Duh. Way to narrow it down there, bloggers.

She’d done her best there, working hard to make the reporter’s story sound overdramatized without directly calling him a pansy-ass good-for-nothing. Fine line, but she was pretty sure she walked it well enough.

Hopefully the work she’d done that day, combined with this decent PR she’d written just now and would—please God—show up in tomorrow’s paper, would help. Everyone wanted to see a softer side of Marines, right? She’d worked hard to strike the right balance between pride for the sport, a love of service and also some good-natured humor without overstepping any boundaries.

Her entire job was about fine lines, as it turned out.

Sliding her feet into the slippers Marianne kept in the office and said she could borrow, she turned in Marianne’s desk chair and surveyed the training room. Marianne and her interns had packed up a bit ago and headed out. The gym was quiet now, with all but the emergency lights shut off outside of the training room. Reagan could have used Coach Ace’s office, but his desk was a mess so she had borrowed her friend’s room instead. And though she’d never admit it to anyone, she’d needed to get out of the heels. They were killing her.

Her phone beeped, and she glanced at the text message.

Greg: Hungry?

She rotated her head a little, stretching the neck muscles and giving her shoulders a bit of relief. She could so go for a cheeseburger right about now. But she still had way too much to do to contemplate leaving yet. If she went home, she’d just crash on the bed. Too tempting.

Reagan: Starving. But I’ve got too much work to worry about.

Greg: How about I bring the food to you?

She thought about it for a minute. But again . . . too tempting.

Reagan: Thanks for the offer, but I’ll be okay.

Greg: Too late.

Too late? What did that mean? She hadn’t even told him where she was.

“Knock, knock.”

She shrieked and bobbled her phone a little. Catching it, she put it down on the desk and glanced up to see Greg standing in the doorway, holding two brown sacks. Their bottoms were dark with grease, and her stomach rumbled just thinking of the deliciousness hiding inside.

“What are you doing here?” She thought for a second. “Actually, how did you get in here?”

“Marianne. When we were all leaving, I mentioned asking you to dinner and she said you were working late here. So she ran back by to let me in.”

“Sneaky lady,” Reagan muttered, pushing away from the desk and standing. The food smelled so good, her stomach actually started to rumble. She covered it with one hand. “Well, you’re here now. Shouldn’t let the food go to waste.”

“That would simply be criminal,” Greg agreed. He walked in and set the food down on one of Marianne’s tables. Reagan winced, then silently vowed to wipe it down again with the disinfectant like she’d seen the interns do before. Good as new.

“You struck me as the kind of lady who would want a cheeseburger, but order a salad. Am I right?” He started pulling out paper sleeves of fries, a few plopping to the plastic table top as he did.

“That might have been insulting, but I’m too hungry to care.” Her eyes strayed, though, from the fries on the table to the man holding the bags. He wore cargo khaki shorts, running shoes and a simple graphic tee. Nothing flashy or out of the ordinary.

But she started feeling a hunger of an entirely different sort after watching his forearms flex with each reach into the bag.

Down, girl. Not while you’re working. She forced herself to walk with ease to the table and pick up a fry. He crumbled one bag, threw it in the other and set it down on the second table. So now she’d wash down both table tops before she left.

“Are we going to eat standing up?” she teased.

“Good for the digestion.” Greg unwrapped a burger, checked what was in it, then handed it to her. “Just a plain old cheeseburger. You good with that?”

“More than good. Great. Thrilled, actually.” To prove it, she took a healthy bite. “See?” she said around the gloriousness.

He smiled, then leaned in a little. Then a little more . . . then more . . .

Oh, God. He was actually going to kiss her now. A real kiss. And she had half a cow stuffed in her mouth. Her eyes widened and she froze as he inched in, as his fingers caressed her jaw and tilted her head, as his thumb brushed over the corner of her mouth . . .

“You had a little sauce there.” He straightened and sucked the sauce from his thumb. “Good stuff.” Then he unwrapped his own burger—twice the size of hers—and started eating.

Reagan’s eyes narrowed, and she hoped he felt the daggers she was sending him. From the way his eyes danced above the massive burger, she knew he felt them and found them completely ineffective.

Finally able to swallow, she said, “That was low.”

“No, you’re low.” He bumped her hip with his. “First time we’re not eye to eye, or me looking up an inch or two.”

Oh, crap. She looked down, and realized she was still wearing Marianne’s slippers. And no, of course they weren’t something adorable and sassy like leopard print or something. They were Family Guy slippers, Stewie on one, Brian on the other. Ugh. She actually debated rushing back to the desk for her heels when he wrapped one arm around her waist and squeezed.

“Don’t. You’re comfortable. I like it.”

It took everything she had not to do it, but she managed to resist the siren song of her heels. When was the last time she hadn’t been in heels in front of a man?

That was embarrassing to admit, so let’s not go that direction.

“I think,” Greg went on, picking up a piece of fallen bacon, “that you in heels is sexy. I like your suits. I like your hair up in that tight school-principal bun. You make business look sexy.” He winked. “But you make slippers look pretty damn hot, too. You’re not a one-trick pony.”

“Hmm,” was all she could manage. Finishing off the burger—her thighs were so not going to thank her for that—she dug into the fries. Then she grabbed the bag off the other table and rooted through it. “Ketchup, but no mayo?”

He blinked. “I’m sorry, mayo? Wasn’t there mayo on your burger? Which, I have to point out, you’ve already polished off.”

“I was hungry, shut up. No, not for my burger. For the fries.” When he just stared at her, silently chewing his food, she sighed. “Does nobody outside of the Midwest know this? You mix the mayo and the ketchup and then dip your fries in it.”

He swallowed another huge bite of burger before asking, “Could they think of anything more disgusting?”

“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.”

“Okay.” He wrapped the last three bites of his burger up and tossed it in the bottom of the bag. Grabbing the fries from her hand, he tossed those, as well as his, into the bag, too.

“Hey! I was going to eat those!” Sorry, thighs. We’ll do lunges later, okay? “What’s the deal?”

“Get your shoes on, unless you want to walk out in your slippers.”

“Not mine, Marianne’s.” She hustled at the excuse to put her heels back on. “Where are we going?”

“Just come on.” He grabbed her hand and, barely waiting for her to lock up the training room, pulled her to the parking lot. He impatiently waited again as she locked the gym itself, then pulled her to his car and opened the passenger door for her. When she was settled, he tossed her the bag and raced to the driver seat.

Reagan held the bag up a few inches off her lap. Much as she loved the food, the grease did not agree with her wardrobe. “Are you going to tell me now where we’re going?”

“Going to get some mayo.”

“All this, for mayo?”

“The lady wants mayo, and I live to serve the lady.”

*   *   *

REAGAN sat on Greg’s bed, looking supremely pleased with herself. “Tell me I’m right.”