Operation Barracuda (2005) by Tom - Splinter Cell 02 Clancy

and gym. I used to go to a real gym in Baltimore where a motley assortment of boxers, gang members, and toughs hang out. That was okay, but now I prefer to do my workouts at home.
    I’m in the middle of bench-pressing on the lower level of my town house when the doorbell rings. The clock reads 8:30 and I wonder who the hell is at my door at this time of the morning. Then I remember—damn, it’s Katia. Today’s my birthday and I agreed to let her come fix breakfast for me. How the hell could I forget that?
    I run up the stairs to the ground floor and open the door. There she is, looking marvelous. She’s wearing tight-fitting jeans and has a winter coat on—that’s all I can tell at the moment—but she’s done her hair and is wearing makeup, which is something she doesn’t normally do at the Krav Maga class. And here I am wearing a T-shirt and sweat pants.
    “Katia!” I say. “Is it eight-thirty already?”
    Her smile becomes a frown. “Don’t tell me you forgot, Sam.”
    “No, no, I didn’t. I was working out and the time got away from me, that’s all. Come in, come in.” I don’t think she believes me but she doesn’t mention it again. I take her coat and see that she’s wearing a red cami with spaghetti straps. The thing accentuates her cleavage in a most alluring way.
    Uh-oh, I think.
    She has a grocery bag full of stuff. “Where’s the kitchen?” she asks.
    “Right here,” I reply, pointing to the archway to my left.
    “Oh, so it is. Nice place, Sam. You have all this to yourself?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “Must be nice.” She puts the bag on the counter. “Okay, you go finish your workout, take a shower, and by then breakfast will be ready.”
    “I’m done with the workout. Really.”
    “Then go get cleaned up.” She bats her eyes at me. I get the hint; she doesn’t want me to watch her cook.
    When I come back down after showering and dressing, the table in the dining room is set with two places and lit candles. She’s brought her own china and a bottle of champagne. In my spot there’s one of those stupid little party hats that reads BIRTHDAY BOY on it.
    “Katia, this is beautiful,” I say.
    “Sit down, big boy, and put on your hat.”
    “Katia, I’m not going to wear that hat.”
    She sticks out her tongue at me and goes back into the kitchen. I sit and put on the hat anyway, feeling like an idiot. When she returns carrying a tray of stuff, she sees me and laughs. “Oh, that is too precious for words.”
    “Can I take it off now?”
    “Oh, all right. I don’t want to snicker all through our meal.”
    The breakfast is amazing. She serves omelets made with three different cheeses, peppers, onions, mushrooms, and spinach. We have bagels and lox. A side plate holds a variety of fruit. There’s fresh orange juice as well as champagne.
    “Damn, Katia. I guess you’ll have to marry me,” I say facetiously.
    “Is that a proposal?”
    I don’t answer. Instead I hold up my champagne glass for a toast. She clicks my glass with hers. “Happy birthday, Sam,” she says.
    “Thanks.”
    And we begin to eat. Our conversation feels awkward at first. It’s like it usually is when we go out for coffee. There’s that underlying sexual tension I normally like to deny is there. She knows it’s there, too, but pretends that it isn’t simply because I’m not acknowledging it. We talk of the class, discuss some of the talented students, and eventually the subject turns into our respective careers.
    “I’m pretty happy just teaching Krav Maga,” she says. “I never aspired to anything else. I’m probably too old to be a mother and too young to retire.”
    “Can you make ends meet just teaching those classes?” I ask. “And by the way, you’re not too old to be a mother, if that’s what you really want.”
    She shakes her head. “No, I am too old. I wouldn’t want to go through that in my late thirties. Having babies is something twenty-somethings do. And to answer your question,