| Subject: Parts 5-8 |
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TT2
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Date Posted: 22:34:32 07/21/02 Sun
In reply to:
TT2
's message, "At Last -- Parts 1-4" on 22:26:26 07/21/02 Sun
*********
1436 ZULU
JAG HQ
Falls Church, VA
So, she thinks I can’t charm her, huh? We’ll see. I could charm those marine greens right off of her. But, one thing at a time. Well, two, I suppose, really, considering I intend to charm her (thereby proving the point that I can…easily) into a date with me.
Hmm…must form a careful plan of attack, utilizing my considerable persuasive skills and my uncanny knack for subtlety. She won’t realize what hit her until it’s too late—and it’s highly unlikely she’ll say no then, anyway.
Although, she could. But—no, she won’t. I think. And really, can one take much pleasure and pride in a date earned by subterfuge? Hmmm.
Anyway, back to the business at hand: Operation CharmMac. Operation Swoon. Operation…operation…
“Sir?”
“Huh?” I blink and find Tiner standing before me, a couple of folders clutched carefully in his hand.
“The admiral wanted me to give these to you. They’re information from Agent Webb regarding the Sorenson trial.”
“Oh, thank you, Tiner.”
“Yes, sir.” He takes his leave as I thumb through the folders. Great. Looks like our man Sorenson has quite a dirty trail behind him. The only problem is it forks so many times, it’ll probably take Mac and I forever to determine the extent of his unlawfulness. She’s not going to be thrilled to see this.
Hmm…on the other hand, it would give me a chance to charm her a little. Well, when opportunity knocks…
I waltz into her office without announcing myself—at this point in our professional acquaintance she should know waltzes into her office all the time without announcing himself—and she does.
“Don’t you knock?” She asks without looking up from her file.
“Nope,” I reply. I take a seat in one of the chairs before her desk and admire the sight before me. An insistent lock of hair refuses to obey, as she keeps tucking and re-tucking it behind her ear. As soon as she moves, it falls forward against her face again. She scribbles a few notes on what looks to be a brief on a recent DDO case she won—against Sturgis—one of the few where we haven’t been partnered together. Given our rank and experience, the fact that we have been as much as late has been sort of a pleasant surprise—it’s allowed us to reestablish and strengthen old connections…and build new ones, which reminds me why I’m here (well, one of the reasons why).
Mac also reminds me of the other reason when she asks, “Was there something you need, Harm?”
A hundred different responses play on my lips as I try to determine which one to use.
“As a matter of fact…” I drawl. She looks up and I smile (charmingly, I don’t have to add). I wink at her. I know it flusters her.
Her brow slowly sinks into the corner of her eye, before arching in a perfect crescent moon.
“Yes...” she draws out, still trying to figure out where I’m going with this. I’m not really sure where I’m going with it either, but I’m good at thinking on my feet.
“There is something I need.”
She makes a gesture with her head indicating I should get to it. Soon.
I raise an eyebrow suggestively, but say nothing further. Her cheeks flush once she realizes my implication.
“Er, eh, hmm, is there something you need in regards to a case, commander?” she amends.
“Oh, well, yes. Tiner just brought these files by from Webb. It doesn’t look promising.”
She scans through the documents quickly and emits a muttered, “Dammit.”
“As you can see, we’ve got our work cut out for us.”
“You have a gift for the understatement, Harm. We’ll be lucky to find even half of the infractions he’s committed. I really want to nail his ass to the wall.”
“You and me both. However, I’m beginning to think it may take a miracle to accomplish that.”
She puts down the file, and stares at me.
“What?”
“Do I hear uncertainty? Misgivings? Little confidence in the legal abilities of the Great Harmon Rabb, Jr. U.S. Navy attorney?” Oh, brother. Here we go. “Not to mention the obvious insult to my considerable legal prowess.” I roll my eyes.
“You insult me, commander. And I have to say I’m disappointed in you.”
“What?” She’s got to be kidding me. Insult? Disappointed? I’m just trying to be realistic. And she should know—
“Mac, you know I think you’re a great attorney,” I state adamantly.
“Actually, I suppose that’s true. I did know that. But I’ve never heard you really say it.” Beat. “Until now.” She grins devilishly. “Anything else you care get to off your chest that I may already know…or at least suspect?”
This chair is uncomfortable. This conversation is uncomfortable. Mac’s x-ray vision stare is damn uncomfortable.
“Uh, er, um, no, not at the moment.” I hedge. It hits me a moment too late that those words all almost identical to the ones I said on that damned ferry ride in Sydney Harbor. Oh for christ’s sake, Rabb—please, let’s not do that again.
“Okay. If you’re sure. But if and when you’re ready…” she drawls coyly, but I can see her expression isn’t so lighthearted.
“You’ll be the first to know,” I reply softly.
She nods imperceptibly, and picks up the file again. She stares at it for a moment.
“Shit.”
My thoughts exactly. I come in here, intending to take the opportunity to flaunt my irresistibility, and I damn near step in one of those relationship landmines that dog every step of our relationship. ‘Good at thinking on my feet’?! If words are bullets, I think I may have shot my foot off.
If I expect anything to come of this new turn in our relationship I’m going to have to try twisting my lips around those three little words. Or at least come up with a way to convey that emotion that leaves no doubt as to my feelings towards her.
Shit, indeed.
**********
1217 ZULU
JAG HQ
Falls Church, VA
“Hold the elevator!” I holler, hustling as fast as my heels can carry me loaded down with briefcase, laptop, cover, and umbrella.
A familiar masculine hand reaches out, and forces the closing doors open again.
“Thanks,” I breathe, smiling at Harm.
“Your welcome, Mac,” he returns pleasantly. He punches the button for our floor, and leans against the back of the elevator, crossing his arms over his chest. It’s then I notice that he’s without briefcase, laptop, cover, and overcoat.
“How long have you been in the office?” I ask incredulously, making sure I put just enough astonishment in my voice to annoy him.
He refuses to be baited, however.
“Since 0645,” he replies easily, watching me. I swear--he’s up to something. I mean, Harmon Rabb, present and accounted for before the motor pool lanes open? Present and accounted for before me?
I drop everything but my cover and laptop, and reach up to press a hand against his forehead. Since I’m touching him anyway, I let my hand trail down the side of his face, across the smooth, freshly-shaven curve of his cheek before finally pulling away. Harm scowls, but makes no effort on his end to pull away from my touch.
“No, no fever,” I murmur. Another idea hits me, and I reach forward again to pinch his other cheek (the facial one, thank you), tugging gently on the flesh.
“Ow!”
Big baby. “And it appears to be really you,” I continue. He rubs his red cheek petulantly. I don’t bother to hide my amusement.
“Of course it’s me!”
“Well, I had to check. For all I know, Palmer could have abducted you and took your place. You can’t say it hasn’t happened before.”
He doesn’t reply as he continues to rub his cheek. Really. I didn’t pinch it that hard. Squids.
“Since you don’t appear to be physically sick, nor does it appear that a psychotic DSD agent has assumed your identity, I can only conclude that you have fallen grievously ill in your mental faculties—there can be no other explanation,” I announce with finality.
“Maybe I just wanted an early start to the day.”
“Okay, who are you and what have you done with my partner?”
“Cute.”
“He’s about your height, has your slightly muscular build, jet black hair, same green eyes, killer—“ I break off suddenly, as I realize my rambling has only served to inflate the already enormous pilot ego he has. Instead of the scowl, I have the full-blown killer flyboy smile. He raises his eyebrows politely, waiting for me to finish my sentence.
He can just wait a little longer.
“Anyway, I don’t know why you think coming in early will help our case—we spent half the night on it and didn’t come up with anything.”
“Why, Colonel MacKenzie is that doubt I hear? Misgivings? Little confidence in the legal abilities of the Great Sarah MacKenzie, US Marine Corp attorney?” He sounds like he’s quoting something.
“I’m just trying to be realistic.”
“Ha.” He snorts. “I said that the other day, and I believe you attacked me for insulting your ‘legal prowess’.”
“You didn’t say anything of the kind,” I reply, recollecting the conversation in my office.
“Yes I did.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Yes, I--hmm. Well, I must’ve been thinking it.” He states, as if that proves his point. Which is?
“What else were you thinking that you failed to tell me?”
He grins mischievously. “I don’t think you want to know, Mac.”
I get the impression that I probably don’t. However…
“Try me.” I’m curious as to the types of thoughts that circulate in Harm’s mind at any given moment—or at least any given moment with me.
“Well…” he replies, a decidedly cocky smile on his face. The elevator dings and we both look at it. I quickly punch a button—I think to the floor below us, or the basement, I’m not sure.
“You were saying?” I prompt as the doors close with a muffled clunk.
He looks from the doors to me and shrugs.
“What was I saying?” he asks innocently.
“Harm…”
“Yes, Mac?”
“You were saying about your thoughts?”
“My thoughts? Oh, my thoughts. Yes, the mind of an aviator-turned-lawyer is an—“
“Yes, yes, you were probably thinking of g-forces, catapults, high altitudes, some leggy blond bimbo hanging off your gold wings, and maybe an actual case or two in that receptacle you call a brain.”
“Actually she was brunette—and quite brilliant.”
I am not going to show how pleased I am by that. I am not going to show how pleased I am—wait a second. He’s not actually thinking I would hang off his gold wings? Knowing Harm’s brain, he probably was. Is.
“Not your usual M.O. Anyone I know?”
“Maybe.”
“Really? Where’d you meet this mystery woman?”
“In a rose garden—or actually, at the curb next to the path leading to the rose garden.”
Leave it to Harm to suck the romance out of our first meeting. I’m not about to critique his thoughts of me, though.
“So, what were you and this brilliant brunette doing—besides swooning all over you and your gold wings?”
“Marines don’t swoon.”
I didn’t think it was possible for one’s heart to beat so wildly in a non life-threatening situation. Mine is beating so loudly I almost don’t hear Harm’s next few words.
“But, she was doing a brilliant imitation of it.”
I swat him on the arm.
“More abuse? Now I know why I make it a habit of coming in later than you—you’re mean in the morning.”
“I haven’t had my coffee yet. So, dream girl is a marine?” I say, getting back to the matter at hand, and relishing every word of that question. My spirits soar even higher when I see Harm flush a little as he looks away. The elevator dings again and I furiously press a button without ever tearing my gaze from my partner.
“And a brunette. And brilliant. Hmm…it does sound like someone I know. All except that swoon—or near swoon—part. I mean it would have to take one hell of a sailor to illicit that sort of a response.”
Harm gives me a mock-wounded expression. “You don’t think I can?”
“Honestly?” I quip.
“Even if I was, oh, apologizing profusely for misleading you about those Superbowl seats, let’s say. And I wanted to make it up to you,” he says moving closer.
“Mm-hmm,” I reply skeptically, not willing to be sucked into the Rabb charm too quickly.
“But you were making it difficult for me”—I flash him a stern look—“and rightfully so,” he concedes. “I might have to take to more…inventive methods…” His mouth is hovering right near mine, and I’m barely aware of the umbrella I step on in an effort to get even closer.
“Such as?”
Touchdown. Harm’s lips descend on mine, as my laptop thuds to the floor. Dimly, I hope it’s all right, but I have to say most of my attention is occupied by the sensations Harm’s evoking.
We pull away quickly—much too quickly—neither of us wanting to be caught engaging in an indiscretion in the office elevator. Harm gives me a sheepish, but unapologetic, grin.
“What do you say, Mac? You agree to live and let live about those Superbowl seats?”
“Well, I might agree to dinner. Just to give you the chance to do better. We’ll see about the seats.”
He smiles, pleased. “I look forward to it, marine. I know just the place.” He gives me a quick peck on the lips.
I smile, thinking this morning is shaping up nicely.
This time I barely even register the sound of the elevator doors opening, so engrossed am I in my partner and my thoughts.
“Colonel. Commander,” a deep voice greets us gruffly, shoving us back into the present. Swiftly, I reach down to snatch my briefcase off the floor. Harm picks up my umbrella and laptop and hands them to me.
“Morning, sir,” he replies, leaning against the back of the elevator, very nearly the picture of nonchalance.
“You’re here awfully early, Mr. Rabb. Can I safely assume that isn’t a sign of the apocalypse?”
“No, sir. Yes, sir. Uh—“
“I trust you and the colonel are prepared to present your case today.” The admiral eyes us both suspiciously. Damn. I almost managed to forget about that. Well, today was shaping up be an enjoyable day.
“As a matter of fact, I was wanting to go over something I discovered in the information that Webb sent with the colonel. Possibly the break we need.” I glance curiously at him, and he gives me a sort of half shrug that says, “there wasn’t time this morning.” No, given the fifteen minutes we spent flirting in the elevator, I suppose there wasn’t.
“Mm-hmm,” the admiral says. He proceeds to launch into a diatribe about our client, the secnav, media influence, and related JAG topics. Harm nods or says “Yes, sir” about every eighth word, and I manage a few acknowledgements myself, but my mind is turning only with one thing.
I have a date with Harmon Rabb.
**********
01015 ZULU
Mac’s Apartment
Georgetown
Saturday, February 9th —a date that will live in infamy: in 3 minutes 8 seconds Harm will (or should) arrive to pick me up for our first date.
I smooth my hair and skirt, undecided as to whether my hair looks better with the ends flipped out or in. By the time I finish messing with my hair, the ends are doing both. Oh well. I check my appearance again, first a front view, then a side, then what I can see of the back. Everything looks to be in order.
Where is he? He still has 2 minutes and 23 seconds, but does he have to be so punctual? He better damn well not be late either—I don’t think I could stand waiting a moment longer than necessary.
In my opinion, I’ve waited six years on his sorry six already—if he has any brains at all—and if he values his life—he’d better get here soon.
I wring my hands together, trying to measure my steps around my living room into a slow turn about the couch instead of the frenzied pacing my legs want to give into.
Jingo watches each nervous movement of my hands, pondering the absurd behavior of his normally levelheaded master. I can tell by his expression that I am keeping him from a nice snooze, which he will most likely take on my bed or the couch as soon as I’m gone.
“Just one minute and seven seconds until…” Until what? The official new beginning of “us”? The most important date I’ve ever had? No, I’d better not think about all that. It’s a date. A date with Harm, but it’s still a date. You’ve been on lots of dates before, MacKenzie. You’ve had dinner before with Harm. You’ve danced--several times—before with Harm.
Yes, but never with the prospect of romance such an attainable goal. This could be the moment you look back on when you tell your grandchildren about you and their grandfather’s first date, a little voice inside my head answers.
“It’s just Harm,” I insist. Jingo looks disbelievingly at me. Or maybe it’s just me. “Oh, you’re right,” I sigh, dropping into a chair. “It’s just Harm, the infuriatingly complex sailor I love.” Jingo wags his tail. “Just remember only you, me, and Sturgis are aware of that fact, and I’d like to keep it that way. At least for a little while longer.” He thumps his tail twice in what I can only guess is a doggie affirmation of his silence.
A knock sounds at my door and I manage to stand on my shaky legs, and walk with some semblance of control to the door.
Harm stands in my hallway with his hands clasped behind his back, dressed in a black suit with a blue shirt and tie. I lock my knees.
“Hey, sailor.” He returns my grin with a lopsided one of his own. I feel a tremor in my leg.
“You look stunning, marine,” he says and I feel my face flush.
“Thanks, you’re not so bad yourself. You clean up real nice,” I add jokingly, but my delivery is somewhat stiff.
“Thanks.” He leans in and swiftly places a kiss on my lips. I must look surprised because he explains, “I’ve been wanting to do that since Friday.”
I grin foolishly. I could die happy right now—just from knowing he’s here for a date with me, and that’s all he’s been thinking about—and we haven’t even left my apartment.
We stand there staring at each other for a few minutes until it dawns on Harm that we’ll be late for our dinner reservations if we keep gawking. Finally, he offers his arm. “You ready?” I nod and take it. Harm flashes me another grin, a captivating flyboy smile, but when I look into his eyes I can see it: Harmon Rabb, Jr. is nervous as hell.
*********
“So, what do you think?” he asks the moment we’re seated and left with our menus.
“About?” I glance over my menu—he certainly went all out. Everything looks pricey. I steal a look at our patrons and am relieved to see that I’m dressed appropriately for such an establishment. I didn’t expect Harm to treat me to a night on the town, which is what it seems this is shaping up like. From what he mentioned, I expected to enjoy dancing to the RnB classics and a nice hunk of meat (the meal, not Harm).
To be fair, he could have asked me to a hoedown, and I still would’ve said yes.
He doesn’t elaborate on his question, merely picks up his own menu and proceeds to look over its contents. “You look real nice, Mac,” he says after a minute.
“Thank you,” I return. “This is a lovely place, Harm.” He nods in acknowledgement.
“I thought you might like it.” We’re both silent.
“Have you eaten here before?” I ask.
“Once.” He seems to concentrate even harder on his menu. I feel a nervous flutter in my stomach as I realize the last time he was here it was probably with some girlfriend.
“Oh,” is all I can manage. That’s all in the past, MacKenzie. If you’re going to make something with Harm you’re going to have to let go. I laugh silently at that. “So, what’s good here?”
“Well, what I think is good here you would probably classify as rabbit food, or some comparable feast,” he says, a smile playing on his lips. “But I hear the filet mignon is to die for.”
“How did you hear about this place? It’s very…classy,” I probe.
“Are you saying I’m not?” Harm raises an eyebrow at me.
“No, no. It’s just…not the type of restaurant your average naval commander would dine at frequently.”
“Average? Not to toot my own horn, Mac, but I hardly think I’m just average.”
“I have to say I am a little bit surprised, Harm.”
“About what?” He chuckles nervously.
“This. Dinner. Everything.”
“Why is that? You think just because your ‘good ole marine Mac’ that I would take you to Beltway?”
I laugh. “No. Not that Beltway is such a bad choice—“
“--Yes, the way to a marine’s heart is a burger loaded with fat, grease, ketchup and cholesterol.”
“Watch it, commander. No, I guess I just wasn’t expecting you to go all—you know--I don’t know what I was expecting. It seemed for such a long time like such an impossibility that this would ever happen, I’m not sure what I imagined.”
“Well, did you think that I was going to tell our children I took their mother to Beltway Burgers for their two-for-one double greaseburgers on our first date?”
I smile embarrassedly, “Harm—“
“And besides, I’m still trying to make up for the Superbowl seats, remember?” He gives me a boyish grin, the lines I have noticed lately around his eyes and forehead smoothing away, leaving a Harm very much like the one I first met in the rose garden all those years ago.
“I may forgive you for the seats,” I announce magnanimously. “I’ll let you know after this evening.”
********
We dance for a while, taking a short break for a slice of German chocolate cheesecake (me) and a cup of coffee (Harm).
Afterwards, we take a late night stroll around the mall, sticking to safe topics such as the weather, Jingo, or Sergei. It feels--not like an evening spent with a very close friend—who knows me better than anyone—but rather like a blind date. Both of us seem a bit unsure as to what to say, what to do, what behavior is appropriate for us now. I almost laugh out loud when I think of our current dilemma compared with our behavior in the office as of late. At JAG, we seem to have little problem bending—oh who are you kidding, MacKenzie?—breaking the rules to accommodate our flirtatious behavior and our raging hormones.
Here we are on a damn date, and the only action I’ve experienced thus far is that kiss—in retrospect, that little tiny peck on the lips Harm gave me when he arrived at my doorway.
I’m a marine for crying out loud—I can handle some action. I crave action. I have half a mind to jump Harm right now and remind him who he’s dealing with.
Whoa. Where did that come from? Calm down, marine. You don’t have to prove to the masses (or at the very least, Harm) just how long it’s been since a guy showed some real physical interest. Damn. How long has it been? Oh, please, not since Mic, not since…Christ. Wasn’t that last year?!
Jesus. Okay. Deep breath, marine. Okay, you know a year…a year isn’t bad.
In some cultures.
And you’ve just been careful about putting your heart on the line too quickly—you didn’t want another Mic fiasco. Nothing wrong with that.
No, what you really didn’t want was another Harm fiasco. You’ve spent the past, oh, ten months, waiting for him to get his head out of his ass and realize his feelings for you.
Calm, calm. He has. I think. I mean, we’re here on this date. We’re pursuing this relationship we’ve always wondered about having. I glance at Harm, wondering if he’s noticed my reticence, but he’s babbling on about something Sturgis said.
It’s time to take charge, marine. Semper Fi. Do or die. I reach for the lapels of Harm’s jacket and wrench him around to face me. I jerk the collar towards me, pulling his head down to my level, and then I don’t stop kissing him until my lungs are burning with the same intensity as my lips.
When we finally come up for air, our short puffs of breath visible in the cold night air, I realize one of Harm’s arms has found its way around my waist, while the other is draped loosely across my back, his fingers playing with my hair.
“Am I boring you, marine?” he tries to ask nonchalantly, but his short pants give him away.
“A little. I guess I’m just not much in the mood for conversation.” I flex my fingers over his chest and get another firm grip on his coat. He beats me to the punch as he pulls me tight against him. Damn, this man kisses good.
We pull away and start walking again, our pace just noticeably faster than before. I slip my arm through Harm’s, a nervous fluttering taking root again deep within my stomach. Harm’s answering smile does nothing to alleviate the sensation.
I think the same question is on both our minds: when it comes time to take me home, then what?
********
Eventually, after a circuitous stroll back to the car, our evening out comes to an end and Harm takes me home. My feet are killing me by the time we reach my apartment. Two hours of dancing and then a stroll in new, unyielding 3-inch stilts are enough to cripple me for the next two weeks. My discomfort, despite my best efforts otherwise, is evident with every step.
“You gonna make it, Mac?”
“Yeah,” I moan. I fumble for my key. Harm produces his and opens my door with a flourish. That numbs the pain a little. We stand awkwardly, both of us unsure what to say or do next.
God, we’re pathetic. Think, MacKenzie, think. You can tell him you had a nice time. Too trite, even if it is true. You can invite him in for coffee—a-ha! There you go. You used to do that all the time anyway.
“Coffee?” I ask, smiling at my brilliance, and my handsome partner.
Harm looks unsure.
“Um, it’s not too late?” He asks uncertainly.
No. He’s been here later than…is it really 2:30?! Well, he’s been here later than that. I tug on his sleeve, indicating he should come in. “Of course not. I won’t be able to sleep for hours anyway,” I blurt out. Harm grins conceitedly as I give myself a mental shake.
I roll my eyes at him, and hobble towards the kitchen. Halfway there, I fling my heels off my feet. Harm ducks as one whizzes by his head. He carefully replaces the stack of paleontology books the other one knocked down.
“Uncomfortable shoes?” He asks, smirking.
“Two out of three isn’t bad,” I mumble. Louder, “Make yourself at home.”
“Mac,” he says in that tone of voice that demands attention. I stop and turn.
“Sit down and let me get the coffee. Your feet must be killing you.” Normally, I’d give him a whole spiel about how I’m a Marine, and that I can, despite my temporary near-paralysis, make something as mundane as coffee, but my feet really are killing me, and if I limp enough to the couch I’m sure I’ll get a nice foot massage from Harm.
Sure enough, as soon as my six hits the cushion, Harm bends down to take one of my ankles. “Here,” he says, tugging gently on my foot. I lean back and place both of them in his lap.
I groan in pleasure as he begins to knead and twist my foot and toes. After about ten minutes, he switches to my left. Despite my earlier declaration, I find my eyelids growing heavier by the minute.
God, I’m tired.
I choke down a yawn and, instead, focus on Harm.
“You can stay here, you know, tonight,” I murmur sleepily. He says nothing, just twists my foot between his expert fingers. A moment later I feel his arms around me, and his lips pressing a kiss against my cheek.
********
The next morning I awaken to an empty bed. I’m still dressed in the skirt and blouse I wore last night, the covers tucked carefully around me. I feel eyes upon me and when I look to find whom they belong to I come upon an anxious Jingo, thumping his tail hopefully.
***********
1145 ZULU
Mac’s Apartment
Georgetown
Valentine’s Day. Often a black holiday in the MacKenzie household. Not so, this year. Harmon Rabb, Jr. is my valentine this hyperglycemic holiday, and that alone sends me bouncing out of my apartment and into my car better than any five-pound box of chocolates would.
That and the surprise I cooked up for Harm this morning as I was blow-drying my hair. I snicker. This is going to be good. I just hope I can maintain my poker face.
Harm and I have shared dinner a couple of times this week since our first date, going over cases mostly, but we did manage to catch a TV-movie of the week. Not that big of a deal, but it was a couple hours of just enjoying each other’s company, with a concerted effort made at ignoring all work matters.
Our burgeoning relationship is still a new and delicate thing, so neither of us have made much mention of this candy hearts-filled holiday, though it would surprise me if Harm didn’t have something up his sleeve. We’re both trying not to make too big a deal out of…anything.
But this, this is just too good to pass up.
*********
At 1045 I see Harriet and a young (and kind of cute) delivery boy exchange pleasantries and directions. Her brow furrows in unbridled curiosity as she takes the two-dozen red roses from him. I know she’s itching to see who they’re from. I bite down a laugh.
Harm, with perfect if clueless timing, takes that moment to step out of his office.
“Commander—“
He stops and looks at Harriet. “Wow. Those are beautiful, Harriet.”
“Thank you, sir—“
“Bud must have a special evening planned.” He winks. Harriet smiles and tries again.
“Ac—“
“Yes, the Lieutenant has excellent taste,” Sturgis offers his two cents.
It’s Lieutenant Colonel, actually, and thanks Sturgis.
“Lt. Sims, I see Mr. Roberts is giving you his due,” the Admiral remarks.
“Well, sir—“
Showtime.
“Harriet, those are gorgeous,” I croon.
“Harriet, where did you get those?” Four heads turn towards Bud.
“Actually, they’re for Commander Rabb,” Harriet finally manages to get out.
Four heads turn back to Harm who looks as surprised as everyone else—well, most everyone else, I amend.
Sturgis and the Admiral raise an eyebrow while Bud and Harriet bubble in curiosity. I just hope I look as incredulous as the rest. I’m having a hard time not blowing the whole thing by laughing out loud.
Harriet presents the flowers to Harm who takes them in an effort to avoid everyone’s stares. He looks a little flustered.
I can see the gears turning as he tries to figure out who sent him roses. He risks one cautious, suspicious glance in my direction, but Harriet distracts him by saying, “There’s a card.”
Harm risks another glance at everyone and realizes he’s not going to avoid a public reading of its contents.
I love it when a plan comes together.
He hands the flowers back to Harriet and plucks the envelope out of the bunch.
Harm frowns a little as he skims the contents, then his face takes on a slightly pink tint, and he coughs nervously. He gives us an apologetic smile, and I know he’s about to conjure an escape.
“So who are they from, Sir?” Bud asks excitedly, as clueless as Harm was a few moments ago. I love Bud.
“I don’t know,” Harm replies, letting out a nervous chuckle. “It doesn’t say.”
“Oooh, a secret admirer,” Harriet squeals. “How romantic.” Tears prick my eyes and I know I’m not going to make it.
“Maybe that girl in Vermont sent them. You two seemed to hit it off,” Sturgis offers. Harm shoots Sturgis a death glare.
On second thought, I don’t really feel all that much like laughing now. What?!
“I barely even know her. Besides all we did is exchange some polite chit-chat at the coffee bar—we never exchanged phone numbers or addresses or anything like that.”
“Well, you told her you worked at JAG HQ, right?”
“Yeah,” Harm admits reluctantly.
“Well, it’s not too hard to find that address, and send flowers to a Commander Harmon Rabb, Jr. I just didn’t think you were really all that interested in her.”
“I wasn’t. I’m not,” he states emphatically, mostly for my benefit, I surmise. I raise an eyebrow. So does the Admiral.
“Sounds like you might have made another friend,” I remark.
“I hardly know her. Besides, she isn’t my type.” What not blonde, leggy and big-breasted?
“Well, you said there’s no signature right?” Harriet cuts in. “So it could be anyone.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Sturgis watching Harm and I carefully. I take a conscious effort to relax.
“Well, what does the card say?” I ask innocently. “Maybe we can reason out who may have sent it.”
The Admiral shifts expectantly. I return Harm’s glare with a beatific smile. He clears his throat,
“’To my favorite Flyboy,
Last time we crashed and burned.
But I think our luck has changed for the better.
Maybe this time we can try our hand at the ‘Mile High and Mach 2 Club’
Your Valentine.’”
I feel much better as I watch Harm croak out the last few words, his face now a definitive shade of red. He doesn’t dare look at the Admiral, but the rest of us are writhing in an effort to control our amusement. I risk a glance at the Admiral and see his eyes glinting and his lips twitch several times.
I have to cover my mouth and cough when I hear Bud murmur, “Hmmm.”
“Who calls you flyboy?” he asks.
“Everybody,” Harm replies.
“The Colonel,” Sturgis adds. Harm, Sturgis, the Admiral, and Harriet level their gaze at me. The Admiral raises his eyebrow again, Sturgis smirks, Harriet pierces me with a thoughtful expression, and Harm eyes me with suspicious consideration.
“Renee called you flyboy, too,” I point out. I just hope it isn’t too obvious that I’m trying to deflect the heat off me. Harm grimaces slightly at the reminder. I remind myself to feel victorious at a later, more private date.
“It also says ‘we crashed and burned before,’” Bud continues. “Maybe a former girlfriend?”
“If we go through that list, we’ll be here all day,” the Admiral mutters. Harm gives him a wounded look. “Okay, people, back to work. Rabb, take those things from the Lieutenant and get them out of the way of JAG Ops.”
“Yes, sir.” He retrieves his bouquet and escapes to his office.
“’Mile high and Mach 2 club’?” Bud splutters.
I burst out laughing. Sturgis and Bud follow suit.
Somewhere, over the din, I hear Harm’s door slam shut.
Well, I’ll see how long it takes him to figure it out.
TBC
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