She rolled her eyes and dug her keys out of her purse. “This little game you’re playing with yourself, on the timing of our supposed inevitable tryst? It’s only going to leave you with blue balls and a broken heart.”

He waited for her to open the door, let her slide in, then blocked her from closing it with his knee. “Broken heart, huh?”

“Yeah.” She went for a sad, almost pitying expression. “I would have been the best thing for you. But you keep backing off so . . . oh, well.” She’d meant the words to sting—like his insistence she wasn’t ready yet, as if he could read her mind—but he only laughed.

“I like that little bit of fight in you.” He drummed his fingers on the top of her car. “How about tomorrow, you invite me over for dinner at your place.”

The thought of him in her small, embarrassing apartment had her fighting back a rise of panic in her throat. “How about not? I can’t cook.” That was true, anyway.

“I can.”

“Then I’ll come over to your place.”

“Which is the BOQ, with a roommate.”

Oh, right. “Restaurant, then. There’s a nice—”

“I’ll work something out.” He closed her door for her, then motioned for her to roll her window down. Reagan started the car, then prayed hard the window would actually cooperate—as it only did three out of four times. Luck was on her side this time, and the window rolled down without protest.

Greg leaned down to eye level through her window. “Just keep in mind, I don’t give up. And I’m not playing a game. I’m doing what I think is best for us. Both of us. We’re not going to rush this.” He gave her another long look, one in which it was impossible to miss the heat between them, and patted her door one more time before stepping back to let her drive off.

Infuriating man. Infuriating, funny, sexy man.

*   *   *

GREG awoke with a jarring thump as something thick landed an inch away from his family jewels. Sitting up straight, he glanced around his still-dark room. “What the hell?”

“Read it, then tell me if we should weep.”

“Costa?” Eyes still adjusting to the dark, he glanced at his bedside clock. “It’s five thirty in the freaking morning, you asshole. What the hell are you doing in my room?”

“Lights on,” was the only warning Greg got before his retinas felt like they were burning from overexposure.

“Ah, Jesus!” He buried his head in the pillow and moaned. “What is wrong with you?”

“Our paint debacle is in the paper today.”

“Super. Will it still be in there an hour from now, when I was set to wake up?”

“It’s bad.”

Costa sat at the edge of his bed, and Greg knew that was the end of pretending to have a shot at sleep again that morning. He cracked open one eyelid and glared at his roommate. “Why don’t you sleep with your girlfriend like a normal guy? You’ve got a hot, available chick fifteen minutes away and you’re not even with her.”

“She likes her alone time now and then. So do I. It works.”

Greg let his silence do the talking. It said, You’re full of shit.

“Fine, she had an early morning breakfast date with Kara and kicked me out last night. Fuck you.” He pointed at Greg’s lap. “Read.”

“I’m hitting the head first. Open it to the sports page and find it while I’m gone.”

He stepped into the main area of their shared space and over to the tiny bathroom to take care of necessary morning duties.

“It’s not in the sports section. It’s front page.”

Greg paused in washing his hands. “Front page? An article about Marines and boxing? What, slow news day?”

He walked back into the room, found a pair of shorts and pulled them on before sitting with his back against the headboard and the paper in his hands.

“Not about boxing. About vandalism and something about protests against the intertwined double helix of violence, with killing machines playing bloody war games inside a roped arena instead of in a desert sandbox.” When Greg glanced up at Brad, brow raised, Brad held up his hands. “Just quoting the article. The dude has serious issues with us, it sounds like. And makes the paint and slashed tires—which yeah, he talked about—sound less like petty vandalism or teenage pranks and more like more serious protests that are gathering strength.”

“Protests about what?” He scanned down the below-the-fold article. When he saw Reagan’s name, he slowed down and read the paragraph more fully. Then read it again. And again. “Oh, hell. Reagan’s gonna be pissed.”

“Coach Ace and the other coaches. Marianne, the other team members, the athletic director . . .” Brad shook his head. “This is so, so not good.”

Greg set the paper down. “They made Reagan sound like an idiot. Like a naïve idiot.”

Brad cleared his throat. “Is it telling that you care more what the article said about our team’s liaison than what it said about us as a team ourselves?”

“What did it say?” He picked up the paper to read it again, but kept coming back to the part where the reporter called Reagan “a country bumpkin with her head so far buried in the sand as to the realities of the team she supports she couldn’t see the truth in front of her face.”

His hands fisted around the paper until he felt the pages start to crinkle and tear.

“Right. Well, if you missed it, I won’t draw your attention that direction.” Brad pried the paper away. “This is bad. They could shut down the team. Hell, they could shut down the All Military games.”

“Based on one idiot’s article? No way.” But the idea put a clutch in Greg’s belly. He wasn’t ready to leave yet. He liked his team. Wanted to see what they were made of.

Wanted to see what he and Reagan were made of, too.

“Maybe not, but it doesn’t help, that’s for damn sure. We have to figure out who’s vandalizing the gym.” Brad stood, folding the paper like an efficient businessman on a commuter train and tucking it under his arm. “Time to keep our eyes peeled for anything suspicious.”

Greg gave him a sarcastic salute, which Brad ignored. After his roommate left, he grabbed his phone and thought of texting Reagan. Just to see if she was okay, if she’d heard yet, if she even got the paper delivered.

Of course she got the paper delivered. Or had an online subscription, one of the two. She’d consider it part of her job, or something.

There was no hiding it from her. Not that she’d appreciate him sheltering her from it, or give him any credit for it. She was one hell of a puzzle for him. So independent, so focused on making things happen all by herself. Putting out that serious I-can-do-anything businesswoman front. But he sensed the fear, the worry, the absolute uncertainty lurking behind the four-inch heels and starched suits.

The time for mussing up those sexy suits and kicking off those mouth-watering heels was coming soon. He couldn’t rush it and ruin their work up to it. She’d never take him seriously if he did. But God, waiting was a pain in his ass.

He’d rather be a pain in her ass.

But in the end, he knew without a doubt she had to deal with the article herself first. She’d need to absorb, let the hurt and the anger rage, and then let it all go before she stepped foot in the gym. It’d be her way; presenting the cool ice-princess act, as if nothing were different. He’d give her that. And later that night, when he got her alone, he’d let her crumble if she needed to. Let her stay strong if that was her choice. But he’d be there for her, either way.

CHAPTER

9

Reagan paced the narrow confines of Marianne’s training room. “What the hell is wrong with journalism these days?” She shook the paper in her hands, wanting to rip it to shreds. Only then, she’d have to buy another one and no way was she doing that. “What kind of pompous asshole reporter uses the phrase ‘double helix’ in a story about Marines and boxing?”