Wicked Nights by Anne Marsh Page A

as lethal as a
    shark. She held up a bottle of sparkling apple cider, thumb poised to pop the cap off. “Are we celebrating?
    Did you kick Cal’s butt?”
    Piper shook her head and tossed her heels across the room. So much for making a powerful statement
    at the Fiesta meeting.
    “Commiserating. Shoot.” Carla poured cider into paper cups, passed one to Piper and took a swig. “We
    need alcohol. Margaritas. These bubbles aren’t commiseration material.”
    Piper was in full agreement with her, but surely something would occur to her. There was always a way
    to rescue a bad dive.
    “We tied. We both lost. Take your pick.”
    Carla muttered something, and Piper pointed toward the swear jar stashed underneath the counter.
    They’d had plenty of conversations about not cursing like a trucker in the workplace, as the Mason jar full
    of quarters testified. Piper was just as guilty in that department as Carla. The local library would be able to
    afford an addition when they made their donation.
    “We didn’t get the contract.” Carla fished a quarter out of her pocket and added it to their collection.
    “Not yet.” Piper took a drink. The cider was warm, and alcohol was definitely called for in this
    situation. “But we will.”
    She gave Carla the highlights as she ducked into the backroom and switched her business casual for a
    pair of denim cutoffs and a tank top, restoring the flip-flops when she was dressed. Her feet practically
    cried in relief, even as her knee gave a warning throb.
    “Typical guys. They can’t choose between you and Cal, so they offer to date both of you before
    committing.”
    “There was a woman executive,” Piper pointed out in the interests of fairness when she came back out
    front.
    Carla finished her cup and eyed the bottle. “That stuff is definitely no substitute for the real thing.”
    “It was cheap.” And she was out of cash unless she robbed the swear jar, a low to which she had so far
    refused to sink. Groceries for the month were going to be noodles and whatever was kicking around in the
    pantry, unless she actually used Cal’s hundred bucks.
    “So, Cal Brennan is still the competition?”
    “Unfortunately.”
    Carla settled back, waving her cup. “Why unfortunately?”
    “He’s good,” Piper said morosely, hopping up onto the counter. “Really good. He had them eating out of
    the palm of his hand as he walked them through imaginary adventure dives. They were practically
    salivating at the thought of exploring caves and training like a U.S. Navy SEAL.”
    Cal had had her hanging on his every word, too, although only partly because adventure diving was
    precisely the kind of thing she’d enjoy. Most of her attention span had had everything to do with the hot
    SEAL doing the presenting. The sensation of his eyes moving over her body gave her the kind of feeling
    she got when was diving or jumping. An adrenaline rush, followed by a familiar quiver.
    No quivering.
    “You’ll win.” Carla sounded certain. “Your dives are fun. Not everything has to be a mental marathon.”
    Piper appreciated the vote of confidence.
    “So, what are the next steps?”
    “I take them out on a sample dive program. I’ll do a few dry runs this week and next. Make sure I’m
    ready to go and there’s no room for improvement.”
    Carla reached up and knocked her paper cup against Piper’s. “Cal won’t know what hit him.”
    “He probably won’t mind,” she said. She’d always enjoyed a good competitor, but Cal was in a league
    of his own. Not only was he a former U.S. Navy SEAL, but he’d also put together a compelling
    presentation. She wanted to go out diving with him now. Or do other, more personal things. “Plus, he
    doesn’t play fair.”
    He’d made her go first, although she’d more than evened the playing field by teasing him while he
    presented.
    “He’s a Navy SEAL. Doesn’t that make him a bona fide hero?”
    “In a war zone, yes. In the boardroom? Not so