Against the Ropes (5 page)

“Dibs,” he mouthed. Brad rolled his eyes, clearly uncaring. Graham narrowed his, but didn't look overly put out.

“Are you coming?” she asked tightly.

“On your six,” he said with a grin and followed her out.

*   *   *

“SHOULD
we be worried about that?” Graham asked as he settled back against the wall.

“Worried about what?” Marianne leaned back in her office chair and turned to observe Brad as he iced his knee. She did her best to give him space, but a girlfriend was supposed to worry, wasn't she?

“Hell no, I'm not going to worry.” Brad shifted the bag a little to the right and laid down, lacing his hands over his stomach to wait out his twenty. She'd set the timer on her phone the minute he'd put the ice on. “I'm going to enjoy it.”

“Enjoy what?” Feeling three steps behind, Marianne made a note in a file and turned to put it back in the drawer.

“She must be sick on love for you or something.” Graham gave Brad a nudge with one fist. “Because otherwise I don't know how she missed all the sexual daggers those two were throwing at each other.”

“I have her well and truly shielded from any other man's daggers.” His tone smug, Brad nudged Graham back. “This is giving me so much chance for payback. He busted my balls all the time over Marianne. Now I get to return the favor.”

Marianne sighed and rolled her own eyes, turning toward her computer. “Think I should make a pamphlet on testosterone poisoning and the early warning signs of impending male stupidity?”

“No,” both men said in unison.

*   *   *

HE
followed Reagan out to the gym, over to a side farthest away from the locker rooms and training room. In short, they were alone in the empty gym.

She waved to the wall. “Have a seat.”

He sat, then waited for her to do the same. Instead, she paced away, then back again. Then repeated the lap three more times. From this position, he had a world-class view of the way her hips and butt moved beneath the snug black pinstripes. Not bad.

“Okay, let's start with an easy one. Where are you from?”

“All over,” he answered automatically.

She glanced up from her clipboard. “Military brat?”

“No.”

She crossed something off, then continued her pacing. The slim heels of her shoes made a hollow clicking sound. “Care to elaborate on the ‘all over' statement?”

“No.”

“Tell me about your family.”

“Pass.”

Exasperated, she whirled. The hand holding the clipboard fisted at her side. She shook the other at him like she was preparing to deck him one. “You're not cooperating. You're not even
pretending
to cooperate.”

“This isn't what I signed up for.”

“It is now.”

“Says who?”

“Says me.” With a sigh, one that said she was exhausted, she straightened her suit jacket, then slid down the wall to sit next to him. In what he considered the most unladylike thing he'd ever seen her do, she let her legs sprawl in an ungainly fashion. Probably because she was wearing pants for once. He had no doubts if she wore a skirt, she'd have her knees locked together tighter than a munitions supply chest . . . or not have even tried the move in the first place.
In a conversational tone, she added, “You're making my job difficult.”

“My job is to box. Pick another talking monkey.”

Though he kept his face turned forward, he could tell she was watching him. His right side tingled from the stare she shot him. But she didn't say a word. Just kept staring for so long he actually felt himself shift a little.

Now that she'd stopped wearing a hole in the floorboards, he could take a moment to appreciate her scent. Fresh, like she'd just showered and then walked through a field of daisies before coming into the gym.

He should have showered and changed before the meeting. His sweat was probably disgusting her.

“Fine,” she said after the world's longest stare-down. “I give up.”

It was exactly what he'd hoped for, and yet, perversely, he hated it the instant she uttered the words. Because if she gave up, he wouldn't have a reason to tease her, torment her, be around her like they were now. He turned to watch her toss the clipboard and pen in front of her and shut her eyes. “Tonight.”

She tilted her head just a little to watch him from beneath sooty lashes. “Tonight what?”

“I'll be coached tonight, at dinner.” He smiled a little. “In exchange, I'll play the monkey.”

She blinked a few times, then reached over for her clipboard and flipped through several pages. “I don't have anything scheduled for tonight. What dinner?”

“The one I'm taking you out to.” He grinned when she just kept staring at him in confusion. “Should we go out or stay in?”

“I . . . don't . . .” She blinked, and he could actually see her mentally brushing away the cobwebs of confusion. Her voice firmed, deepened, and she said, “Out. Definitely out.”

“Fine. We can stay in on date number two. I'll pick you up at seven. Text me your address.” He hopped up and left
before she could argue. Right now, he had the upper hand in the battle because he'd caught her off guard. But she was quick, and the more time he gave her to catch up in the battle, the more ground he lost in the war. She was a challenge, and he liked it.

Liked her. She hadn't been what he'd expected when he'd thought of meeting new people, when he'd thought of having fun, but . . .

Plans could adjust.

He popped into the training room just as his roommate tossed a bag of mostly water into the large stainless steel sink in the corner of the room. Graham looked as if he were taking a nap, propped up against the wall.

“Hey, Sweeney.”

His friend sat up, mumbling. “What?”

“Remember those steaks we talked about grilling tonight?”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah. Right. Steaks.” As if still dreaming, Sweeney nodded and let his eyes drift closed again.

“Keep mine in the freezer. I've got new plans.” He slapped his palm down on the plastic cover, the sound cracking in the quiet room. Graham jolted, nearly falling off the table entirely.

“Wha . . . huh? Steaks?” He glanced at Greg, then at Marianne, who was laughing quietly; and Brad, who was smirking.

“See ya.”

“What plans?” Sweeney demanded as he left the room.

Greg just kept walking.

5

R
eagan walked straight into Kara's apartment the moment her new friend opened the door. “I didn't know where else to go. I'm sorry.”

“That's okay.” Kara closed the door behind them and stepped toward her, then froze. “Did you grow?”

“Heels.”

“You're always wearing heels,” Kara pointed out. “Those are not heels. Those are stilts.”

“I needed the confidence boost,” Reagan said defensively, then began to pace. “I'm freaking out.”

“What's wrong? Do you need wine? Should we call Marianne for reinforcements?”

She shook her head, then let her purse drop to the couch as she walked by. “Your apartment is cute.”

Kara looked around. “Thanks.”

“Homey, you know? Like you could live here and be comfortable, but not so lived-in it loses its cuteness.” Reagan shook her hands, which were now cramping. She wanted to rub them on the thighs of her dress to get rid of the cold sweat but
refused to ruin the dress she was wearing. God, she was a hot mess. “It's perfect for you. And now I'm talking in circles.”

“I think you're
walking
in circles,” Kara added dryly. “You're going to make yourself dizzy.”

“No way. I was a cheerleader. I can do the splits at thirty feet. I don't get dizzy.” Reagan felt the cold sweat start to run down her back. Awesome. Now her gorgeous black dress would have a weird wet line between her shoulder blades.

“Reagan, what's wrong?”

“Nothing. Everything. No, nothing. Ugh! I don't know!” She stopped in place, squeezed her eyes shut and tried to picture a calm, serene ocean in her mind. Hear the waves, see the waves, feel the waves . . .

And now she had to pee. Fantastic.

“I'm meeting a guy here in fifteen minutes. If he's on time, that is.” She mumbled, “His kind tend to be late.”

“Meeting who? And why here?”

“Because I
can't
meet him at
my
place!” Reagan just stared at Kara, who stared back with a complete lack of understanding.

“Mom?” A boy of about nine or ten stepped out from the hallway and slid in close to his mother. He wore a hoodie with the front pocket partially ripped off, a pair of jeans with two grass-stained knees and socks that flipped out when he walked. In short, he looked like any other nine-year-old she'd ever met, including her brothers when they'd been growing up. “Who's that?” he asked.

Kara smoothed a hand over his head, and looked into his eyes. Even from their profiles, Reagan could see they were basically clones of each other. “Ignore the crazy lady, Zach, and go finish your homework.”

He ran off without a backward glance. Reagan couldn't blame him. Nor could she fault Kara's “crazy lady” comment. She
was
acting crazy. But there were reasons for her elevated craziness.

“Okay, time to stop walking yourself in circles and come sit down.” Using a firm grip, and a firmer tone, Kara took hold of Reagan's wrist and pulled her to the couch. They sat down and Reagan was immediately filled with a moment of peace. Must have been the lavender-scented candle on the coffee table. Or maybe the way Kara mothered her without smothering her. She'd needed it.

“I'm meeting Gregory Higgs for dinner.” She waited for Kara's exclamation of disbelief or excitement. Something. Anything.

She was met with a calm stare and patience.

Okay then. “Greg Higgs, the Marine? One of the boxers?” When Kara showed no signs of recognition, she added, “Brad Costa's roommate? He showed up the other night with Brad and the tall one, Graham.”

“I know,” Kara said easily. “And that's what has you so worked up?”

“What if it doesn't go well?” Reagan paused, then voiced the worse option. “What if it
does
go well? Oh my God, I don't know how to date like an adult. I'm only twenty-four!”

“When I was twenty-four, I had a five-year-old. I might not be the person to freak out to about this.”

“You're right.” She covered her face, doing her best to not smear her makeup in the process. “I'm sorry, you're right. I'm pathetic.”

Kara rubbed her back quietly for a moment, just lending the support Reagan desperately needed.

“You're not pathetic, you're having a pathetic moment.”

Reagan peered at her through her fingers. Kara shrugged. “What? It works on Zach.”

“I've been reduced to a nine-year-old.”

“Ten last month.”

“Even better.”

As the door thudded with a knock, both women startled a little. Kara watched Reagan. Reagan watched the door.

After a minute, the knock came again. Kara asked, “Should I tell him you're not here?”

“No.” With a sigh, feeling like she was on her way to meet a firing squad, Reagan picked up her purse.

“I've got it!” Zach slid up to the door, skidding past it just a little in his sock-clad feet.

“Zach, no!” Kara called, but it was too late. Zach opened the door to a very handsome, very confused-looking Greg.

He glanced down at Zach, then leaned back to check the number above the door of the apartment. “Is this 3F?”

“Yeah. Who are you?”

“Zach,” Kara scolded as she stepped up beside her son. “Hi, Greg.”

He raised a brow. “Hey, Kara. Hold on.” He looked at his cell phone, and Reagan assumed he was searching for the text message she'd sent him. “Yup, it says 3F here.” He looked at Kara and smiled, and Reagan could feel her knees melt just a little. He wore simple slacks and a button-front shirt. No tie, no sports jacket. Just clean, fresh Greg.

He raised a brow at his phone. “Reagan sent me the wrong address. Do you know hers?”

“I'm here.” Reagan clutched her purse and stepped up beside her friend and her friend's son. “Sorry, I knew I was coming over here first so that's why I had you meet me here.”

“Huh.” Greg shrugged, then handed her a bouquet of flowers. She nearly wobbled on her now-putty legs. “These are for you.” He grinned, then shifted them to Kara. “Or maybe they're for you, since you own the place.”

“Rent, but that works.” Kara took the flowers. “Reagan, I'll put these in water. You can get them when you're done with your . . . whatever,” she finished, then pushed Reagan out the door and closed it behind them.

*   *   *

GREG
stared open-mouthed at the closed door. He'd only met her a few times, but in his limited knowledge of the
woman, she'd been sweet as pie. He hadn't known she'd had a son, but he also wasn't shocked. The lady was a looker, and with that aforementioned sweet disposition, it stood to reason she'd be taken. But that send-off was definitely not sweet.

“She's annoyed with me,” Reagan explained, pushing at the hair she'd left down for the evening. It was the first time he could remember seeing it down. The entire thing was a thick curtain of rich chestnut and oak, and he wanted nothing more than to tunnel his fingers through it to feel how heavy it was. How sensitive her scalp was.

In the weak light of the apartment hallway, he took his first look at her. And nearly had to roll his tongue back in his mouth, cartoon-style.

She wore a black dress that hugged her curves in all the right spots, fell loose and swishy where it mattered, left her shoulders and arms bare, and was capped off with the highest damn heels he'd ever seen in his life.

“Those aren't actually real shoes, are they?”

Reagan tipped her left foot to the side just a little. “Why does everyone think I can't walk in these? They're just shoes.”

“Honey, on you, those are definitely not
just
anything. It's like the cherry on top of a gorgeous sundae . . . only upside down.”

She smiled at that. “Thank you. I think.”

He held out his arm, and she looped hers through it. With the stilts, she was now at least two inches taller, and he'd bet his next paycheck she'd done that deliberately. “No flats, huh?”

“They're at the dry cleaners.”

“No problem.” He walked her to his rental and opened the door for her. His breath hitched a little as the skirt rode up while she arranged her legs in an artful little bend. “Luckily, I'm a guy who doesn't mind being topped by a beautiful woman.”

When she glanced at him, shock on her face, he added, “Height-wise, I mean.” With a wink, he closed the door. Let that one marinate a little.

*   *   *

“TELL
me about yourself,” Reagan asked the moment the waiter took their menus and abandoned their table.

He'd driven them down to Wilmington, partly because he wanted the privacy. But mostly because he wanted an extra hour in the car with her. She'd surprised him by singing along to several songs on the drive, belting out a particularly interesting rendition of Taylor Swift's “Blank Space.” He couldn't fault her for trying, or for having some fun.

“That's going to take more than the single drink I'm having with dinner.” He saluted her with his glass of draft beer.

With an exasperated sigh, she picked up the wine he'd urged her to order and took a healthy gulp. “You promised to let me coach you if we went out to dinner. I'm coaching. You're not holding up your end of the bargain.”

“Hey, call me old-fashioned. I just thought we could get through appetizers before we really got down and dirty with it. Maybe at least wait for salads before grilling me?” He smiled as the waiter set down their stuffed mushrooms. “Still not sure why you think anyone from the Jacksonville newspaper is going to give two rips about any of us individually.”

“Human interest is the backbone of our society.”

“That sounded suspiciously like a line out of a marketing textbook.”

She bit delicately around the edge of one mushroom. Her mouth fascinated him. The way her teeth nipped into the soft skin, how her lips pursed together as she chewed and the way her tongue darted out to catch just the smallest crumb. “You probably already know this, but some people are not all that violent-sport friendly.”

“So they shouldn't buy tickets to come watch.” He took another mushroom, then froze with it halfway to his mouth as he caught her eyes widening. “What? There's plenty more.”

“That's exactly the wrong thing to say.” She brushed her hands off on her napkin then dug through her tiny matchbox-sized purse and drew out a notepad.

She'd brought a notepad. On their date. A
notepad.

Maybe she didn't consider it a date. He'd been vague when getting her to agree because he'd known she would have automatically said no at the D word. But she had to have picked up on that fact by now, hadn't she?

When she pulled a pencil the same size as the ones they gave you with your golf club at Putt-Putt courses and started to write, he realized no. Definitely not.

He waited until she pushed at her hair for the third time before he reached over and looped one lock of mahogany strands behind her ear. She jolted, then looked up at him as if surprised to remember he was still there.

“Sorry.” She gave him a sheepish smile and slid the notebook to the side. Not away, he noted, but to the side. “I get a little caught up. This is just the sort of thing I really like.”

“Making goons like me look good?”

She blinked like an owl then shook her head. “No! Oh my gosh, no, that's not what I meant.”

He laughed and caught her hand, holding it in his against the table. “I'm joking. I know. I can see when someone's excited about their work.”

“Is that like you and being a Marine?” She looked at the plate of mushrooms and he saw her hand twitch, but she held back.

He scooped two more, set one on her plate before she could argue and took a bite out of his. “Not really. The Marine Corps is a passion for some people. It's an escape for others.”

“What is it for you?”

“A job.”

She wrinkled her nose at that, and he nudged his chair closer to hers. “What about yours? How did you get into PR?”

“Oh, I love talking. My mom says I was born talking.” As if remembering some long-forgotten memory, she smiled.
“She says her mind has me coming out of the womb talking, though logically she knows that's not right. But from the start, I was chatting and trying to get to know people.”

“Stranger danger?” he asked, enjoying this little private piece of her life she gave him.

She scoffed. “Didn't exist. Literally. In my town, there were no strangers.”

“Tell me about yourself.” He settled back a little as the waiter brought their meals, disappointed he didn't have a clear table to lean over so he could see her better.

She opened her mouth, then shut it again and glanced at her notebook.

“You need cue cards to answer the question?”

She laughed. “No, it's just that I'm supposed to ask
you
that question. In fact, I already did.”

“So show me how it works.” When she raised a brow while cutting off a piece of her steak—praise Jesus, a woman who ate real food on a date—he gave her his most innocent grin. “I'm observing. Show me the way, great leader. Teach me.”

“Stop, stop.” She held up her fork as if she were about to flick a piece of broccoli at him. He wanted her to do it. This was the most relaxed, the most unwound he'd ever seen her. He loved it. “I'll tell you. But you have to promise to try in return.”

“Tell you what.” Greg reached across the table and stabbed the piece of steak she'd just cut off for herself. When she let out a huffy breath, he chewed and swallowed on a moan. “Yup, that's good.”

“I know. That's why I ordered it.” She scooted her plate closer to the edge, as if that could stop him if he wanted another bite.

He'd rather have a bite or two out of her.