“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.

“Yes, we’re unveiling the new banners for past wins at the All Military games. The old ones were faded, and we wanted to move them in here so the guys could see them while they practiced.” With a grin, she cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted, “Let them go, boys!”

She was in her element. Despite the reporter’s lack of enthusiasm, he could see Reagan was enjoying herself. This was something she loved. The nerves from before were gone, and she could have been speaking to the president himself with the poise she showed.