Against the Ropes (13 page)

“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.

13

G
reg 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.

Sorry, buddy. You'd do the same thing.

As they sat down, he relished listening to her make pleasurable little sounds as she tasted a bit of each. “This isn't the garlic bread you buy in the frozen foods section, is it?”

He did his best to appear offended. “How dare you, madam.”

She raised a brow, and he cracked like fine china. “Okay, fine. Normally I cheat and go that direction. But for tonight, I broke out the big guns and used a real French bread and did it myself. Much better.”

“Mmm. Much.” She took another bite of that piece, then set it aside. “Don't let me have another, or I'll never fit into my suits again.”

“I hardly think that's an issue. But hey, if you're looking for a postdinner calorie-burn . . .” He waggled his brows suggestively, and had the pleasure of watching her groan while laughing. “I'm just glad you said yes to dinner.”

“I'm glad Graham gave us the run of his house. You're sure he's okay leaving like this?”

Greg nodded. “He's fine. He's . . . do you want to get that?” he added, when her cell phone started to ring.

She glanced at her purse, sitting on the chair next to her. “No, ignore it.”

The ringing stopped, only to start again a few seconds later. “Go ahead. Might as well get whatever it is out of the way.”

She apologized, started to get up, then stopped and sat back down. “It's Kara. Normally I'd ignore but—”

“Totally okay.”

He watched her worried expression as she answered.

“No, I'm not at my place, I'm already out. Why, what's . . . oh. Uh . . .” She looked down at her plate, then over at Greg. “Well . . . okay. Yeah, sure. I'll figure it out. How long will you need me?” She mouthed an
I'm sorry
to him.
Kara needs me.

He motioned for her to hand him the phone. She hesitated, then said, “Kara, I'm actually with Greg and . . . no, it's okay. Please don't worry. But he wants to talk to you. Yeah. Okay, here.” She handed him the phone. “She's got to run out and needs someone to watch Zach. It's a yoga-mergency.”

Yoga-mergency?
“Kara, hey. It's Greg Higgs.”

“I'm sorry about this.” Misery and embarrassment were both plain in Kara's voice. “I completely forgot you two were spending tonight together. If I'd remembered, I wouldn't have barged in like this.”

“You need someone to watch Zach?”

“One of my clients—the one you don't say no to because she pays way too well—called for a last-minute private before she leaves the country. Apparently she can't go on vacation without one more round of sun salutations. My normal babysitter can't make it.”

In the background, he could hear Zach's small voice yell, “I don't need a babysitter!”

Kara sighed. “I can't get ahold of Marianne, and her parents are on vacation themselves. I'm so sorry, but—”

“Stay there. I'm sending reinforcements. And trust me, Zach will definitely not complain. Just trust me.”

“I'm not comfortable leaving him with a stranger,” Kara warned.

“You won't be. Just hold tight.” He hung up, handed Reagan's phone back to her, then whipped his own out to start texting.

After a minute, Reagan said, “Okay, curiosity is winning. Who are you sending over?”

“Graham.” Satisfied, he stuffed the phone in his pocket. “She knows him, Zach likes him, and he planned to stay out of the house for a few hours anyway. He'd been debating a movie, but this is going to be more fun. He's good with it.”

“I know, but—”

“Hey.” He put one hand over hers, let his thumb caress the side. She opened under him, laced her fingers with his. “Has Kara ever been one to shrink in the face of motherly duties?”

“Of course not.”

“So she's going to let us know if it's not okay.” He took a sip of water, not wanting to let go of her hand just yet to
eat. “Plus, I added that kid likely has a good video game collection, which means she'll have a hard time getting rid of Graham.”

“Men.” Reagan smiled a little before pulling her hand away to twirl some pasta on her fork. “They're just boys who eat more and kept getting bigger.”

“Exactly.” He tugged the back of her neck so she leaned in for a sweet kiss. “But you ladies tolerate us. Bless you.”

*   *   *

KARA
wrung her hands, caught herself doing it, and forced them behind her back. Then in her pockets. Then clutching the straps of her yoga bag, she walked back to her son's room.

He was exactly where she'd left him ten minutes earlier, sprawled on the bed, arms extended straight up, holding a graphic novel above. If he fell asleep for even a second, that book would fall and smack him straight in the nose.

She knew because she read the exact same way, and had woken up more than once when she'd dropped her book—or worse, her e-reader—on her face.

“Remember, Graham's in charge.”

“Uh-huh,” Zach said without looking away from his book.

“I won't be gone long.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And you know your list of restrictions.”

“Yeah.”

“The main EpiPen is—”

“With the rest of the meds, like it's always been.” He put his book over his stomach and gave her an irritated glance upside down. “Mom, I'm ten. I think I've got this.”

Her little boy, all grown up. Or at least, he thought so. “I know. I'm just being a mom. You'll thank me one day.”

His snort as he picked up the book informed her he considered that outcome unlikely at best.

The knock on the door had her turning, just before she leaned back to say, “I love you, Zach.”

“Uh-huh.”

Boys. Shaking her head, Kara went to answer the door, and let in the babysitter.

The babysitter, of course, was the most gorgeous man she'd ever met. Graham's dusky skin and perma-shadow from stubble made her think of pirates sailing the high seas. His hair was always a little longer than most, and probably skirted the edges of regulations. And he was tall, so tall. She'd also seen the man move. He was a true athlete, even with a yoga mat. He made her feel smart, listened to what she said and treated her like a lady.

He must be kept at arm's length at all times.

“Graham.” She opened the door all the way and let him in. “I'm so sorry you got roped into coming over here.”

“No big. I had to be out of my place for a while, anyway.” He stood inside her tiny living room, making the room shrink just with his presence. He turned a three-sixty to take in the small space. “Nice.”

“It's small, but it works for us,” she said, biting her tongue at the defensiveness. He'd just complimented the space, hadn't he?

“Hmm,” was all he said, and stuffed his hands into his jeans pockets. “Where's the squirt?”

“Zach's in his room, reading. He might come out, or not. He's big on reading though, and when he goes into the zone, it's hard to break.” She waited for some taunt, some egghead joke, something that she could take and mull over, something to make her not like him so much.

“Cool. Lucky you, getting a kid who likes reading.”

Dammit. Would the man stop being so damn perfect? With a frostier tone than was warranted, she pointed toward the kitchen. “Emergency numbers are on the fridge. He has an EpiPen in the medicine cabinet, which I put a Post-it Note
on so you don't have to dig for it. He knows how to administer it himself, but the instructions are on the box. If you have a minute and want to read through them, that would be great. I also put a list of his allergens on the fridge next to the numbers. He hasn't eaten dinner yet, but he can make his own. Please don't feed him anything from outside the house. If you're hungry though, you can order a pizza or whatever. Just make sure he doesn't get tempted and have any.” It was the same spiel she'd given all his babysitters since he was fourteen months old and popped positive on his first allergy test for, well, almost everything.