And opened her door to what might be considered the single girl’s paradise.

Marines, stripped down to their skivvies, were hosing each other down in the employee parking lot. The few who hadn’t gotten paint-bombed were manning hoses while wearing their gym shorts, barefoot. Those they blasted with water stood on towels as the strength of the garden hose power washed the paint away. Nearby, others toweled down from a recent spritzing. Their clothes lay in heaps of color, soaked.

As she watched, the Marines rotated and still-paint colored men took their places on the towels while the others shuffled off to dry.

The door behind her opened and closed again, and she heard Marianne laugh. “Where’s a girl’s camera when she needs one?”

“It’s like a freaking calendar out here. There’s February,” Reagan said, nodding in the direction of one Marine who bent at the waist and tunneled his fingers through his hair to rinse it out.

“Looks like he’s giving September a run for his money,” Marianne added, using her elbow to indicate a good-looking man whose dark skin gleamed while he toweled from the feet up.

Brad wandered over, walking carefully over the pavement in his bare feet. “Are they grabbing our bags from the gym?”

“Yup.” She patted his cheek—blessedly clean—once, then looked at Reagan. “My interns are gathering up everyone’s bags, which should have their street clothes and hopefully some shoes.

“Good idea.” Reagan fought to keep her eyes on the men’s faces as they moved around her. Hard . . . so hard. “Whose idea was this to come back here instead of using the locker room?”

“Coach Ace’s. Said he didn’t want to cause more a mess than we had to.” Brad vigorously rubbed a towel over his short-cropped hair. It dried almost instantly. Not fair. “Cold, but effective. Plus, saved the drains in the locker room. They already suck. I can’t imagine what putting this much paint down them would do.”

“Considerate,” Marianne added. “Oh, look, November’s getting started.”

“Huh?” Brad turned—well, they all turned—to watch the Marine Reagan thought was named Tribalt step into the spray. “Oh, Jesus H. You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Don’t worry. You’re the only calendar I want, January through December,” Marianne said with an amused gleam in her eyes.

“Better be,” Brad muttered.

“But I have to help Reagan build her own calendar. Just because I’m a one-man planner doesn’t mean she can’t diversify her months.” Marianne laughed as Brad growled, dancing out of the way as he threatened to toss his sopping wet towel at her.

“I’m good being a one-man planner, myself,” Reagan said absentmindedly, watching Greg take his turn under the water. It was like he didn’t even feel the icy blast, the way he turned around, his movements economical and efficient. He was a get-in-get-out shower taker, she guessed.

But that didn’t mean, for the short time he doused himself off, she couldn’t marvel at the scenery.

The way his biceps bulged as he stretched to wash off all the paint, how his fingers disturbed his almost too-long hair, spiking it up as he scrubbed through, the way his butt tightened under the black boxer briefs when he turned to wash his front . . .

“Uh-huh.” Marianne snorted. “I think you found your calendar already.”

Reagan chose to say nothing, lest she incriminate herself. She patted her flaming hot cheeks. “It’s so warm out here.”

“Right. I often think fifty-nine and partly cloudy is so warm, too.” With a dry voice, Marianne added, “It’s not the weather that’s got you all hot and bothered.”

Coach Ace walked over, his own tennis shoes squishing a little as he came by. He was dripping wet but still wore all his clothes, as if he’d chosen to keep them on while hosing off. “How pissed was the reporter?”

“Not too much,” she started, then shrugged when he lifted one brow. “Okay, very. I have a feeling our byline at this point will be less than complimentary.”

“Don’t care about that too much, as long as it doesn’t affect the team.”

“But it might,” she pointed out. “If the boxing team is considered a liability, they could always shut it down without warning.” And that would be the worst-case scenario for Reagan. Her first adult job, and she’d managed to run the entire program straight into the ground. “Or they could change up coaching staff, or make you start all over with new Marines, or—”

“I get the point. We need to remain in the good graces of the reporting population.” With a heavy sigh, the coach crossed his arms. Arms that were, in Reagan’s opinion, more like tree trunks than limbs. “What next, PR expert?”

She almost argued at the “expert” label, then decided not to. “Before they leave, I need to speak with all of them. Very quick, just a short spurt on how to handle this little”—she looked at the colorful pile of abandoned clothes—“snafu, shall we say.”

“We shall.” His voice said he caught her sarcasm.

“From there, I’ll meet with everyone individually this week and do a quick coaching session one-on-one. I’d only planned to do that with the guys who were getting the most airtime, but thanks to a few somebodies,” she added, staring daggers at the three idiots with big mouths who stood off to the side, handing out towels, “we need to be more proactive. I’ll try not to disrupt your practices too much.”

“I think we’re past that.” With another heavy sigh, he pushed away from the wall and walked toward the center of the drying Marines. “Gather round, everyone. You, too, once you’re finished rinsing him off,” he added to the last pair using a hose.

After another three minutes, they all waited. “Ms. Robilard has some stuff she needs to share with you. You’re going to listen, you’re going to absorb and you’re not going to make another mistake on sharing the inner workings of this team with an outsider again. Understand?”

The group gave a combined “Oo-rah!” in answer, and Reagan felt the hairs on her arms stand. She loved it when they did that.

Coach Ace stepped to the side and motioned for her to take his spot. She did, cleared her throat, then realized she was now speaking to a group of mostly naked, dripping-wet Marines.

This was so not covered in her public speaking courses.

“You know,” she began, going on instinct, “when people say to picture your audience in their underwear, I don’t think this is what they had in mind. If they did, we’d never get through our speeches.”

The group laughed, and she caught Greg watching her with an approving gaze. He winked at her, and she knew she’d made the right call to start with humor.

If he kept looking at her like that, she might think she could do just about anything.

*   *   *

GREG set down his laundry basket and groaned. That paint had been a bitch to get out of his clothes. Three rounds in the washer—not including the prerinse in the bathroom sink—before he’d been able to dry them.

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?”