“Levi, take the first jug of water to the catwalk upstairs.” In a calm, very serious voice, Marianne added, “Nikki, stay and have a chat.”

“But I have to help set up,” she protested, starting after Levi.

“Stay.” The word was said so calmly it wouldn’t have registered on anyone’s radar who wasn’t paying attention. But Reagan was paying attention, and heard the unspoken Or else, you’re fired. Kara had, too. They met eyes, and by unanimous, unspoken agreement, grabbed their bags and headed out. Kara closed the door behind them.

“Oh, boy,” she said, whistling softly. “That one’s in deep shit now.”

“She was rude” was all Reagan could think to say.

“Worse.” Kara found a spot against the wall to set her bags. She’d be leading an entire team of Marines in under an hour through a yoga routine with some serious stretching. But they had another few minutes to chat first, before she started setting up. “Marianne prides her professionalism above everything else on the job. Getting in the way of that—especially if you’re making it appear like you’re here only to pick up athletes—is the quickest way to get on her shit list.”

“So noted.” Reagan checked the gym, found herself impressed it didn’t look any worse for the wear. The maintenance staff had worked miracles, it seemed. The scent of cleaner was still sharper than usual, but it wasn’t as bad as it could have been.

“Sounds like it looked like a color run in here yesterday.” Kara smiled. “I know it’s bad, but seriously, the image is pretty funny.”

“I’m sure with some distance—say fifteen or twenty years—I’ll think the same.” As it was, she had some damage control to handle on that regard. “Thanks for breakfast.”

“No problem. And hey, anytime you need to use my apartment for a date pick-up site, just let me know.” Kara winked, but Reagan chose to ignore that and keep moving. Because otherwise Kara might ask why she couldn’t just meet Greg—who was an all-around decent guy—at her own apartment.

She’d rather avoid that conversation as long as possible.

*   *   *

“SO, I’ll be staying with Marianne tonight.” Brad unlaced his second shoe, toed it off, pushed the pair off to the side and bent over to stretch out his quad. “Just in case you were wondering.”

Greg shot him a funny look, removing his own shoes and lining them up next to Brad’s. “Gee, Bradley, I didn’t know we had that kind of relationship, but thanks for letting me know. Should I mention my plans for tonight, too? First, I intend to hit up Taco Bell for some dinner, then—”

“God.” His roommate clutched at his belly. “God. Taco Bell . . . don’t do that to yourself. You’re in training, for God’s sake. Jesus H.”

“Nothing you say can dissuade me from my love affair with the Bell. So wrong, but so good.” He made a delicious sound, just to watch Brad shudder. “Seriously, why are you telling me this? Do you want a bail out phone call or something?”

“He’s telling you so you can bring back Hottie Hot Legs for alone time at your place if you want.” Graham sat down next to them on the mat and began to stretch himself. “You idiot.”

Greg felt his face burn, so he ducked down into a butterfly stretch to hide it. “How the hell was I supposed to know that? Can’t you just say that?”

“And ruin how quiet you’ve been about the whole thing? Hell no. This is the first I’ve seen of you not being social and over-share-ish since we got here. I’m relishing.” Brad kicked out, barely missing Greg’s foot. “Plus, making you twist in the wind is fun.”

“You got yours, so you can shut up now.”

“Jealous,” Brad said to Graham.

“Totally,” Graham agreed.

“I’m right here,” Greg offered.

“Don’t care,” they both said at the same time, then grinned.

“Assholes,” he muttered.

“Okay, boys, time to stretch!” Kara, their graceful, beautiful yoga instructor, glided over. She really did glide everywhere, it seemed. If Greg checked the bottoms of her feet and found skates, it wouldn’t have shocked him. She was simply born with an innate grace that seemed to carry through everywhere. “Grab a mat and some personal space. You know the drill by now.”

Graham took a spot next to him, toward the back. Though the coaches were around the gym, they generally gave Kara the run of the show when she was holding a yoga class. For one hour, they were fully hers to twist and turn into devil dog pretzels. Which meant, by hanging out in the back, he and Graham could chat between pose transitions.

Kara took her spot in the front, on her own personalized yoga mat—a must-have, Greg assumed, for full-time instructors—and tossed off the sweatshirt she wore over stretchy yoga pants. The top was a halter that presented a good bit of her toned stomach. She twisted her auburn braid over one shoulder, closed her eyes and directed them to their first pose.

Greg started to move, then realized Graham hadn’t budged. “You gonna join us, or just stand there? Because I’m no yogi but I’m pretty sure that’s not a pose.”

Graham blinked, taking his eyes off Kara—finally—and started to move, albeit without his normal athleticism. His motions were jerky, unsure, as if they hadn’t been doing this three times a week for several weeks now.

“What’s your deal?”

Graham just shook his head, then worked on his forward bend.

“Oh.” Greg did another quick check at Kara, then back to his friend. “Oooh. Right. Okay then.”

“Shut up,” Graham muttered, sounding strained.

“Ohhhhh,” he said again, a little quieter. Graham just focused on folding himself as tightly in two pieces as he could.

“Easy there, cowboy.” Marianne tapped Graham’s back. “Don’t overstretch or you’ll pull something. Ease back, and stop when your body shouts uncle.”

Graham scowled at him, then at Marianne, before storming off toward the locker room. Greg imagined he had a decent excuse worked up if someone asked. Had to take a leak, forgot to lock up my stuff, got bored and wanted a minute alone.

He knew better. His friend had the hots for the yoga instructor. And was none too happy about it.

A flash of light from the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he turned his head. Not easy in warrior pose, but he managed.

And found Reagan, camera in hand, taking photos of the group from different angles. When they transitioned, he sent her a quick wave, and she raised her hand in acknowledgment, but didn’t smile or take her eyes off the shot.

He liked a woman on a mission. He just wished it didn’t put such a pinched look on her face. He hated the thought that something wasn’t working out for her. Hated more that he wasn’t sure how to fix it. And knew, even as he thought it, she’d disagree there. She wouldn’t want a man to fix something for her. She’d fix it herself. Rawr, woman power and stuff.

Fine then. But the longer she looked frustrated, the antsier he would get about stepping in and solving whatever it was that irked her. Starting with the damn reporter.

CHAPTER

10

Reagan finished typing the last of the editorial article she’d begged from the local paper to write. It had been a near thing, and she’d been ready to promise some sexual favors if it came to it, but luckily it hadn’t. She had just enough space, plus one photo, to write up a rebuttal on the article from that morning.

David Cruise—aka Mr. High-And-Mighty “Journalist”—had dodged her calls all morning, and refused to call her back. Oh, but others called. A larger paper from the Wilmington branch, plus several touchy-feely blogs that dealt with anti-everything not fluffy kittens. They were against violent sports, violent hobbies, violent careers—military included, of course—violent acts, violent protests, violent thoughts, and violence.