Against the Ropes (8 page)

He caught himself about to put them in a duffle under his bed, hesitated, then started to put his clothes in the drawers instead. Not two weeks ago, he would have repacked it in his suitcase, just in case. There was no sense of permanence with the team, with these men. Just fun. Now, he'd be damned if they sent him home.

A quick knock on his bedroom door heralded his roommate. Turning, he pushed the drawer closed with his hip and found Brad, hair still wet from a shower, watching him. “How long did it take you to get the paint out of your ears?”

“Ears were no problem. It was the gap in my waistband where it seemed to seep in and make its way to unfortunate places.”

Greg sucked in a breath. “Ouch.”

“Yeah. No kidding.” With a shake of his head, Brad wandered around Greg's room a bit.

Greg waited, but his roommate said nothing. “Need something?”

“You used to do this to me all the time. Just returning the favor.” With a smart-ass smile, Brad plopped down on the bed and crossed his ankles, making himself comfortable. “Plans tonight?”

“Yes and no.”

“Sounds like you haven't asked her out yet.”

“Her?” Greg went for innocent, maybe slightly confused, but one look from Brad had him giving up the charade. “I haven't called her, no. She's got a lot on her plate with the paint and the reporter and fixing that whole issue.”

“Damn big issue. Gonna take her longer than one night to get to it.”

“No kidding.” Greg waited a beat. “What's your point?”

“My point is, a night off's not going to kill her. Call her.”

“Hey, Captain Cupid, who are you and what have you done with my roommate?” He ducked the pillow Brad threw at him. “Come on, man. I just made the bed.”

“Good Marines make their beds when they first get out of them.”

“I'd state the obvious, but I won't.”

Brad seemed to shrug that off. They both knew he would have just made fun of Brad's anal retentive tendencies. “She's smart, she's hot—”

“Watch it,” Greg growled.

“Oh, piss off. You know I've got my own woman. Just stating a fact. And for some reason, she isn't totally repulsed by you.”

There was more between them than just “not repulsed.” But he kept quiet.

“So go call Reagan Robilard and take the lady out. She could probably use a good distraction tonight after the day she's had. Let her get loose. She'll have enough shit to deal with tomorrow.”

“She'll just bitch at me about some conflict of interest or other bullshit.”

“We thought that. Marianne and I hid our dating for way longer than necessary. And now you have no excuse.”

“Damn,” he muttered.

“Afraid of rejection?”

Greg threw the pillow back at his smirking roommate. “I think I liked you better when you were a standoffish jerk.”

“Me, too. But here we are. And it's your fault I'm more chatty, anyway.”

“I'm asking her, I'm asking her.” Greg pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and waved it. “But if she says she's tired, I'm not pushing. She's had a rough day.”

“I don't doubt it.” Brad waited a beat. “But she won't say she's tired.”

That made Greg think twice. “Why?”

Brad stood, and Greg noticed him favoring his knee just a little on one side. “Because you'll find some way or another to convince her to throw caution to the wind. To seize the moment. To carpe diem. It's what you do. You're the social
one. So”—he finished as he went to the door—“go be social.” With that, he closed Greg's door behind him.

“Go be social,” he mocked. After letting his thumb hover over the call button on his phone, he switched to text and sent her a message.

Coward? You betcha.

She responded less than sixty seconds later, exactly how he'd guessed. Tired, overworked, needed some rest and time to go over notes.

Greg:
All work and no play makes Jill a dull girl.

Reagan:
I can handle being dull. I can't handle putting work off. Thanks, though.

See, Costa? You don't know everything.
She was going to reject his offer. But at least he'd put it out there.

Just as he was about to put his phone down, he tried one more thing.

Greg:
You can ask me one more question, if you let me buy you dessert.

There was a long pause, to the point where he wondered if she'd put her phone down and didn't hear it alert with the text. He gave up and set his on the bedside table and went to the drawer where he kept takeout menus.

And nearly broke land speed records racing back to grab it when it beeped with a text.

Reagan:
Dessert only, my pick and we call it quits early.

Bingo. Before he could stop it, he felt a smile creep across his face. The one thing destined to get her out of her work funk was . . . work.

He could choose to be offended by that, and see it as a negative that she only wanted to spend time with him if she could call it productive. That being out with him wasn't reason enough. Or he could see it as a positive that she was
too
tempted by him, and using work as an excuse made her feel better about stepping over that boundary.

He was an optimist, after all.

Greg:
DEAL.

8

R
eagan waited in the back corner of the popular café-style yogurt bar. She'd arrived early, notebook ready, and scoped out the offerings. Frozen yogurt was the least of the dessert sins she could think of. There was a fat-free, dairy-free yogurt that looked tempting . . .

Oh, who the hell was she kidding? That thing looked like pink glue.

But hey, anything fat-free, dairy free, shame-and-guilt free had to be good for you, right?

“This is an interesting choice.”

She jerked her head up as Greg slid into the small chair across the tiny bistro-style table. Why did the man have to make a simple polo shirt and jeans look sinful? “What's wrong with it?”

“Nothing, I guess. I just thought you'd be someone to pick something a little more . . .” He glanced around the room, at the bright lights, brighter colors and several tables full of screaming kids. “I don't know, adult?”

“Frozen yogurt is very adult,” she said, biting the inside
of her cheek to keep from smiling. “It's practically a health food.”

He stared at her. “Uh-huh. And that's why you can dump a bowl of peanut butter cups on top of it and they weigh it by the pound? Because of the health benefits?”

“Exactly.” She left her purse and notebook there—the café was small enough she didn't worry about it—and went to the starting line where the cups were. “Have you been here before?”

“A few times. You?”

“First time here. But there was one near my apartment in college. Very popular place.” She'd gone there a few times to study, when the lights in her apartment had gone off for nonpayment. The owners had been sweet and let her sit at a corner table to work even though she almost never bought anything.

Greg waited for her to grab the provided cups—which were big enough to hold three baked potatoes—and pick out her flavor. She let three seconds' worth of pink glue plop into her cup and walked to the register. She passed by Greg, who was on flavor number two, when he snagged her elbow.

“What the hell is that?”

“Strawberry,” she answered defensively.

“That is definitely not strawberry. That's nothing. There's, like, a thimble-full in there. Go get more.”

“I don't need more.” Really, the man was exasperating.

He finished the flavor he was on—cookies and cream—and stepped over to layer on some key lime pie yogurt.

“Uh, that combo doesn't sound appetizing,” she pointed out, in case he had misread the sign.

“That's half the fun. Coming up with some weird combination that will make the employees gag.”

She stared at him blandly. “You were one of those children who enjoyed putting some of every soda in his cup at concession stands, weren't you?”

He winked. “Bet you can't top this one.”

She could. But really . . . “I'm good.”

“Oh, man. And here I thought you'd be more creative than me.” His disappointed voice grated against her nerves. “Sucks to be wrong. Oh, well.”

“Look, it's not
that
disgusting. There's worse combinations out there.”

He looked her in the eyes, nearly nose to nose, and whispered, “Prove it.”

Something inside her clicked, and suddenly she was seven years old with her two older brothers double-dog daring her and her younger two brothers betting she would chicken out.

Oh.
Oh
, it was so on. She pulled away from him and started the hunt for the most repulsive combination of flavors. No, not just flavors, she reminded herself. They had syrups and toppings, too. The nastiness could not be avoided.

Ten minutes later, with her massive cup nearly overflowing with yogurt, she put it on the scale at the register. Next to hers, Greg set his own malformation of dessert. They both burst out laughing as the cashier made a Mr. Yuk face at their creations.

“Now the trick is,” Greg said as they carried their beloved treats to their table, “we have to eat this thing without choking.”

Oh, God. She hadn't actually thought that through when she'd been swirling vanilla fudge with tropical punch and topping it with Jujubes, hot fudge and making what first looked like a smiley face in whipped cream but now that it had melted, sort of resembled a phallic symbol.

“Your face,” Greg said on a gasp. “Seriously, priceless. We don't have to eat it.”

Well, now it had become a thing of honor. She did her best to brave the coming storm, scooped up a healthy bite and tasted.

“You don't have to—”

“Oh,” she breathed. “That's not bad.”

He raised a skeptical brow. “That's a joke, right?”

“It's not my first choice, but it's not as horrific as I thought it would be.” She grinned and took another bite. “Try yours,” she added, pointing to his concoction with her spoon.

He didn't look convinced, but she could tell he wasn't about to be shown up. So he closed his eyes, took a heaping spoonful of yogurt and toppings, and put it in his mouth.

And nearly gagged. He managed to swallow what he had in his mouth while the plastic spoon clattered to the table top and his eyes bugged out.

Reagan tried—she really did—to keep a straight face. But she couldn't help the snort that squeaked by. Then the chuckle. Then the laugh that came from so deep down she thought she might pee her pants before she got control of herself again.

She wiped her eyes, aware there were more than a few parents staring. One shushed her daughter and forced her to look the other way.
Don't go near the crazy lady, sweetie. Just leave her alone.
Totally worth it.

Then she caught the way Greg watched her. Like he was a starving man watching a waiter put down a porterhouse steak. He took ahold of her hand, calloused fingertips brushing against the inside of her wrist. There was no way he could miss how her pulse thundered under his touch.

“Told you there was a wild side under there.”

She furrowed her brows at that. “Mixing gross yogurt combinations equals having a wild side?”

“No, but taking up the challenge to try does. Lying to me and making me think you enjoyed yours to get me to eat mine is a close second.”

She flushed. “Caught.”

He picked up her hand and nipped at her knuckles, then pressed a kiss to the same spot. “I'm impressed.” He let her go—why did her fingers instinctively curl to keep his hand with hers?—and settled back for another small bite of yogurt. “Not so bad, if you concentrate on one flavor at a time.”

She wrinkled her nose and pushed hers to the side.

“How did the Great Paint Spill end up after we left?” He took another bite, and she watched his tongue lick the last of the yogurt from the curve of the spoon.

That tongue could do wicked, wicked things to the curves of a woman's body. Say, her body, for example . . .

“Earth to Reagan.”

She blinked. “Sorry, what?”

“The paint spill thing. What came out of that?”

“Ruined shoes, and probably a ruined suit, too.” She was still smarting over that. It had taken her months to find those shoes on sale. Months. She grabbed the yogurt back. Even the gross flavors were better than thinking about those shoes. “Otherwise, a very upset reporter, and a big bucket of ice in my belly over how he's going to write up this little piece of ‘mischief.'” She used air quotes on one hand—the one not gripping the spoon that was currently going in for another bite.

“How are you still eating that thing?” Greg looked appalled.

“It's not as bad, if you try to stick to one flavor on your spoon at a time.” She scooped out some fudge brownie with a little whipped cream. “See? Yours was all mixed up. I kept mine in nice, divided sections.”

“You couldn't even go wild without putting order to it.” Looking disgusted at her lack of spontaneity, he grabbed her spoon and licked the yogurt off. “Serves you right.”

“Probably.” Plus, she didn't really need all the added calories. Gross taste or not, it all stuck straight to her hips. She'd be a walking cello if she wasn't careful. “What's your favorite part about boxing?”

He blinked, then settled back in the wrought-iron chair that looked too small to hold his weight. “Where'd that come from?”

“You said to be able to ask you another question and coach you through it, I had to go out with you again.” She spread her arms wide. “We're out, dessert and all.”

She saw the moment he realized she had him. He scowled, then stabbed his spoon into his yogurt and pushed it to the side. “I'm good at it.”

“You are,” she agreed. Then when he said nothing more, she prompted, “And?”

“And . . .” He shrugged and used the handle of the spoon to push his yogurt cup around the table. “I like to win. I like to have fun. Winning is fun, so . . . yeah.”

Reagan tapped her finger to her lips. His entire demeanor changed when she questioned him as Reagan Robilard, Team Liaison than when they were simply chatting. Was that a good thing, or bad? “If a reporter asks, you'll need more. That answer will come off in print sounding cocky, though I doubt that's actually how you mean it. Try something like, ‘I took to the sport of boxing naturally, and as I became better, my enjoyment for it grew.'”

He sneered. “That sounds like twisted PR crap.”

“It
is
twisted PR crap. But it's my job to twist the crap until it can't get you into trouble in any way.” She stood and tossed her yogurt in the trash behind her. “I've got to get back to my place and start figuring out how to play serious damage control. Plus, I've got an interview with the head leader guy of the MPs to figure out exactly how people keep breaking into the gym—if that's what is happening.”

“The head leader guy?” he asked, lips twitching.

“Whatever.” She scowled and stood. “Military jargon is still ninety percent lost on me.”

He stood and followed her out toward her car. One large hand patted the trunk of Dolly Madison fondly. “If nobody is breaking into the gym, how else could all this crap be happening? A ghost?”

“Someone with a key, maybe an old employee who never turned one in. Or a roommate of an employee who made a copy. Someone who currently works with the Rec department and has access. Or even someone on the team.”

That stopped him in his tracks, and he gripped her elbow
so she flailed to a halt a step ahead of him. “Nobody on the team would pull shit like this.”

She wouldn't warn him about the language right now. He was worked up. “I can't discount the possibility that—”

“Nobody,” he said quietly, his voice carrying the clear hint of temper. “Nobody on this team would pull a stunt like that.”

She watched his eyes, those beautiful golden eyes, and nodded slowly. “Okay.”

He didn't release her, but pulled her just a fraction closer. They were nose to nose today; her replacement heels for the ones paint had coated weren't as tall as she normally liked. But he never seemed to mind her height. If anything, he almost appeared to like them on equal level.

He pulled her so close, her breasts brushed against his chest as he breathed in, then out. Their breath mingled. And she knew he would kiss her, there, in the parking lot of a yogurt cafe where they'd just laughed over disgusting creations.

But then he stepped back, a small smile on his face. “Damn, you're a temptation.”

She wanted to point out he didn't have to resist, she was perfectly happy to make out with him then and there. Temptation solved. But that wouldn't have been very worldly or mature of her.

Screw maturity
, her libido screamed.
Grab the guy and let's do this!

“You're not ready yet. Still too wrapped up with work to give it your all. Almost,” he added, with a wistful sigh. “Just not quite.”

She rolled her eyes and dug her keys out of her purse. “This little game you're playing with yourself, on the timing of our supposed inevitable tryst? It's only going to leave you with blue balls and a broken heart.”

He waited for her to open the door, let her slide in, then blocked her from closing it with his knee. “Broken heart, huh?”

“Yeah.” She went for a sad, almost pitying expression. “I would have been the best thing for you. But you keep backing off so . . . oh, well.” She'd meant the words to sting—like his insistence she wasn't ready yet, as if he could read her mind—but he only laughed.

“I like that little bit of fight in you.” He drummed his fingers on the top of her car. “How about tomorrow, you invite me over for dinner at your place.”

The thought of him in her small, embarrassing apartment had her fighting back a rise of panic in her throat. “How about not? I can't cook.” That was true, anyway.

“I can.”

“Then I'll come over to your place.”

“Which is the BOQ, with a roommate.”

Oh, right. “Restaurant, then. There's a nice—”

“I'll work something out.” He closed her door for her, then motioned for her to roll her window down. Reagan started the car, then prayed hard the window would actually cooperate—as it only did three out of four times. Luck was on her side this time, and the window rolled down without protest.

Greg leaned down to eye level through her window. “Just keep in mind, I don't give up. And I'm not playing a game. I'm doing what I think is best for us. Both of us. We're not going to rush this.” He gave her another long look, one in which it was impossible to miss the heat between them, and patted her door one more time before stepping back to let her drive off.

Infuriating man. Infuriating, funny, sexy man.

*   *   *

GREG
awoke with a jarring thump as something thick landed an inch away from his family jewels. Sitting up straight, he glanced around his still-dark room. “What the hell?”