“Someone who is low on his word count?” Kara suggested not so helpfully. When Reagan glared at her, she stuffed a piece of apple muffin in her mouth.

“Don’t get crumbs on my table,” Marianne warned as she sat at her desk with her own plate of muffins. Kara had baked them and met them early, as they’d planned. Since Kara was leading a yoga lesson that morning, it made sense to just head to the gym early and be there for work rather than head to a restaurant and wait.

Plus, bonus, Reagan didn’t have to pay restaurant prices for a calorie-laden muffin. She could get one for free. Only half the guilt. Except there was no way she could choke down anything right now. She was too upset to swallow anything.

“Calm yourself down. There are no crumbs.” Kara leaned over into a graceful stretch on the table, her nose touching the knees of her yoga pants.

“I hate that she can do that,” Reagan muttered and kept pacing. If nothing else, she was burning calories.

“You’re going to kill yourself in those shoes. Stop wearing a hole in my floor and sit.” Marianne kicked over another rolling chair and Reagan sat, because her feet were killing her. “I’ve warned you about those heels in the gym.”

“I needed the armor.” She pulled down on the jacket of her most professional, starchy suit. She hated the thing—made her feel forty instead of twenty-four—but it also gave her an added boost of professionalism.

Neither woman asked for clarification. They understood what she meant by “armor.”

“I have to do some serious damage control. I’ve got to call my supervisor, then probably his supervisor. I’ve got to speak to the editor of the paper—aka the moron who let this article run as-is. And then I’ve got to find some more positive PR for the men.”

“And how will you fit all that in between dates with Greg?” Kara asked with a smile. “Come on, dish. I never got to hear how dinner was the other night.”

“Or yogurt last night.” When Reagan glanced at Marianne in surprise, she shrugged. “He told Brad. Brad told me.”

“Those gossips.” She blew out a breath, and realized a few stray hairs had escaped the tight, schoolmarm bun she’d pulled it into. Digging through her bag, she found her travel-sized hairspray and gave it a little spritz. “Greg is not my main concern right now. Avoiding getting fired is. Doing my job. Not failing at this career before I even get started.”

“I hardly think going out to dinner for an hour or two will cause anyone to get fired or fail. You’re spinning this out of control.” Kara hopped down, a graceful act that barely caused a ripple in the air. Reagan never even heard her soft tennis shoes land. “It’s okay to be nervous, but you’re letting it control you.” She arched her back and stretched some more. Reagan tilted her head to the side, watching her friend nearly bend in two.

“Why are you stretching now if you’re just going to stretch again in an hour?”

“Muscle memory. Don’t change the subject.”

“What’s the point? He’s just going to leave after this is all over. He isn’t stationed here.” As soon as she said it, she winced and looked toward Marianne. She was in the same position, only deeper. She and Brad were a fixed, unquestionable couple. But Brad was stationed in California normally, and Marianne lived here, in North Carolina. “Sorry. That was insensitive.”

“No, it wasn’t. It’s a reasonable logistical consideration. However, I’m only here temporarily, too. Once the team is done, my job is done. I can look for a job out there in California just as well as I could here.”

Reagan thought about that for a moment. “You’d move around with him?”

“His job isn’t flexible on travel. Mine is, at least for now.” She shrugged, as if it didn’t bother her one bit. “I don’t look at it as following him . . . too passive for my taste. I look at it more as choosing my relocation based on the needs of my heart.”

“That was really lovely, Marianne.” Kara smiled approvingly and moved into some sort of lunge thing.

It was nice, Reagan admitted to herself. Marianne was a strong woman. But she didn’t seem to be bothered by the idea of her career being dictated by the needs of her lover’s career. She didn’t see it as a secondary place. It was encouraging.

“Well, it’s not like it matters anyway.” Reagan tugged at the hem of her pant leg, folding it around once, then letting it fall again to drape over her shoe. “I don’t think he’s interested, anyway. He hasn’t even kissed me. He keeps putting it off, even when I’ve given him every signal that I’m good with it.”

She glanced up in time to catch Marianne and Kara throwing a look at each other. “What? Seriously, what? What am I missing?”

“Well . . .” Marianne tossed her plate in the trash and brushed the crumbs off her red team polo. “I’m just thinking that if he weren’t all that serious about you, he likely would have already made a move.”

“Several,” Kara confirmed. “He would have pushed, prodded, and forced the issue. If he didn’t care about you in a more serious way, then he wouldn’t care about making a better impression.”

“But he didn’t do that, which tells me he’s fine taking his time, because he wants more than just a quick”—Marianne paused, peeking at the doorway before finishing—“. . . fuck.”

“Heard that.” Brad walked in from around the corner, grinning. When Marianne scowled at him, he grabbed a bag of prepacked ice from the ice maker, bent down to brush a kiss across her forehead before leaving.

“Good riddance,” Marianne muttered, but there was no heat behind it.

“Back to boys,” Kara said, then snickered. “We’re seriously in high school. I just said ‘boys.’”

“Sounds about right to me.” Reagan paced another minute, then stopped and sat down. She had to force her legs to not jiggle. “I’ve got calls to make. I have damage control to get started on. I’ve got to triple-check that the gym is good to use before the guys start practicing—”

Their conversation was once again interrupted, this time by Marianne’s two training interns. The girl—and though Reagan was probably only a few years older, she couldn’t help but think of her as a girl—wore her polo a little too tight, in her opinion. It strained across moderate breasts, and rode up to show about an inch of skin above the waistband of her short khaki shorts.

As the girl—Nikki, Reagan was nearly positive her name was—turned to toss her bag in a locker in the corner of the training room, Reagan saw the cause for the tight fit. She’d knotted it in the back and secured it with a rubber band. When she caught Marianne’s eye, she nodded discreetly at the intern’s back.

Marianne sighed. “Nikki, we’ve talked about the shirt situation.”

Nikki turned, hands on her hips. “I don’t work in a nunnery, Marianne. What’s the point of being here if I have to wear baggy clothes all the time?”

The male intern—a skinny, tall guy with shaggy hair and a very quiet demeanor—stepped around her to put his own belongings in the locker, ignoring the scene unfolding.

“The point of you being here is to learn, for college credit. Or am I filling out those weekly reports for your advisor just for my own personal enjoyment?” Looking annoyed, Marianne stood and crossed her arms. “Pull the shirt out, Nikki.”

Apparently willing to die on that particular hill, Nikki dug in her heels. “Baggy clothes make for an unsafe work environment. I could get caught on something, or—”

“Or distract a Marine from what he’s doing and watch him get hurt,” Marianne filled in.

“This isn’t distracting.” Eyes wide with practiced innocence, Nikki spun to look at the male intern. The poor guy was cornered by the locker, unsure of where to look. “Levi, is this distracting to you? Are you having trouble concentrating with my breasts like this?”

“I . . . uh . . .” He looked anywhere but at her, letting his shaggy hair drape over his eyes as some sort of modesty curtain. Oh, Reagan thought, you poor, lovesick boy. “I don’t . . . I mean, it’s not . . . I can’t . . .”