“We reserved the shop for after hours so you can try dresses on in private.”
She eyed the Marines. “Private—right.” She pushed through them and approached the door, which was held open by an older woman with a pleasant face. As Cori stepped into the shop, it seemed to shrink around her. Dresses of every color filled the space and claustrophobia kicked in. Racks and racks of formal wear, hand bags, shoes, hats, everything anyone would need for a ball. She swallowed. Where to begin?
“Size five,” Gunny told the woman.
Cori snapped out of her trance. “Excuse me? Size three.”
Gunny looked her up and down and grinned that shit-eating grin that always made her want to punch him. “Size five. I can gauge a woman like I can gauge a weapon and with your curves, a three wouldn’t fit.”
Cori narrowed her eyes. “What do you think you’re doing, gauging my curves?”
“Oh come on, you don’t think the men look? We all look. You’ve got a great body. The years of hard physical training have paid off.”
She lifted her hand, stopping him. “My body isn’t up for discussion. Let’s just get this dress and go.”
“It’s not that easy. You have to try them on.” Gunny smiled and handed her a full length pink gown with layer after layer of sheer fluff, lace, and bows.
For Christ’s sake—bows? She wrinkled her nose and shoved it back at him. “I’ll look like a cupcake in that.”
Gunny pushed it back. “Humor me.”
“Pink?” she growled between clenched teeth. “With bows?”
“Just try it on. You have to put on several before you know what looks good. When my wife bought her ball gown, we were here for hours. Try a little of everything.”
“Whatever.” Cori grabbed the hanger and stomped to the dressing room, her limp even more pronounced as the end of the day aches settled in. “I think this dress is a mistake.”
When she stepped back out of the dressing room, wearing a dress like something she’d seen draped on a doll stuck over a roll of toilet paper on the back of an old woman’s toilet, the unit broke into laughter—Gunny included.
“I look like Little Bo Peep.” Give her a shepherd’s crook, pantaloons, and a bonnet and she could go all Mother Goose on them, or at least look like she stepped out of a nursery rhyme.
Gunny wiped a tear from his eye as she braced her hand on her hips and glared. The corner of his mouth twitched as he fought the laughter. “I’d say we can safely cross that one off the list.”
“I told you.” She lifted the skirt. “Could you have picked an uglier gown?”
“I just wanted something feminine, but I think that’s a bit overboard.” He snickered, making her grind her teeth. “Maybe something a bit—less.”
“Ya think?” She turned to go and several Marines crammed a handful of hangers in her hands, stopping her escape. They filled her arms with everything from a slinky, silver oh-hell-no, to a teeny, tiny strip of sheer blue fabric that would be scandalous at the beach. They obviously were making these choices from the wrong head. She held the strip of fabric up and lifted a brow, searching the crowd for the culprit. “I think this is a nightgown.”
It wasn’t hard to locate the guilty party. Specialist Rodriguez grinned. Cori tossed it back at him. “Not on your best day, Marine.”
“A guy’s got to try.”
“A guy’s going to end up on kitchen patrol for a week.”
His grin disappeared. He snagged a red silk dress and thrust it at her. “Just kidding.”
“Uh, huh.” She took the dress, added it to her pile, and limped her collection into the dressing room. Behind her, she could hear them place bets on which gown would look the best. Damn Marines would wager on anything. She slammed the door, locked it, and hung the dresses on a peg. Exhausted, she fell back against the wall and stared at the colorful collection. The sooner she tried them on, the sooner she could get out of there, but it all seemed so overwhelming.
Cori sucked in a breath and snagged a green silk dress with a slit up to the hip. She eyeballed it and tossed it to the side. The last thing she wanted to do was show off the scar from the injury that gave her a pronounced limp. She grabbed the silver oh-hell-no, and tossed it on top of the green monstrosity. The idea was not to look like a hooker.
The next gown was a Marine blue, the color of her dress uniform. She turned it around. Long, it had an open back, with a modest but elegant front. Probably Gunny’s choice. He’d have picked something she was familiar with. He’d made Lissa a great catch, knew just what a woman wanted—even when she didn’t know herself. She smiled, dropped the ugly pink dress and stepped out of it, kicking it to the side. Someone should burn that before it was forced upon a hapless bridesmaid. She smiled when she thought about purchasing it with that intent. She could roast marshmallows over it.
Cori slipped on the blue dress and the hem hit the floor. No sleeves and the cut showed a scar on her shoulder. She sighed and tugged the fabric over the bullet hole. The dress was beautiful, the scar, not so much. She opened the door and stepped out. Marines turned in her direction.
“Let’s see you walk in that,” Gunny said.
She nodded, took two steps, caught the hem with her foot and tripped. Gunny rushed forward and caught her before she ended up on her face. The way the gown was designed, she would have to wear heels. Impossible. Heat rushed to her face. She recovered, shook her head, and gathered the fabric up, making a beeline for the changing room.
Cori eyed the red dress Rodriguez had switched out with the nightie. A silk slip, above the knees, and sexy as hell. The scar on her shoulder would show, but at least she could walk, and options for shoes would be more abundant. She slipped it over her head and smoothed the fabric down. It felt like a dream against her skin. She turned around to look in the mirror and barely recognized the woman who stared back. Her gaze drifted down. The cut gave her cleavage, something she’d forgotten she had. “Oh my God, I have tits.”
“What’s that?” Gunny asked from the other side as he shoved a box under the door.
“Nothing.” Cori mumbled as she eyed what he’d pushed her way. “What’s in the box?”
“Boots.”
“Boots?” She flipped the lid open and stared. Eyes tearing up, she choked back a sob. Black patent leather combat boots—the kind the USO performers wore for military shows and fancy functions—so her style. “Thanks.”
“Well, you said you didn’t want to wear heels.”
“Yeah.” She smiled. “I think these just might work with this dress.”
“Are you going to show us?”
She eyed her image in the mirror again. That was a whole lot of flesh. “No. I’m good.”
“Come on, we want to see it.”
She pulled the boots on, cinched up the laces and stepped back, turning from side to side. They did indeed work with the dress. Gave the whole look attitude, suiting her completely. Her eyes began to water again, and she wiped away the evidence with the back of her hand.Sap. She eyed the door.
“You going to hide in there all day, First Sergeant?”
Yes. No. Maybe. She pulled herself together. They’d likely not let her out of the damned store unless she did. Cori lifted her chin, threw the door open with a bang, put her shoulders back, and stepped out of the dressing room. It wasn’t like she was going to a court martial.
No one drew a breath. She’d never heard them so quiet. Cori cleared her throat. “It’s a little shorter than my dress uniform,” she plucked at the fabric, “but I think the boots look okay.” She limped forward. Nothing about the dress constricted and it seemed barely there. Pretty. When she reached the group, she turned around. “Well, do I look ridiculous?”
Rodriguez whistled under his breath. “Damn, First Sergeant, you’re hawt.”
Instinct kicked in. She latched onto his hand and put him in a wristlock, dropping the Marine to his knees and close to eye level with her five foot three frame. “What did you say, Marine?�
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“You look good, First Sergeant. Ow.”
“You don’t get out much, do you?” Gunny lowered his voice for her ears only and peeled her fingers off the specialist’s hand. “I believe the proper response in the situation is thank you.” He freed the helpless Marine and turned her toward him, keeping the conversation private. “Try not to break your date’s arm when he compliments you.”
Cori blushed head to toe. “Yeah,” she mumbled. She looked up at the Marines waiting for the final vote. “So I guess this is the dress?”
“Oooh-rah.” The boys all gave her two thumbs up.
Chapter Three
You are cordially invited to a training exercise in the gym at oh-five-hundred. Cori shoved the invitation back into the envelope. More Operation Foxtrot? She pulled herself to her feet and strode to the captain’s office, knocking on his open door.
He looked up from his paperwork and motioned her inside. Cori saluted and handed the envelope over to Captain Cutler. “You don’t happen to know anything about this, sir?”
The captain didn’t even bother to read it before he handed it back. “A training exercise at the gym.”
“Yes, sir. What kind of training exercise did you plan—that needed fancy invitations?”
He sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. “That’s on a need to know basis, First Sergeant, and you don’t need to know. You just need to report.”
“Permission to speak freely, sir?”
“Permission granted.”
“What the hell are you up to? A party is one thing, a gown another—but this,” she shook the invitation, “it’s like I’m getting married.”
“Relax. Your Marines just wanted to do something nice for you.” He smiled and the corners of his eyes crinkled. “Dance lessons.”
“Come again, sir?”
“Sergeant Murphy used to teach formal dance before he joined the Marines. He’s offered to give them all classes. They want to impress their dates.”
“With all due respect, sir. I can’t dance. I can barely walk, and I don’t care if I impress my date.”
“With the right partner, you could do the tango.”
“Somehow I doubt that.” Her guts twisted. “I’m not going to get out of this, am I?”
He shook his head and chuckled. “See you at the gym, First Sergeant, and wear something comfortable.”
***
Three weeks passed in a heartbeat. Lissa came over to her house to help her get ready for the party. Cori sat in her gown while Lissa finished her hair.
“You’ve got beautiful hair. It’s nice to see you didn’t cut it like a lot of the women in uniform.” She removed the curlers from her head, letting spiral after spiral of golden blonde hair drop to her shoulders. “I like the curls. Sexy.” Lissa ran her hands through Cori’s hair, gave it a mist of hairspray and stepped back, eyeing the curls, making sure they stayed put. “You’re a knockout, you know.”
“Yeah, ooh la, la.” Cori stared into the mirror. “This isn’t me.” She lifted a strand of her hair and stretched it. When she let go, it bounced back into its ringlet. “I feel….”
“You look gorgeous. Every woman there is going to be jealous.”
She turned to Lissa and swallowed the lump in her throat. It had been years since she felt like a woman. Tonight she did indeed feel like Cinderella, even if the end wasn’t going to be a happy ever after. “Thank you.”
“It’ll be okay. You’ll see. Things have a way of working out in the end.” She retrieved her purse off the counter. “I’ve got to head home and change. I’ll see you in a bit.” Lissa reached out and grabbed her hand, giving it a squeeze. “You’re going to take his breath away.”
Ten minutes later Cori stared at herself in the mirror, unable to look away. Forty years old and my first date in a decade. Her hands shook and she sucked in a breath. She’d never been this nervous. What would he think when he saw her limp or the scar on her shoulder? Probably hightail it. He should be on her doorstep in five minutes. Any second, if his military training stuck.
The bell chimed and she bit her lip. She smiled and rose from her seat. Some things would never change. For the rest of her life she’d probably wake up at oh-five-hundred hours, write her dates out by day-month-year, and back her vehicle into parking spaces to maintain a tactical advantage—only it would be against soccer moms in minivans. He might be former Navy, but they still had some things in common, and that seemed to help settle her nerves a little.
When she pulled open her door, her heart stopped beating. The photo hadn’t done him justice. Broad shoulders, tall, with the natural build of a warrior—all muscle—no lump. He handed her a dozen white and red roses with a blue ribbon tied around the stems. “I hope you like flowers—Marine colors.” He smiled and she nearly dropped them. She didn’t know a damn thing about fashion, but whatever formal wear he’d thrown on, he should be modeling in a magazine or on a poster for recruitment. More women would certainly enlist.
Her mouth went dry and she couldn’t utter a word.
“I’m Sol.” He reached out for her hand. “Keller.”
“I….” She couldn’t do this. Crap. Cori stepped back and slammed the door. He was unbelievable. What had she been thinking? Why would a man like that want to go out with a woman like her?
Her bell rang again. She bit the fleshy part of her palm and stared at her door. Caught up in her nervousness, she tossed her flowers on a side table. Chicken shit.
Knock, knock, knock. She took a couple of steps away and turned back around. No, not a chicken shit, and Marines didn’t back down—from anything. She reached for the door.
“Hello,” he called from the other side. “Should I go?”
No! She snatched her hand back. Yes! Oh hell, why did I agree to this?
“I’m going now. Nice to have met you,” he said, his soft words followed by the sound of fading footsteps. The first red hot man she’d come across in forever, and she’d slammed the door in his face. Brilliant move, Cori. She ripped the door open. “Please—don’t go. I haven’t done this in a while.”
He spun around and smiled. “Cold feet?”
She sucked in a breath and nodded. “Frozen.”
“If it’s any consolation, I haven’t had a date in ten years. Let’s start over.”
She nodded and smiled. It seemed she wasn’t the only one who’d lived celibate. But why would he be single? Every warm-blooded female within a mile would muckle onto him at first sight. The man defined the word wow. Actually if there was an entry in the dictionary, it should read, Sol: Wow, omigod, woo hoo, and yes, with extra exclamation points behind it.
“I’m Sol.” He strode up to her and took her hand. “And you must be First Sergeant Valentine.”
Or I could just call him Oh God. He certainly looked like one. This had to be a dream. Cori pinched herself and flinched. Not dreaming. Breathe. “Please,” she sucked in another breath, sounding more like a sultry Marilyn Monroe than an aging, crippled first sergeant who hadn’t gotten lucky in over ten years, “call me Cori. I need to get used to it anyway.”
The corner of his mouth twitched.
Where the hell had the seductress voice come from? That was so not her. Her knees began to shake and she grabbed the railing. Going down in this instance would be bad, very bad. Not that she wouldn’t want to…Enough. Wrong train of thought. She had to get control of herself. This was obviously a pity-date, and she didn’t need to make a fool of herself drooling over him.
“Well, Cori, you look stunning.”
Right. She thought of the whole wristlock incident and smiled. “Thank you.” The urge to drop him hadn’t been an issue—but jump him, a much stronger possibility. His words generated a whole different reaction than Specialist Rodriguez had gotten. Her stomach fluttered and her heart began to race.
When he smiled, his eyes sparkled, only adding to the hotness factor. Sweet mother. His eyes. Like no color she’d ever seen before. Not blue, not black
or even gray, but something in between, like aged pewter. And that dimple—devil in disguise. She tightened her grip on the railing, fighting the urge to swoon.
“I’ve made reservations for dinner. Are you hungry?” he asked.
More than you can imagine. She nodded, unable to speak a coherent word, and used the awkward moment to lock her door behind her. He held her hand as he walked her to a Jeep he’d backed into her driveway—another thing they had in common.
If he noticed her limp, he didn’t give it away. He opened the door and held it for her. As she stepped past, he leaned in and whispered in her ear. “Love the boots.”
Heat rushed to her face again. Maybe this wasn’t a pity-date? That sounded damned sincere, enough to make her panties wet.
He shut the door, ran around the vehicle, and climbed in. “I reserved a private dining room. I hope you don’t mind, but I didn’t want any distractions.” He turned to her and smiled again as he started the engine.
“Private is good,” she said, relieved she wouldn’t have people staring at her. She was still trying to wrap her mind around wearing the dress and having a date. Something told her he’d reserved the room because he knew she might be uncomfortable in a crowded restaurant. Was there anything about this guy that wasn’t perfect?
Chapter Four
Gunny should own a matchmaker’s service. How he’d found Sol and knew he would flip every switch in her body was outstanding. Who’d have thought Gunny was such a romantic? Who’d have thought he’d find her the one date who would make this night something more than an evening of heartbreak? “So, how do you know Gunny?”
“I don’t. Ever heard of a service called 1NightStand? Your Gunny contacted them, saying he needed someone for a military woman about to take a step into the civilian world. Since I’ve been there, done that, I was a logical choice.” He grabbed her hand. “I’m glad I said yes.”
“So what do you do out there?”
“I own a company that makes protective equipment and bionic prostheses for the military.” He handed her a card. Plain white cardstock, nothing fancy, it seemed to suit him.
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