Against the Ropes (6 page)

“I'll answer one question, of my own choosing, if you hand me the list. But first, you have to answer the ‘tell me about yourself' one.”

She thought about that for a moment, one finger tapping
her chin. “Your interview is tomorrow, and you'll only let me help you with one question.”

“If you hate how I handle it, you'll know not to let me do the gig tomorrow.” Which would be a solid win for him, as far as he was concerned.

“And if I don't agree?”

He watched the heat in her eyes, how they fired up at the mere hint of a challenge.

He leaned forward just a little. “I suggest you do.”

*   *   *

OH,
that arrogant, cocky, egotistical, sexy . . .

No, not sexy.

Okay yes, sexy.

Reagan glared at Greg across the table. “You suggest I do?”

“It's either one question, or none.” He lifted one shoulder and let it drop again, as if he couldn't care less. But she had a suspicion his lax attitude was really a front. That if she called him on it and made him answer a question, he'd sweat through it.

“Fine. Deal.”

He held out his hand for the notebook, which she grudgingly handed over. Luckily it was brand-new, so nothing personal was scribbled in the margins or anything embarrassing, like “Pap smear, 2 pm Thursday.” She shuddered.

“Cold?” He glanced up, then reached out a hand to rub down her arm while he kept flipping through the questions.

Another guy would have made her sure the whole arm-rub thing was a move. But Greg barely seemed to register the action, which made it all the more sweet in her mind. These were the little touches she watched Marianne and Brad exchange. The light caress over the back of Marianne's neck while she was hunched over her desk. The simple brush of fingertips across his knee before he iced. Covert, second-nature things that kept them connected.

But Brad and Marianne were actually in a relationship. Reagan was simply on a nice business dinner. So really, she should grow up and move on.

“You can start now with the whole answering thing.” He looked up at her, finger marking the place he'd left off on her list of potential questions. “Tell me about yourself.”

She folded her hands in front of her plate and cleared her throat. “I was born and raised in Wisconsin, with my mother and four brothers. I—”

“Do you do that on purpose?”

She stopped, then looked down at her hands, at her lap and back up at him. He studied her, and she had no clue what he meant. “I don't understand.”

“Your voice. Do you do that voice thing on purpose?”

One hand flew to the base of her throat automatically. “What's wrong with my voice?”

“Nothing at all. It just gets deeper when you're in business mode.” Greg's eyes danced as he watched her. “It's sexy.”

“My business voice is sexy?” Panic wanted to fight its way in. Was this how men were viewing her when she made professional phone calls? As a sex kitten? Did they think she was doing it on purpose? “Oh my God.”

“Don't freak out.” He laid a hand over her forearm, thumb caressing over the skin inside, up to her wrist and back again. “Seriously, it's not a bad thing. And frankly, I'm probably partial because, well.” He winked. “You know.”

“You're a horndog?” she said dryly, then gasped and covered her mouth.

He laughed. Then when she thought he was done, he started chuckling and built right back up to a belly-shaking laugh.

Reagan glanced around, saw people watching their table with avid interest and kicked him under the table. “Shhh! People are staring!” she hissed.

He finally quieted down enough to wipe at the tears at the corners of his eyes. “You kill me. Seriously, you do.”

“Such a compliment. However will I resist,” she muttered as she stabbed her steak with something akin to rage.

“I'm hoping you don't.”

He saw by the way her eyes widened for just a second before she looked back down at her plate that she'd heard him.

6

“I
'm not sure how you did it,” Reagan said as they walked to Greg's car, “but I didn't actually get any answers out of you.”

“I'm good, what can I say?”

“Maybe you should be the one in PR. Oh!” Realizing she'd left her notebook behind, she turned to go. Greg caught her wrist and pulled her against him.

“I've got your notebook.”

Thanks to her heels, she was nearly two inches taller than him. She expected to feel awkward, or maybe powerful, with the height advantage. But her knees were nearly water as he nuzzled his nose against her jaw. Maybe her brain was liquefying, too, because she actually felt herself lean into the caress. His warm breath against her neck sent a tingle of gooseflesh racing over her exposed skin. And as his arm wrapped around the small of her back to pull her tighter against him, there wasn't a single protest in her mind. He could have laid her down on the asphalt and it wouldn't have occurred to her to voice an alternative.

“We should get going.”

He stepped back, and she was left to blink at the immediate lack of warmth. “Going . . .” was all she could say.

“Long drive home, and we've got work tomorrow.” He shifted his hold on her wrist lower to lace his fingers with hers. “Besides, I have to be well rested for my media debut, right?”

“Uh-huh,” she said stupidly, following as he walked to the car. Had she really been so naïve to think he'd start putting the moves on her in a parking lot? No, that would be ridiculous. And she was nothing if not practical.

In everything but footwear, anyway.

When he opened her door, she turned. It was wrong, and she shouldn't press, but she had to know. “Why did you stop?”

His smile was slow, and it sent alarm bells ringing in her head, but she wasn't quite sure which ones. The alarm that said
Run now!
or the one that said
Supper's on, come and get it!

“You were expecting it.”

“I . . . okay.” She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned against the back door. “So what if I was?”

“When I kiss you the first time, it's not going to be expected. And it's not going to make you feel the way you
think
you should feel.”

Reagan turned that over in her head for a moment as she got in the car. She let it marinate while he drove them out of the parking lot, and half the way home.

“How do you know what I think I should feel?”

“Legs,” he said without taking his eyes off the road, “you've got TTBP all over you.”

“I'm almost afraid to ask, but . . . TTBP?”

He grinned, his face illuminated in the headlights of a passing truck. “Trying to Be Professional. You play the starched business lady during the day, and you tried to bring her out tonight. But you've got a wild streak you're trying
to keep hidden for one reason or another. When you're ready to let that loose, then we'll see.”

“That's insulting,” she said with a huff, staring straight ahead. She couldn't even get into lip-syncing along with the radio. But curiosity had her asking, “And how do you know I even have a wild streak?”

“Shoes,” he answered quickly, without hesitation. “And partly because of your endearingly horrible lip-syncing on the way down . . . but mostly the shoes.”

“Why does everyone comment on my shoes?”

“Because they make a statement. And you know that, or you wouldn't pick them. You'd wear some flats or plain ones with just a tiny heel. Or you know, some white running shoes with those scrunchy, puffy socks that come halfway up your calves.”

“Uh, the eighties called. They want their working woman stereotype back.”

He just snorted.

“And you never answered an interview question.”

“That's because all these interview questions are boring.” He reached into his pants pocket—which took a little maneuvering—and tossed the notebook on her lap. “Who cares where I'm from or why I'm in the Marines or why I joined the boxing team? They should care about my stats or how I box or what I do when I'm down and have to rally for a come-from-behind victory. What matters is on the mat.”

“You want to get to know my wild side, away from my work persona. Why is it so weird to think others might want to know you beyond the ring?”

“Because nobody cares.”

She watched him—difficult as it was—in the darkness for a bit, and realized he wasn't being facetious or difficult for the sake of being annoying. He honestly believed it didn't matter.

“I care,” she said softly.

“To peddle some human interest story?”

That stung, but it wasn't completely unwarranted. “I care because I like you. And this dinner—”

“Date.”

“This dinner—”

“Date,” he said more firmly. “Can you just call it what it is?”

“I'm sorry, I don't recall you asking me on a date. I remember being bamboozled into coming out in order to get my job done.”

“Well, I did. You must have slept through it.” He reached over and squeezed her knee. “Damn shame. It was a good story. One for the grandkids, I'm sure.”

“Uh-huh.” She took a chance and put her hand over his. When his fingers curled up and caught hers, she smiled. He couldn't see, so it wouldn't hurt anything. “You still have to answer one of the questions.”

“My prematch routine,” he said, in a monotone voice like a seventh grader reading a report off of cue cards as he answered one of her questions, “includes lots of protein that morning, a light workout to stretch and establish muscle memory and some mental moves before I step into the ring.”

She waited a beat. “Wow. That was inspirational.”

“You want inspiration, you pay a thousand bucks and go to a business conference. You said one question, I answered one question.”

And he picked the single most impersonal one to give, too.

“Fine.” She settled back in her seat and prepared for the rest of the drive home.

“Fine . . . what?”

The barest hint of trepidation colored his question. She bit her cheek to keep the smile from her voice. “Fine, that's all. You're a smart guy. I'm sure you can handle yourself tomorrow at the interview.”

He seemed to take this news with slightly less happiness than she thought. “You're giving up? I thought we talked about that this afternoon.”

“Not giving up. No, just looking for a new angle.” She grazed her thumb over the back of his hand. His fingers tightened on hers in response. “What will it take to get you to let me coach you?”

“Another meal, another question.”

The answer came so quickly, she knew he hadn't come up with it on the fly. “If you want another date—”

“You said it was dinner,” he teased.

“Date,” she repeated firmly, using his own word now, “then why don't you just ask? Drop the game and let me coach you, then we can keep them separate.”

“Not as fun.”

“Why does it have to be fun?”

He lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her fingertips. “Fun's the reason for everything.”

*   *   *

FUN
is the reason for everything?

Reagan tossed her keys on the kitchen counter and let her purse slide across it until it hit the microwave. Since her kitchen was the size of a shoebox, that slide was approximately seven inches long. She opened the refrigerator, hoping there was still a bottle of water in there. The door stuck, and it took her three tries to get it open before she could check.

Stupid landlord. The damn man was supposed to look at that. And the broken window she'd had to board up herself. And the toilet that flushed only when it was in the mood. And the hot water heater that should be more aptly called the whatever-temperature-I-want water heater.

The place was a hole, no doubt about it. But it was all she could afford, thanks to an entry-level salary and student loan debt that would make a mortgage look like small potatoes.

And that was exactly why she didn't want Greg picking her up at her place. He'd either be scared off, or he'd feel sorry for her. That was definitely not what she wanted.

Toeing off her shoes, she picked them up and walked
them to the closet, placing them reverently in their shoebox and sliding them out of sight. It was the only way she could justify buying the expensive heels . . . she took excellent care of them and expected them to last her years.

Her clothing she dealt with a little more recklessly. It landed in a heap somewhere close to but not really by the hamper. Good enough. Slipping into some comfortable sweatpants, she went to her laptop—another post-graduation splurge—and decided to do some digging on Greg Higgs.

That was totally legit, right? Not only was he someone she needed to know more about for professional reasons, but she was, apparently, dating him.

Did one date count as “dating?” Maybe. Or maybe not.

Either way, it wasn't sketchy. It was just good business, no matter which angle she came at it from.

Not that it did her any good. She came up empty. His Facebook page was so generic—funny
SNL
skits, memes and posts about sports—that she couldn't glean much of his personality from it. He either didn't have a social media profile on any of the other major platforms, or he was so good at his privacy settings, he was all but invisible by regular searching means. From a PR standpoint, that was a pretty good deal. Guys who kept a low social media profile were often the least worrisome. From the dating standpoint . . . dammit. She wanted more information.

So she went back to the tiny desk she'd found at the local thrift store for fifteen bucks and brought back to her place, found the files of the team members and did exactly what she'd been doing the last few nights.

She opened Greg's file and stared at his ID photo, along with the mere trickle of information he'd listed on his form. The exercise was pointless. It wasn't as if his photo was going to magically start talking, Hogwarts-style, and give her all the answers she sought. No mysteries of the universe lay in that file folder. But it didn't stop her from looking at it every night and wondering, just a little, if this was for her.

This job. This area of the country. This man.

He'd asked her out on a date. He'd charmed her. He'd enticed her. He'd made her laugh. And yet, in the end, he'd kept her at arm's length when it came to the physical.

Cautious? Or callous . . .

Her gut said cautious. Reagan set the file down, forcing herself to slip it back into the pile. But she could only continue on for so long—both professionally and personally—without some give on his part.

For now, she had to get some sleep. There was an interview to prep for, and it certainly wasn't going to prep for itself.

*   *   *

GREG
watched as Reagan tapped her foot on the floor outside Coach Ace's office. She checked her watch, leaned her chin into her palm and stared off into the distance, with that damn toe sending an SOS signal across the floorboards. Brad was inside the coach's office, talking to that reporter. Sweeney had already had his turn. Greg knew he was next. Knew that any minute, Reagan would walk across the floor in those sinful heels and skirt to tap him on his sweaty shoulder and ask him to follow her.

Where he would sit in near silence with a reporter from the local paper who likely couldn't wait to get out of there and go write about something actually interesting. Because Marines who boxed couldn't be all that fun.

Coach Cartwright walked up behind him and pushed at the back of his head. “If you came for the scenery, we should have had you buy a ticket at the door.”

“Sorry, Coach.” He went back to his speed bag, but kept one eye on Reagan when he could.

Her cute little agitated movements caught his eye again and again. The dangling foot jangle. The watch-checking. The switching of which hand her chin rested in. The hair debate. Up in the clip, down around her shoulders, half-back . . . she'd done it all in the last ten minutes.

When Greg saw the door open and his roommate step out, shaking the hand of a guy in his fifties with a bit of a paunch, wire-frame glasses and a graying beard, Greg felt his gut tighten. He was next, and there was nowhere for him to hide. So he turned his back on the whole thing and prayed they'd forget about him.

When he heard Reagan's voice behind him, he knew he wouldn't be so lucky.

“They practice here at least twice a day,” she said, leading the reporter through the different stations set up. “And typically have at least one cardio session as well, either here or on the outdoor track.”

“Hmm,” was all the reporter said. He didn't even write anything down in his notebook that Greg could see.

Pay attention, dude. You're lucky she's giving your ass the time of day.

Reagan's determined smile was in place as she pointed to a group of Marines running along the catwalk upstairs. “As you can see, a lot of their training has nothing to do with the ring itself. It's a great deal of discipline and will of mind. Training the entire athlete. It makes boxing and the Marine Corps a perfect sort of fit, I think.”

“Ah.”

Greg could all but hear her back teeth grinding as the guy stuffed his notebook in the bag he had looped over his shoulder. The reporter wasn't even trying, the bastard.

“And not to disparage our fellow service members and their own boxing teams, but I feel confident saying we have a winning squad here.” She pointed toward the catwalk. Several Marines—Greg included—followed her gesture with their eyes. Up there stood three of the younger Marines, holding what looked like string. “You're also here for a special moment.”

“Oh?” the reporter asked, as if she'd just told him she'd had salmon for lunch.