Reagan could see the worry in Kara’s eyes. Would her son get hurt? Would his feelings be crushed if they rejected him? Would he just be in the way? “I don’t know. I think maybe you should—”
“Hey, ladies.” Graham Sweeney walked over, a ripped T-shirt covering his torso—sort of—and a basketball under one arm. He slung the other arm around Zach’s head, pressing the kid’s ear into his rib cage. “We need someone younger and weaker to beat up on so we can feel manly before practice. Mind if we use this thing for a punching bag?”
Zach protested, fighting off the hold, but Reagan could see he was laughing. It was a totally guy thing to do, and Zach was loving it.
Kara looked unconvinced, but Marianne asked, “Do you promise to return him in nearly the same condition as you found him?”
“Which is pretty scrawny and not much to look at,” Reagan added, which had Graham throwing her a brilliant grin. The man was truly Greek god gorgeous. If she hadn’t been sitting down already, she would have felt the full impact in the knees on that one.
Kara reached out to stroke a hand over Zach’s hair—a move Reagan had seen her do a dozen times. But this time, Zach dodged. Kara snatched her hand back, aware she’d nearly embarrassed her son in front of men he wanted to impress. “If you’re sure he won’t interrupt anything . . .”
“Nah. He’s all good. Come on, fresh meat. Let’s go rough you up a bit.” He started to go, but then turned around. “Oh, and Reagan? You’re all set for tonight. Have fun.”
Zach laughed and followed, and then the sounds of a basketball bouncing, male grunts, groans and—along with Kara’s winces—some swearing filled the gym. Marianne walked over and closed the door. “‘Have fun’? All set for what?”
“Spill,” Kara added.
“I might be having dinner with a certain Marine tonight.” Reagan took another bite, and forced herself to chew thoroughly before swallowing. The pained looks on her friends’ faces told her she’d taken enough time with torture. “I’m going over to Graham’s house tonight for dinner.”
“But I thought you were dating Greg,” Kara said, looking confused.
“Sorry, yes. We’re borrowing Graham’s house for the, uh, date.” She shrugged. “Greg wanted to cook and obviously he can’t do that at his place.”
“Why not yours?”
Reagan swallowed another bite before answering, “My kitchen is horrible.” No lie there. “I survive off cold cereal and granola bars.” Also no lie.
“But you’re not going to”—Kara checked the door before finishing—“do it there, right? Because in someone else’s bed is just—”
“Ew. No!” Reagan recoiled at the thought. “We just wanted privacy for a meal and a movie.” The image Greg had painted the night before as he’d said good-bye at her car drifted through her mind. She couldn’t stop her lips from curving. “That’s all.”
“Privacy would be at your place, where you apparently don’t want him to be.” Marianne watched her thoughtfully. “So you either meet him at his place, where there’s no privacy, or at Kara’s place, where there’s no privacy, or at someone else’s house, where there’s no hopes of getting busy because of the ‘ew’ factor. Sounds like you’re cockblocking yourself.”
“Or we’re just in a unique situation that requires some extra thought before taking the next step,” Reagan said primly.
“Bull,” both women said at once.
“We’ve got a few travel gigs coming up,” Marianne added. “Why don’t you take advantage of them? Make sure your hotel room is right next to his or something. Sneak into his room after bed check.”
“Could you make this sound any more juvenile?” Reagan grumbled, then popped down and brushed her hands off on the napkin. “Guess today’s the day I give a ‘How to Handle Protestors’ lecture.”
Marianne smiled. “Want me to make you a pamphlet?”
* * *
FOUR hours later, Reagan sat at her laptop, trying to work in her apartment. She had two more hours before she needed to be at Graham’s, and if she couldn’t focus on something else, she’d go crazy with anticipation. But there was a problem . . .
The refrigerator was loud.
Not just loud . . . constant. The kind of constant noise that wormed its way into your mind so that long after the sound was gone, you still heard it because it had slowly driven you crazy.
Reagan threw an accusatory glance at the appliance. It didn’t respond. Instead, it hummed the same hum it had been making all evening. The same hum that had buried itself into Reagan’s brain until she could no longer concentrate on the task at hand.
Or maybe that was just her inner procrastinator talking.
Probably the latter. Not that she’d accept defeat to the fridge.
She focused, squinted at the screen, closed both eyes and tried very hard to remember all the different types of punches one could use in a boxing match.
She ended up with one: a punch.
“This is impossible,” she growled, shooting one more glare at the kitchen before closing her laptop. How was she supposed to work with a bunch of boxers as their athlete liaison if she had no clue what they were doing half the time?
A small part of her mind reminded her this was exactly why she had misled her supervisor when she’d done the interview. That she’d done her best to sound as knowledgeable about boxing as she could without delving too deep into the details. She’d memorized a few of the most famous boxers and what they were most famous for. But in reality . . . she’d just needed the damn job.
Call your brothers.
They liked boxing. They liked all sports. It was the only thing accessible for guys—that was legal, anyway—in their backward town. Hell, the only reason she’d been a cheerleader was because it was either that or 4H for girls. Her brothers had all played whatever sports they could get their hands on, and watched what sports they could on the few channels they had growing up. She’d been outnumbered four to one when it came time to pick channels.
Calling her brothers, though, meant calling home. And calling home was never something she could do lightly. Most people thought of home as a safety net, a soft place to fall, a nest one could be gently nudged out of, but always return to when times were hard.
Reagan considered her home quicksand. Put one foot in and it dragged you down until you couldn’t breathe and lost the light of day.
A dramatic image, maybe, but accurate.
But there was no way she was getting anywhere on her own with this.
Call Greg.
She wasn’t quite ready to admit her incompetence yet. She would rather he—all the Marines, really—saw her as an independent businesswoman who didn’t need assistance. Plus, she was due to see him in a few hours. He’d consider her call a ploy to hear from him, like a lovesick puppy. No, thank you.
Which left her with her brothers. Again.
Reagan stared at her phone with the same sort of disdain she’d given the refrigerator. Finally, she picked it up and dialed home, praying it was her youngest brother who would answer and not her mother.
“Hello?”
No such luck. Reagan took a deep breath, then one more as her mother tersely repeated, “Hello?”
“Hey, Mom.”
There was a brief pause. “Reagan?”
“Yeah, Mom, it’s me.” Swallowing, she tried to bypass what she knew would be a rough conversation. “I had a work question for Nick. Is he there?”
“And just what do you think an eighteen-year-old is gonna do for your fancy job?” her mother asked, voice tight with disapproval. “He doesn’t have a college degree like you.”
Reagan closed her eyes and counted to five. “I had a question about boxing. I know Nick watches it.”
“They’ve got boxing here, if you wanted to work with a bunch of sweaty men. Remind me again why this job was so important you had to move halfway across the country? Away from your family?”
Because I couldn’t breathe around you.
“Because that’s where the job offer came from.” Doing her best to be reasonable against all odds, she added, “I do miss you all.”
“Not enough to call more often. Oh, I know,” her mother added with the sigh of a woman truly put upon. “You have so much to do, being important, that you can’t spare the time.”
“Okay, so, I can call back later then.”
“Always were too good for your family.”
“No, Mom.” She pinched the bridge of her nose and cursed whatever stupid idea had led her to this conversation. “That’s not it. I just wanted something different.”
“Which is code for better.” Her mother sniffed. “You’ll come back. They always come back.”
If Reagan had had a nice, soft place to land, maybe. Sometimes people did need to come home to regroup. She could understand a home where you could move back when times were tough, get back on your feet quickly, and part with your parents once more on good terms.
She did not come from such a house.
“Hey, Mom? I actually have to run. The . . .” She fought for a good excuse. “Work is calling.”
“Well aren’t they special, calling you at all hours. See what reaching for better gets you? You’re never off work. Never relaxing. Get yourself a solid job, and you can clock in and out and wash your hands of the place when you leave. Your brother—”
“I know, Mom. Sorry, love you, bye!” She ended the call and dropped the phone on the desk like it was a snake.
She could have stayed in her hometown, Reagan thought as she went back to searching boxing terms and watching instructional videos. Could have stayed there, married one of her boyfriends right out of high school like so many of her classmates had, been pregnant before twenty, become a mother before she could legally drink. Right now, she could have three under three, clinging to her legs while she cleaned the stove or something.
She shot her own stove an assessing glance.
Nope.
It wasn’t that she had anything against those who got married out of high school. It was absolutely their choice, and she hoped they had a good life. It just wasn’t her choice. She would have slowly died in that life. But that wasn’t concerning to her family. What mattered was her turning her back on what her mother considered “tradition.”
It hurt. Who would be able to say, “Yeah, rejection from my family? Great stuff.” But you couldn’t choose your family. Sometimes, you just had to live with it.
Her phone buzzed, and she checked the screen warily. It was a text message, but not from family.
Marianne: Don’t you dare wear one of your suits tonight.
She grinned and texted back.
Reagan: I was thinking of going naked. Thoughts?
Marianne: I don’t have bail money, just so you know. Put on some date-wear.
Reagan: Can you be more specific?
Marianne: Sexy, not slutty. Think shoulders, not tits. Think back, not ass. And nothing that will wrinkle, in case things get a little frisky.
Reagan: Hold on, let me get a pencil to write this down. It’s pure fashion gold.
Marianne: :P Go have fun. Wear your hair down. And for God’s sake, wear a heel under three inches. Your ankles and your athletic trainer are both begging you.
Reagan couldn’t stop smiling as she walked into her bedroom to assess her wardrobe for anything “date-wear” worthy.
As she laid out three tank tops on the bed, she realized that no, you couldn’t choose your family. But sometimes you could add on a brand-new branch, with friends.
She had a good start on that new branch with the friends she’d made already in Jacksonville. Time to focus on that.
CHAPTER
13
Greg stirred the sauce and kept an ear out for the door. Graham, the idiot, had left only minutes earlier, after razzing him ruthlessly about everything from his outfit—had the man never seen a pair of slacks before?—to the menu and mood music he’d put on.
Greg didn’t take it personally. Clearly, his friend was jealous. He was about to spend the evening with a beautiful woman, eating decent food and hopefully doing a bit more of that kissing he’d gotten a taste of earlier.
Meanwhile, his friend was hitting up a movie and, well, he wasn’t quite sure what else Graham had planned. As long as he stayed out until midnight, as promised.
The doorbell rang, and Greg turned the burner down to low and dashed for the door. When he opened it, he expected to find Reagan in his eye line. Instead, he realized he had to look down a few inches to find her. “Hey. You’re here.”
“I am.” She stepped by, brushing her breasts against his arm as she moved into the home. “Nice and out of the way of Jacksonville back here.”
“Not in Jacksonville at all, actually. It’s Hubert. Don’t blink or you’ll miss it.”
Reagan shrugged out of her light sweater and glanced around. “Coat closet?”
Greg couldn’t move. He wanted to explain but couldn’t. Instead of the starched, proper business suits he was used to seeing her in, she wore a tank top in deep emerald that cut low over her breasts with the thinnest of straps crossing over her shoulders. Her pants were black, but instead of the tailored business suit bottoms she normally wore, they were snug and cut off at just above the ankle. And foregoing her trademark heels, she had chosen flats instead, black again, with sparkly buckles.
And that didn’t mention her hair, which she’d left loose and soft to fall in simple waves around those bare shoulders.
He realized he’d been staring as she pulled her sweater back against her chest. “Is something wrong?”
“No, no of course not. Sorry.” He reached for her sweater and, after a moment of consideration, draped it over the back of the love seat. They wouldn’t be using that piece of furniture anyway. He turned and pulled her into his arms, kissing her hard, and a little too briefly, before letting go. “You just look really good, that’s all.”
“I look different.” She grimaced and glanced down at her bare arms. “Marianne convinced me to break out some ‘date-wear.’” She used quote fingers on that one. “I thought I looked decent for work, but—”
“You do. This is just . . .” He hesitated, knowing he was walking right into a well-known man trap. “Different. A good different. A change. Variety.”
When she only smiled, he hoped that was a sign he’d dodged the proverbial bullet.
She walked past, and circled around Graham’s organized living room. “Does he live here alone?”
“He does, though he’s got people over enough it probably doesn’t seem like it. We all have an open invitation to hang out here if we need to escape the BOQ.”
One finger trailed over a photograph of Graham with his sister—Greg knew because he’d razzed his friend on having a hot relative—and she grinned. “Either you picked up big time right before I got here, or he’s a tidy fellow.”
“The second. I struggle to keep my own box of a room neat, and I only have like two suitcases–worth of clothing with me.” He took her hand before she could tantalize him any more with that fingertip-trailing thing she did and pulled her to the kitchen. “Come be my taster.”
“Sounds like the best offer I’ve had all day.”
He pulled her into the kitchen, then settled her on a bar stool and poured her a glass of wine. “I’m not great with wines,” he admitted, “but the guy at the liquor store on base told me this one was good with a red sauce.”
She lifted the glass, did a little swirl-and-sniff thing that made him doubt his ability to make a good selection, then took a tiny taste. He held his own breath, waiting. She burst out laughing when she looked at him. “I’m sorry, that was so pretentious. I know nothing about wine, either. I just know what tastes good.”
His entire body relaxed, and he kissed her hard in retaliation. “Stinker. So is it at least good?”
“It is. Well done.” She patted his cheek and settled back in her chair, waving a hand toward the stove. “Now
go. Cook for me, minion.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He headed back to stir the sauce, dumped the pasta into boiling water, and double-checked his meatballs in the oven. After giving them the okay, he passed those to the saucepan and slid garlic bread slices into the oven in their place.
“The man can cook,” she murmured, watching him over the rim of her glass. “Hidden talents.”
“It’s just pasta, and other than grilling some meat—which I have to add, I’m excellent at—it’s all I can do. But it keeps me from fast food, at least part of the time. Meatballs go with a lot of stuff.”
“What’s the secret to grilling?”
He shook his head at that. “I can’t divulge the secret without some give and take.”
“Okay then.” Reagan settled back, looking as relaxed as he’d seen her since the day they met. She let one wavy lock of hair twirl around her finger. “I’ll bite. What do I have to do to get the famous grilling secret?”
“You’ve gotta pass on a recipe of your own. Simple trade.”
“Easy enough. I’ll give it to you right now.” She leaned forward, which meant her breasts were shelved on the high kitchen island. It was as if the granite countertop was made to hold those gorgeous orbs of alabaster skin. “You open up a bag of that salad mix, pour it into a bowl, then dump some Newman’s dressing over the top. Ta-dah. Salad.”
He scowled. “That’s it?”
“Sometimes, if I’m feeling really fancy, I buy that presliced deli meat and toss it on top. Now you’ve got a chef’s salad.” She sat back, looking smug as she took another sip. “But that’s really not for beginners. We’ll work our way up.”
“This isn’t good,” he said, stirring the pasta, testing a piece and deciding it needed one more minute. “Neither of us can cook more than two meals between the two of us. We’re doomed.”
“Hey, now. You haven’t had my famous macaroni and cheese.” She raised her brows at his skeptical look. “The blue-box recipe is extremely famous, thank you very much, Judgey Pants.”
“I’m sorry. I should have worn my more humble pants this evening. Simple wardrobe mistake.” He started to plate their dinner, stacking pans and pots by the sink to wash later. Or, should things go as anticipated, for Graham to wash later.
Against the Ropes Page 12
