Terms of Surrender Read Online Free PDF

asked the interviewer.
    Mari nodded. “He said they are faced with washing out.”
    “Yes. Some should, either for academic reasons or lack of seriousness about their decision to attend.”
    “I’m sure there are some who apply for the wrong reasons.”
    “Exactly. Others, though, might succeed, but they’re unsure about whether they can live a military life, or have unrealistic expectations about what that life entails.”
    “Hence the need for a reality check.”
    “Exactly.”
    Bringing in guests to talk to these young men and women on their own terms, about real-life issues they faced—outside the day-to-day of the military—seemed like a very good idea. One guest speaker was an accountant who would be showing them what their financial futures might look like. Another was a diplomat who’d be talking about the big world picture.
    And if she got the job, Mari—Dr. Marissa Marshall, who wrote a dissertation on the effect of the military on relationships and families—would be discussing their personal lives. Dating, marriage, children. Confusion over gender roles and the trouble sexism can bring into a household. The costs, the sacrifices, the potential pitfalls.
    It made sense. A lot of sense. She only hoped the deputy agreed she was the right person for the job, and that he wasn’t too worried about her age, which he’d mentioned a couple of times during their meeting.
    After a few more minutes of conversation, Marissa finished in Personnel and headed out of the building, toward the parking lot. Her thoughts were in a jumble. Images of a good job—doing good things for students in need of support—mixed with the picture of a stranger with her underwear in his hand.
    His big, strong, powerful hand. Hmm.
    But when she arrived at the parking lot, seeing the empty spot where her car had been parked, she began to imagine another scenario. Her, on the phone, reporting her car stolen.
    Because it wasn’t in the parking lot.
    God, had she really been so flustered, so worried about the time and her stupid freaking underwear, that she’d handed over her keys to a complete stranger? Where on earth was the smart, sensible Marissa, or even the suspicions, skeptical Mari?
    “Hey, there, how’d it go?”
    Relief washed over her as she heard a voice calling from the open bay of the garage building. The handsome Midas man emerged from the shadowy interior, still dressed in his mechanic’s coveralls.
    “Pretty well,” she admitted, approaching him slowly. Then, not about to ask if he’d looked in the glove box, she added, “I guess you were able to get my car started?”
    He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, pointing into the shadowy recesses of the garage. “Jumped it and drove it in here so I could work on it. Not a big deal, your battery was dead as a doornail. I ran out and picked one up and popped it in.”
    Eyes widening, she replied, “Seriously?”
    “Yep. I also changed the oil while I was at it.” He shook his head in disapproval. “Speaking of which, you do know motor oil’s supposed to be a liquid, right? The stuff that came outta there was the color and the consistency of tar. When’s the last time you had it changed?”
    She’d been meaning to do that for a good year. Or two.
    “I guess I forgot. Sorry.”
    “Don’t tell me, tell her.”
    She lifted a confused brow. “Her?”
    He gestured toward her car again. “She’ll get even with you if you neglect her. Why do you think she was rattling like a bag of bones?”
    He sounded like he was talking about a loved one. “I take it you like cars.”
    “They do call me the Midas man,” he said, tapping the letters stitched on his chest.
    “Yeah, I noticed.”
    “But to answer your question, I sort of like cars. Maybe about as much as Winnie-the-Pooh likes honey.”
    The very idea of this big, rugged man knowing who Winnie-the-Pooh was made her chuckle. And the fact that he’d actually admitted it? Even more noteworthy. Most guys would be