Reagan could see the worry in Kara’s eyes. Would her son get hurt? Would his feelings be crushed if they rejected him? Would he just be in the way? “I don’t know. I think maybe you should—”

“Hey, ladies.” Graham Sweeney walked over, a ripped T-shirt covering his torso—sort of—and a basketball under one arm. He slung the other arm around Zach’s head, pressing the kid’s ear into his rib cage. “We need someone younger and weaker to beat up on so we can feel manly before practice. Mind if we use this thing for a punching bag?”

Zach protested, fighting off the hold, but Reagan could see he was laughing. It was a totally guy thing to do, and Zach was loving it.

Kara looked unconvinced, but Marianne asked, “Do you promise to return him in nearly the same condition as you found him?”

“Which is pretty scrawny and not much to look at,” Reagan added, which had Graham throwing her a brilliant grin. The man was truly Greek god gorgeous. If she hadn’t been sitting down already, she would have felt the full impact in the knees on that one.

Kara reached out to stroke a hand over Zach’s hair—a move Reagan had seen her do a dozen times. But this time, Zach dodged. Kara snatched her hand back, aware she’d nearly embarrassed her son in front of men he wanted to impress. “If you’re sure he won’t interrupt anything . . .”

“Nah. He’s all good. Come on, fresh meat. Let’s go rough you up a bit.” He started to go, but then turned around. “Oh, and Reagan? You’re all set for tonight. Have fun.”

Zach laughed and followed, and then the sounds of a basketball bouncing, male grunts, groans and—along with Kara’s winces—some swearing filled the gym. Marianne walked over and closed the door. “‘Have fun’? All set for what?”

“Spill,” Kara added.

“I might be having dinner with a certain Marine tonight.” Reagan took another bite, and forced herself to chew thoroughly before swallowing. The pained looks on her friends’ faces told her she’d taken enough time with torture. “I’m going over to Graham’s house tonight for dinner.”

“But I thought you were dating Greg,” Kara said, looking confused.

“Sorry, yes. We’re borrowing Graham’s house for the, uh, date.” She shrugged. “Greg wanted to cook and obviously he can’t do that at his place.”

“Why not yours?”

Reagan swallowed another bite before answering, “My kitchen is horrible.” No lie there. “I survive off cold cereal and granola bars.” Also no lie.

“But you’re not going to”—Kara checked the door before finishing—“do it there, right? Because in someone else’s bed is just—”

“Ew. No!” Reagan recoiled at the thought. “We just wanted privacy for a meal and a movie.” The image Greg had painted the night before as he’d said good-bye at her car drifted through her mind. She couldn’t stop her lips from curving. “That’s all.”

“Privacy would be at your place, where you apparently don’t want him to be.” Marianne watched her thoughtfully. “So you either meet him at his place, where there’s no privacy, or at Kara’s place, where there’s no privacy, or at someone else’s house, where there’s no hopes of getting busy because of the ‘ew’ factor. Sounds like you’re cockblocking yourself.”

“Or we’re just in a unique situation that requires some extra thought before taking the next step,” Reagan said primly.

“Bull,” both women said at once.

“We’ve got a few travel gigs coming up,” Marianne added. “Why don’t you take advantage of them? Make sure your hotel room is right next to his or something. Sneak into his room after bed check.”

“Could you make this sound any more juvenile?” Reagan grumbled, then popped down and brushed her hands off on the napkin. “Guess today’s the day I give a ‘How to Handle Protestors’ lecture.”

Marianne smiled. “Want me to make you a pamphlet?”

*   *   *

FOUR hours later, Reagan sat at her laptop, trying to work in her apartment. She had two more hours before she needed to be at Graham’s, and if she couldn’t focus on something else, she’d go crazy with anticipation. But there was a problem . . .

The refrigerator was loud.

Not just loud . . . constant. The kind of constant noise that wormed its way into your mind so that long after the sound was gone, you still heard it because it had slowly driven you crazy.

Reagan threw an accusatory glance at the appliance. It didn’t respond. Instead, it hummed the same hum it had been making all evening. The same hum that had buried itself into Reagan’s brain until she could no longer concentrate on the task at hand.

Or maybe that was just her inner procrastinator talking.

Probably the latter. Not that she’d accept defeat to the fridge.

She focused, squinted at the screen, closed both eyes and tried very hard to remember all the different types of punches one could use in a boxing match.

She ended up with one: a punch.

“This is impossible,” she growled, shooting one more glare at the kitchen before closing her laptop. How was she supposed to work with a bunch of boxers as their athlete liaison if she had no clue what they were doing half the time?

A small part of her mind reminded her this was exactly why she had misled her supervisor when she’d done the interview. That she’d done her best to sound as knowledgeable about boxing as she could without delving too deep into the details. She’d memorized a few of the most famous boxers and what they were most famous for. But in reality . . . she’d just needed the damn job.

Call your brothers.

They liked boxing. They liked all sports. It was the only thing accessible for guys—that was legal, anyway—in their backward town. Hell, the only reason she’d been a cheerleader was because it was either that or 4H for girls. Her brothers had all played whatever sports they could get their hands on, and watched what sports they could on the few channels they had growing up. She’d been outnumbered four to one when it came time to pick channels.

Calling her brothers, though, meant calling home. And calling home was never something she could do lightly. Most people thought of home as a safety net, a soft place to fall, a nest one could be gently nudged out of, but always return to when times were hard.

Reagan considered her home quicksand. Put one foot in and it dragged you down until you couldn’t breathe and lost the light of day.

A dramatic image, maybe, but accurate.

But there was no way she was getting anywhere on her own with this.

Call Greg.

She wasn’t quite ready to admit her incompetence yet. She would rather he—all the Marines, really—saw her as an independent businesswoman who didn’t need assistance. Plus, she was due to see him in a few hours. He’d consider her call a ploy to hear from him, like a lovesick puppy. No, thank you.

Which left her with her brothers. Again.

Reagan stared at her phone with the same sort of disdain she’d given the refrigerator. Finally, she picked it up and dialed home, praying it was her youngest brother who would answer and not her mother.

“Hello?”

No such luck. Reagan took a deep breath, then one more as her mother tersely repeated, “Hello?”

“Hey, Mom.”

There was a brief pause. “Reagan?”

“Yeah, Mom, it’s me.” Swallowing, she tried to bypass what she knew would be a rough conversation. “I had a work question for Nick. Is he there?”

“And just what do you think an eighteen-year-old is gonna do for your fancy job?” her mother asked, voice tight with disapproval. “He doesn’t have a college degree like you.”

Reagan closed her eyes and counted to five. “I had a question about boxing. I know Nick watches it.”

“They’ve got boxing here, if you wanted to work with a bunch of sweaty men. Remind me again why this job was so important you had to move halfway across the country? Away from your family?”

Because I couldn’t breathe around you.