Breakpoint by Joann Ross

strong.
    “Is something the matter?” Her brown eyes immediately switched from those of a seductive female to those of an intelligent physician as they scanned his frustrated face for medical symptoms.
    “No. Not really . . . It’s just . . . damn . . . I need to check this.”
    Dallas yanked the phone out of his pocket and envisioned his plans for the rest of the evening flying out the window as he read the text message.
    THOR called , Zach had messaged. Get here. Like, yesterday.
    Fuck. Nothing like leaving him some wiggle room.
    Knowing the former SEAL had never been one for exaggeration, Dallas bit back a curse and shoved the phone back into his pocket.
    “I’m sorry.” And wasn’t that a damn understatement? “Duty calls.”
    She didn’t look exactly crushed, which backed up what she’d told him while stitching up his head: that her own work didn’t allow enough free time to commit to any emotional relationship. This was merely a hookup, which might, if things went well, lead to some booty calls down the road.
    Which had been just fine and dandy with him.
    “Another pop star needing protection?” she asked with a wicked smile that suggested that, despite her obvious intelligence, she’d bought into those bodyguard movie fantasies as well.
    “I don’t have any details,” he said. Deciding not to wait for the server to do the credit card thing, he tossed some bills onto the table. “But it’s a government job. So if I told you—”
    “You’d have to kill me.”
    As she stood up, prepared to leave, he gave himself the luxury of skimming a look over her.
    It was true, Dallas thought with an inner sigh. Timing was, indeed, everything. It could also be a real bitch.
    “And wouldn’t that be a damn waste,” he said.
    She laughed. Then just as quickly sobered.
    “Stay safe,” she said.
    “Always.”
    As disappointed as he was by the way the evening had been cut short, Dallas couldn’t deny the kick of adrenaline racing through him at the prospect of getting back into the terrorism-fighting business.

7
    Having bounced around naval bases all over the world—Bremerton, Norfolk, San Diego, Pearl Harbor, even Yokosuka, Japan, and, most recently,Washington, D.C.—Julianne had never considered going to the hassle of buying a home only to have to sell it with her next transfer.
    But now that she’d left the Navy, she’d found herself actually considering the idea of settling down. And where better than here in San Diego, a mere thirty-five miles from Oceanside, which would allow her to play auntie to Merry’s twins, whose due date was a month away?
    She quickly discovered that the problem with that idea was that the real estate business resembled the military in that it used an entirely different language from the rest of the world.
    For instance, from what she’d seen so far, “charming” was Realtor-speak for “a broom closet would be bigger.”
    “Walk to stores” meant that not only was there nowhere to park her car, the store in question that had opened up next door sold adult books and videos. A “parklike setting” suggested that, just maybe, there might be some poor, sickly tree somewhere on the block; a security system stood for the barking dog next door; and “Hurry! Won’t last!” was shorthand for “about to collapse . ”
    “You said you wanted more space,” the fifty-something, overly spray-tanned Realtor reminded her as she opened the door to a foreclosure condo that supposedly boasted a view of the ocean. “Although I haven’t been to this one personally, the listing reports a wide-open floor plan.”
    She undid the lockbox and they both walked in.
    Julianne had thought she’d seen everything. Obviously she’d been wrong.
    “That’s because the previous owner appears to have removed all the supporting walls,” she murmured. Along with the carpeting, kitchen appliances, and every light fixture in the place.
    “It does need some TLC,” the dogged saleswoman