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.

“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.”