Maybe.
“What’s going on inside that head of yours, sailor?” she asked in sleepy voice muffled by the crook of his neck.
He cleared his throat to stall for time and marshaled his thoughts. “I was thinking,” he began slowly, “that there must be a bunch of jobs out there for someone with a doctorate in healthcare economics and I know there are a lot of medical schools a washed up SEAL could attend.”
She pulled away from his neck. “And?”
“And maybe those two things could end up in the same city or at least within commuting distance of each other,” he said tentatively. God, he was being an idiot, taking things too far, too fast.
She smiled at him broadly. “Maybe.”