“Now the trick is,” Greg said as they carried their beloved treats to their table, “we have to eat this thing without choking.”

Oh, God. She hadn’t actually thought that through when she’d been swirling vanilla fudge with tropical punch and topping it with Jujubes, hot fudge and making what first looked like a smiley face in whipped cream but now that it had melted, sort of resembled a phallic symbol.

“Your face,” Greg said on a gasp. “Seriously, priceless. We don’t have to eat it.”

Well, now it had become a thing of honor. She did her best to brave the coming storm, scooped up a healthy bite and tasted.

“You don’t have to—”

“Oh,” she breathed. “That’s not bad.”

He raised a skeptical brow. “That’s a joke, right?”

“It’s not my first choice, but it’s not as horrific as I thought it would be.” She grinned and took another bite. “Try yours,” she added, pointing to his concoction with her spoon.

He didn’t look convinced, but she could tell he wasn’t about to be shown up. So he closed his eyes, took a heaping spoonful of yogurt and toppings, and put it in his mouth.

And nearly gagged. He managed to swallow what he had in his mouth while the plastic spoon clattered to the table top and his eyes bugged out.

Reagan tried—she really did—to keep a straight face. But she couldn’t help the snort that squeaked by. Then the chuckle. Then the laugh that came from so deep down she thought she might pee her pants before she got control of herself again.

She wiped her eyes, aware there were more than a few parents staring. One shushed her daughter and forced her to look the other way. Don’t go near the crazy lady, sweetie. Just leave her alone. Totally worth it.

Then she caught the way Greg watched her. Like he was a starving man watching a waiter put down a porterhouse steak. He took ahold of her hand, calloused fingertips brushing against the inside of her wrist. There was no way he could miss how her pulse thundered under his touch.

“Told you there was a wild side under there.”

She furrowed her brows at that. “Mixing gross yogurt combinations equals having a wild side?”

“No, but taking up the challenge to try does. Lying to me and making me think you enjoyed yours to get me to eat mine is a close second.”

She flushed. “Caught.”

He picked up her hand and nipped at her knuckles, then pressed a kiss to the same spot. “I’m impressed.” He let her go—why did her fingers instinctively curl to keep his hand with hers?—and settled back for another small bite of yogurt. “Not so bad, if you concentrate on one flavor at a time.”

She wrinkled her nose and pushed hers to the side.

“How did the Great Paint Spill end up after we left?” He took another bite, and she watched his tongue lick the last of the yogurt from the curve of the spoon.

That tongue could do wicked, wicked things to the curves of a woman’s body. Say, her body, for example . . .

“Earth to Reagan.”

She blinked. “Sorry, what?”

“The paint spill thing. What came out of that?”

“Ruined shoes, and probably a ruined suit, too.” She was still smarting over that. It had taken her months to find those shoes on sale. Months. She grabbed the yogurt back. Even the gross flavors were better than thinking about those shoes. “Otherwise, a very upset reporter, and a big bucket of ice in my belly over how he’s going to write up this little piece of ‘mischief.’” She used air quotes on one hand—the one not gripping the spoon that was currently going in for another bite.

“How are you still eating that thing?” Greg looked appalled.

“It’s not as bad, if you try to stick to one flavor on your spoon at a time.” She scooped out some fudge brownie with a little whipped cream. “See? Yours was all mixed up. I kept mine in nice, divided sections.”

“You couldn’t even go wild without putting order to it.” Looking disgusted at her lack of spontaneity, he grabbed her spoon and licked the yogurt off. “Serves you right.”

“Probably.” Plus, she didn’t really need all the added calories. Gross taste or not, it all stuck straight to her hips. She’d be a walking cello if she wasn’t careful. “What’s your favorite part about boxing?”

He blinked, then settled back in the wrought-iron chair that looked too small to hold his weight. “Where’d that come from?”

“You said to be able to ask you another question and coach you through it, I had to go out with you again.” She spread her arms wide. “We’re out, dessert and all.”

She saw the moment he realized she had him. He scowled, then stabbed his spoon into his yogurt and pushed it to the side. “I’m good at it.”

“You are,” she agreed. Then when he said nothing more, she prompted, “And?”

“And . . .” He shrugged and used the handle of the spoon to push his yogurt cup around the table. “I like to win. I like to have fun. Winning is fun, so . . . yeah.”

Reagan tapped her finger to her lips. His entire demeanor changed when she questioned him as Reagan Robilard, Team Liaison than when they were simply chatting. Was that a good thing, or bad? “If a reporter asks, you’ll need more. That answer will come off in print sounding cocky, though I doubt that’s actually how you mean it. Try something like, ‘I took to the sport of boxing naturally, and as I became better, my enjoyment for it grew.’”

He sneered. “That sounds like twisted PR crap.”

“It is twisted PR crap. But it’s my job to twist the crap until it can’t get you into trouble in any way.” She stood and tossed her yogurt in the trash behind her. “I’ve got to get back to my place and start figuring out how to play serious damage control. Plus, I’ve got an interview with the head leader guy of the MPs to figure out exactly how people keep breaking into the gym—if that’s what is happening.”

“The head leader guy?” he asked, lips twitching.

“Whatever.” She scowled and stood. “Military jargon is still ninety percent lost on me.”

He stood and followed her out toward her car. One large hand patted the trunk of Dolly Madison fondly. “If nobody is breaking into the gym, how else could all this crap be happening? A ghost?”

“Someone with a key, maybe an old employee who never turned one in. Or a roommate of an employee who made a copy. Someone who currently works with the Rec department and has access. Or even someone on the team.”

That stopped him in his tracks, and he gripped her elbow so she flailed to a halt a step ahead of him. “Nobody on the team would pull shit like this.”

She wouldn’t warn him about the language right now. He was worked up. “I can’t discount the possibility that—”

“Nobody,” he said quietly, his voice carrying the clear hint of temper. “Nobody on this team would pull a stunt like that.”

She watched his eyes, those beautiful golden eyes, and nodded slowly. “Okay.”

He didn’t release her, but pulled her just a fraction closer. They were nose to nose today; her replacement heels for the ones paint had coated weren’t as tall as she normally liked. But he never seemed to mind her height. If anything, he almost appeared to like them on equal level.

He pulled her so close, her breasts brushed against his chest as he breathed in, then out. Their breath mingled. And she knew he would kiss her, there, in the parking lot of a yogurt cafe where they’d just laughed over disgusting creations.

But then he stepped back, a small smile on his face. “Damn, you’re a temptation.”

She wanted to point out he didn’t have to resist, she was perfectly happy to make out with him then and there. Temptation solved. But that wouldn’t have been very worldly or mature of her.

Screw maturity, her libido screamed. Grab the guy and let’s do this!

“You’re not ready yet. Still too wrapped up with work to give it your all. Almost,” he added, with a wistful sigh. “Just not quite.”