everything he wanted, spill out and then he would hit
Send
before he thought better of it.

Dear Maureen,

What a beautiful name for a beautiful woman. I am so glad you chose to share both the use of your real name and your story with me, as well as the photo, which I have looked at so many times I have practically memorized your face.

I want to share something with you now. I find myself thinking about you often no matter what I am doing. I imagine meeting you in person and what that might be like. Maybe one day soon that will happen.

I also think about you on your dates. I know you have another this weekend. I hope it is not inappropriate of me to say that if I were there, perhaps one of your dates could be with me? I would really like that.

I just wanted you to know.

Yours,

John

Chapter Twelve

“I can’t do it anymore.” Maureen leaned back in Peter’s computer chair and rubbed her hands over her face. She was tired…tired of dating, that was. John’s last email had convinced her she couldn’t ride this random dating merry-go-round anymore. He thought about her. He wanted to go out on a date when he visited.

He was what she wanted in a man, so why the hell was she putting herself through this?

“Can’t do what? Write one more blog entry in the
Chronicles of Summer Winters
or whatever you’re calling it nowadays? I can’t say I blame you there.” He sighed. “Hopefully this whole blogging phenomenon will go the way of eight-track tapes and be just a bad memory a few years from now.”

“It’s not the blog. I can’t bring myself to go on one more date. I just can’t.”

Peter let out a laugh. “I’ll admit last night was pretty bad. When your guy whipped out that coupon and then started arguing with the waiter that he should honor it even if it was expired, I thought I would die.”

“The coupon, on top of the fact he chose a chain restaurant and insisted we get there in time for the early-bird special was just the beginning. It just isn’t happening. I’m not going to meet the man of my dreams on a blind double date.” Mainly because she had already met him online. “You’ll have to call and cancel whoever you got for next week.”

“No,
I
will not have to call and cancel. You want to back out,
you
get to break the bad news.”

“But you arranged for it—”

“Nope.” Peter’s headshake was firm and definitive.

“Fine. Whatever. I’ll call.” Maureen sighed. “You know what I really want to do next weekend?”

“Do tell.” That comment had a distinctly sarcastic edge to it.

“I want to stay at home, put on my oldest, baggiest flannel pajamas, pull my down comforter to the couch and watch a movie. I don’t care which one, as long as it either makes me laugh or cry until I can’t breathe. Maybe I’ll eat some ice cream or no, that boxed, fake, orange-colored macaroni and cheese. Yeah. That’s what I want. Then the ice cream after that.” She liked that image. If she couldn’t be with John, that was what she wanted to do—be comforted with food and jammies. Although, if she didn’t watch it, her cyber crush would turn her into an overweight recluse. “Wanna come over and join me?”

“When you make it sound so appealing, how could I possibly refuse?” Peter rolled his eyes. “Tell me this—what’s the point of turning yourself into a complete loser? Is that supposed to make you feel good about your life?”

She scowled. “I’m not a loser. I just don’t want to date losers anymore. Staying home is better than going out with guys I don’t know or like.” Particularly since the man she was falling in love with was currently in Iraq.

“No, it’s not. Trust me on this. What will make you feel better is putting on a fabulous dress and a new pair of heels and getting out. Get a manicure, pedicure and facial—believe me, you could use all three—so when you actually find a guy you don’t think is a loser, you won’t turn him off. Hell, get yourself a massage while you’re at it. Your book sales are up. You told me so the other day. Use the extra money to treat yourself. I know having a man’s hands rubbing me always cheers me up.”

Normally, she’d laugh at his bawdy joke. Not today. “I’m not going to meet Mr. Right on these dates, Peter. I don’t want to do this anymore. I’ve lost the passion for this crap.” More accurately, she was hoping for passion on another far more promising front, with John. Even cyber passion seemed preferable to the live men she’d been forced to endure lately.

He sighed and flopped down on the couch. “You’re right. I never thought I would say this, but I could use a week off from dating too. Though I do find it interesting that I’ve been dating for a very long time now, and it wasn’t until I started doubling with you that I got tired of it. Wonder what that means?”

She turned and shot him a nasty look. “Thanks a lot. But it’s not as if you’ve been successful at it on your own or you wouldn’t still be single after all these years.”

“Don’t get catty with me, Miss Pot Calling the Kettle Black.”

Their spat was interrupted when Peter’s phone rang and he jumped up to get it. “Maybe it’s one of last night’s dates calling to declare undying love to one of us.”

“If it is, I’m not here. No, tell him I died mysteriously and tragically. Radon-gas poisoning from my crappy apartment.” She definitely would not be seeing that guy again.

Maureen turned back to the computer. She was dying to log into her email and see if there was a message from John, but Peter would see and yell at her. So instead she logged into her blog page to see how many hits she had and if anyone had posted any more comments. Traffic had really shot up lately, and she’d begun to get feedback from readers. Maureen should read the comments to Peter over coffee. It could be good for a laugh.

“No!”

She was just bringing up the page when she heard Peter’s shocked exclamation.

Spinning back around in the chair, she mouthed, “What?”

He frowned and held up one finger to silence her.

Fine, she could wait. Only the phone call seemed to go on forever, and Peter’s outburts of surprise and outright shock got more intense as the moments passed. Finally, she felt like she would crawl out of her skin if she didn’t find out immediately who was on the other end of that connection and what they were saying.

Maureen stood, hands on hips and said in a voice not even close to a whisper, “Peter. What?”

He held up his hand again, but thankfully wrapped up the conversation.

“You’re not going to believe this. I don’t even believe this. Your blog about our disastrous dates made it into the Sunday paper.” He headed for the coat closet. “I’m running downstairs to buy a copy. I won’t believe it’s true until I see for myself.”

“What? Are you kidding me? How do you know?”

“That was my friend from work on the phone. He said somebody wrote a letter to the editor saying your blog has done more to accurately portray dating in New York City than the show
Sex and the City
ever did. It applauds your use of real people and real dates. They love us. Both of us, I might add. The gay angle was particularly mentioned. Supposedly, the person who wrote the letter said he’s started getting his friends together every Sunday for a Summer Winters party to read your new weekly entry. And apparently it’s not just this one guy. He said one restaurant in the village named this week’s Sunday brunch special after you. It’s eggs benedict, coffee and mimosas because you wrote that’s what I make for you.”

Maureen sat speechless.

“Well, are you coming down to the newsstand with me or not?” Peter stood before her expectantly in his pajamas, slippers and overcoat.

She frowned at him and then down at herself. “Can we go out like this? It’s Easter Sunday.”

He gave her a look. “Of course we can, this is New York. The newsstand is right outside the building and you are Summer Winters. Girl, you’re famous. We’re famous. We can do whatever the hell we want. And forget about calling off next week’s date. You’re going even if I have to drag you, and you’ll be blogging about it the next day as usual.”