“Because that’s where the job offer came from.” Doing her best to be reasonable against all odds, she added, “I do miss you all.”

“Not enough to call more often. Oh, I know,” her mother added with the sigh of a woman truly put upon. “You have so much to do, being important, that you can’t spare the time.”

“Okay, so, I can call back later then.”

“Always were too good for your family.”

“No, Mom.” She pinched the bridge of her nose and cursed whatever stupid idea had led her to this conversation. “That’s not it. I just wanted something different.”

“Which is code for better.” Her mother sniffed. “You’ll come back. They always come back.”

If Reagan had had a nice, soft place to land, maybe. Sometimes people did need to come home to regroup. She could understand a home where you could move back when times were tough, get back on your feet quickly, and part with your parents once more on good terms.

She did not come from such a house.

“Hey, Mom? I actually have to run. The . . .” She fought for a good excuse. “Work is calling.”

“Well aren’t they special, calling you at all hours. See what reaching for better gets you? You’re never off work. Never relaxing. Get yourself a solid job, and you can clock in and out and wash your hands of the place when you leave. Your brother—”

“I know, Mom. Sorry, love you, bye!” She ended the call and dropped the phone on the desk like it was a snake.

She could have stayed in her hometown, Reagan thought as she went back to searching boxing terms and watching instructional videos. Could have stayed there, married one of her boyfriends right out of high school like so many of her classmates had, been pregnant before twenty, become a mother before she could legally drink. Right now, she could have three under three, clinging to her legs while she cleaned the stove or something.

She shot her own stove an assessing glance.

Nope.

It wasn’t that she had anything against those who got married out of high school. It was absolutely their choice, and she hoped they had a good life. It just wasn’t her choice. She would have slowly died in that life. But that wasn’t concerning to her family. What mattered was her turning her back on what her mother considered “tradition.”

It hurt. Who would be able to say, “Yeah, rejection from my family? Great stuff.” But you couldn’t choose your family. Sometimes, you just had to live with it.

Her phone buzzed, and she checked the screen warily. It was a text message, but not from family.

Marianne: Don’t you dare wear one of your suits tonight.

She grinned and texted back.

Reagan: I was thinking of going naked. Thoughts?

Marianne: I don’t have bail money, just so you know. Put on some date-wear.

Reagan: Can you be more specific?

Marianne: Sexy, not slutty. Think shoulders, not tits. Think back, not ass. And nothing that will wrinkle, in case things get a little frisky.

Reagan: Hold on, let me get a pencil to write this down. It’s pure fashion gold.

Marianne: :P Go have fun. Wear your hair down. And for God’s sake, wear a heel under three inches. Your ankles and your athletic trainer are both begging you.

Reagan couldn’t stop smiling as she walked into her bedroom to assess her wardrobe for anything “date-wear” worthy.

As she laid out three tank tops on the bed, she realized that no, you couldn’t choose your family. But sometimes you could add on a brand-new branch, with friends.

She had a good start on that new branch with the friends she’d made already in Jacksonville. Time to focus on that.

CHAPTER

13

Greg stirred the sauce and kept an ear out for the door. Graham, the idiot, had left only minutes earlier, after razzing him ruthlessly about everything from his outfit—had the man never seen a pair of slacks before?—to the menu and mood music he’d put on.

Greg didn’t take it personally. Clearly, his friend was jealous. He was about to spend the evening with a beautiful woman, eating decent food and hopefully doing a bit more of that kissing he’d gotten a taste of earlier.

Meanwhile, his friend was hitting up a movie and, well, he wasn’t quite sure what else Graham had planned. As long as he stayed out until midnight, as promised.

The doorbell rang, and Greg turned the burner down to low and dashed for the door. When he opened it, he expected to find Reagan in his eye line. Instead, he realized he had to look down a few inches to find her. “Hey. You’re here.”

“I am.” She stepped by, brushing her breasts against his arm as she moved into the home. “Nice and out of the way of Jacksonville back here.”

“Not in Jacksonville at all, actually. It’s Hubert. Don’t blink or you’ll miss it.”

Reagan shrugged out of her light sweater and glanced around. “Coat closet?”

Greg couldn’t move. He wanted to explain but couldn’t. Instead of the starched, proper business suits he was used to seeing her in, she wore a tank top in deep emerald that cut low over her breasts with the thinnest of straps crossing over her shoulders. Her pants were black, but instead of the tailored business suit bottoms she normally wore, they were snug and cut off at just above the ankle. And foregoing her trademark heels, she had chosen flats instead, black again, with sparkly buckles.

And that didn’t mention her hair, which she’d left loose and soft to fall in simple waves around those bare shoulders.

He realized he’d been staring as she pulled her sweater back against her chest. “Is something wrong?”

“No, no of course not. Sorry.” He reached for her sweater and, after a moment of consideration, draped it over the back of the love seat. They wouldn’t be using that piece of furniture anyway. He turned and pulled her into his arms, kissing her hard, and a little too briefly, before letting go. “You just look really good, that’s all.”

“I look different.” She grimaced and glanced down at her bare arms. “Marianne convinced me to break out some ‘date-wear.’” She used quote fingers on that one. “I thought I looked decent for work, but—”

“You do. This is just . . .” He hesitated, knowing he was walking right into a well-known man trap. “Different. A good different. A change. Variety.”

When she only smiled, he hoped that was a sign he’d dodged the proverbial bullet.

She walked past, and circled around Graham’s organized living room. “Does he live here alone?”

“He does, though he’s got people over enough it probably doesn’t seem like it. We all have an open invitation to hang out here if we need to escape the BOQ.”

One finger trailed over a photograph of Graham with his sister—Greg knew because he’d razzed his friend on having a hot relative—and she grinned. “Either you picked up big time right before I got here, or he’s a tidy fellow.”

“The second. I struggle to keep my own box of a room neat, and I only have like two suitcases–worth of clothing with me.” He took her hand before she could tantalize him any more with that fingertip-trailing thing she did and pulled her to the kitchen. “Come be my taster.”

“Sounds like the best offer I’ve had all day.”

He pulled her into the kitchen, then settled her on a bar stool and poured her a glass of wine. “I’m not great with wines,” he admitted, “but the guy at the liquor store on base told me this one was good with a red sauce.”

She lifted the glass, did a little swirl-and-sniff thing that made him doubt his ability to make a good selection, then took a tiny taste. He held his own breath, waiting. She burst out laughing when she looked at him. “I’m sorry, that was so pretentious. I know nothing about wine, either. I just know what tastes good.”