She put her fists on her hips. “Does anyone want to get some air with me?”

Even fewer head shakes; most kept their eyes forward and ignored.

Wise, wise men.

With an eye roll and a glare, she stormed past the team and up and out of the arena.

“She’s not happy.” Marianne sank down beside Reagan. “I’m not sure what to do with her.”

“Give her a talk.” Reagan was over the childishness. She wasn’t even sure how Marianne put up with it daily. “It’s sort of pathetic.”

“No kidding.” Her friend sighed and rubbed at her temples. Now here, Reagan thought, was a woman she could look up to. She dated a member of the team, but managed to hold herself together without running out the door at the first sign of contact. The team respected her—truly liked her—and nobody had a problem with them dating. And they could be in the same room together without doing that sick touchy-feely thing some couples resorted to.

Brad sat in a clump of younger Marines . . . his own little mini-platoon, Marianne had called them earlier. He doled out advice and encouragement when warranted. Greg did the same thing, as did Graham Sweeney.

It was nice, seeing them all get along. Reminded her of her brothers.

A momentary homesickness pinged against her heart, working its way like a pinball through her ribs until it embedded in her stomach to sink like a cold iceberg. She rubbed discretely at her stomach, hoping in vain to dislodge it. God, she missed her family. And wasn’t that a joke . . . She’d all but run away from them, from home, to make a point to everyone she could do it alone. That she wouldn’t get sucked into the poverty trap of her hometown. That she’d be better. She’d be more.

And yet, she missed them.

“You okay?” Marianne nudged her a little. “You look a little sick.”

“Let’s just say, boxing isn’t my thing.” She sent Marianne a wobbly smile. “How was Greg?”

“You didn’t stay?” Marianne widened her eyes, then nodded slowly. “Okay, I can see that. Well, he did good. He won, obviously. Though I think the coach was pissed at him for dragging it out as long as he did.”

“The rounds are timed. How could he drag it out?”

Marianne smiled a little and bumped her shoulder. “You need to watch more fights. He was unmatched, basically. Could have put the guy down at the end of round one, but he played with him instead. There was no point to it, he just wanted to get some extra swings in, I guess. More practice. It would have been over way faster if he’d wanted it to be.”

“Oh.” Reagan let that sink in. “Maybe he wanted to give the other guy a fighting chance.”

“Nice pun,” Marianne said, but shook her head. “Nah. He just wanted to stay in the ring as long as possible. It’s not surprising. I think these guys are all pulling their punches a little, without trying to make it look obvious.”

Reagan nodded, trying to look like it made sense. Past what Greg had told her about not making things a blowout, she just didn’t know.

But then the lights dimmed for a moment, and the crowd started to pick up in intensity and she knew another match was coming. Picking up her camera from her bag, she scooted out to the aisle along with Marianne.

Here goes nothing.

*   *   *

GREG started to knock, then held off and pressed his ear to the door instead. He heard nothing. And judging by the lack of light under the door, she either wasn’t in the room, or she was already asleep.

If it was the first, there was nothing he could do. If the second . . . he’d fix that.

He knocked, then waited. Nothing. He tried once more, waited, then sighed and leaned his back against her door. So she was out. It wasn’t like they’d made plans or anything. He didn’t have the right to feel left behind, just because he’d said no to plans with the guys to spend time with her.

One minute he was upright, and then the next, he wasn’t.

Greg blinked and stared up at Reagan’s shocked face, only upside down. Her mouth gaped open, and she slapped a hand over it to hide a laugh. “Sorry, I wanted to finish my sentence before I answered the door. Didn’t realize you were using it to prop yourself up.”

“I think this is the time,” he said with a groan, “where I say something witty and Bond-like about how you knocked me off my feet. But I’m coming up empty.”

“How about, ‘I was hanging around, thought I’d drop by?’” She grinned when he moaned.

“Very punny.” He rolled onto his stomach, kicking the door closed as he did. As he opened his eyes, he realized he was eye level with the sexiest pair of heels he’d seen yet. “Did you wear those to the matchup today?”

She tapped one peep-toed shoe at his nose while she flipped on the lights. “I did, though I’m not sure why my footwear has anything to do with it.”

He wasn’t sure he could take his eyes away from that little sexy peep of her toes, the way the leather hugged her instep, or how it crossed over her ankle. But he did a push up and stood anyway. She was still fully dressed, in another of her starched-up business suits. A skirt, this time, with matching jacket or blazer or whatever it was called. The hint of lace showed to cover her cleavage in what he thought she considered modesty, but he chose to see as her own wild side fighting for a turn. All in all, there was nothing about the outfit that screamed “Do me now!”

But he wanted to.

Except that his body had already been pummeled once, and he wasn’t sure it would be wise to give it a second beating. Damn common sense . . .

“How are you feeling?” Reagan rocked toward him, as if wanting to melt into his body, but held back instead. Shoulda gone with your instincts, sweetheart. Now he’d have to do the moving. He stepped in, gripped her hips and pulled her into him for a gentle hug. As if understanding he needed tenderness, she wrapped her arms around him and smoothed them gently over his back.

The fact that they were eye to eye, thanks to the heels, made the hug that much easier on his abused body. No bending and scooping. He liked that they were evenly matched.

“Let’s sit. You’ve gotta be hurting.” She took his hand and led him to the bed. But when he sat on the edge, she took the chair at the table with her laptop. The screen glowed brightly with a white Word document. A few paragraphs had already been typed.

“Working with the lights off?”

“Keeps me focused.” She shrugged one shoulder, then clicked a few buttons. Maybe to save the document, though he wasn’t watching closely enough. “But really, how are you feeling now?”

“Feeling like I got knocked around a little. It’s nothing,” he said when she worried her bottom lip. “Seriously, it really wasn’t. I’ve had way worse.”

The second he said it, he knew it was the wrong thing to say. Reagan’s eyes widened, and she snapped her laptop shut. “I couldn’t even watch it. I had to leave.”

That, he didn’t like. “You didn’t watch any of the matches?”

She glanced to the left for a second, hesitating. “I watched some.”

“Some?”

“Most,” she corrected.

“Most.”

“All of them but yours,” she said in a whisper, then covered her face in her hands. “I’m sorry. I just . . . couldn’t. Not yours. I tried, and it freaked me out and rather than being that weirdo who rushed the ring yelling, ‘Stop hitting him!’ I just ducked out for some air.” She peeked through her fingers. “But I was glad you won. Does that count?”

He growled, then—ignoring his protesting body—grabbed her wrist and pulled until she sprawled with him on the bed. They lay side by side, and he traced the lace of her top, dipping a finger in to brush against her breasts. Her breathing grew heavy, and her legs squirmed.

“I can’t say that I’m pleased you didn’t stay to watch. A guy likes to show off a little to the woman he’s involved with.”

She scowled. “Showing off is a completely pointless exercise.”