“Everyone’s out on assignment,” he said, as if reading her mind, before shutting the door. “I only have a few minutes. I have a meeting soon.”

“I won’t take much of your time.” She put her bag on the table and pulled out a file folder. Laying it down, she opened it and pulled out a few sheets to slide across the table toward him. “A year ago, you were writing home and garden pieces. You had nothing to do with sports, or base activity. Those were the work of other journalists at the paper. Those journalists are still here. Why did you get the assignment to interview the boxing team?”

He glanced down quickly at the old articles of his she’d printed from online, then back at her. “I’m given assignments, same as everyone else. It’s how the paper works. Sometimes, you have to fill in.”

“Did you always want to cover sports?” she asked idly, looking through the three articles he’d written thus far on the team. “Is this a step up for you? In the right direction?”

The reporter crossed his arms and scowled. “I have no clue where this is going, Ms. Robilard, but I’m the reporter here. I don’t get interrogated.”

“I think,” she went on, “that you thought you had a story and you ran with it. I think maybe, just maybe, someone has been feeding you information on the goings-on in the gym, with the team, et cetera. And that’s why you asked for the assignment, well out of your comfort zone.”

“I think you’ve got a lot of nerve. I don’t have to tell you a goddamn thing.”

“Fine.” She stood. “Just tell me who leaked you the info about the bus being vandalized and I can leave you be.” When he raised a brow, she shrugged. “I can be accommodating. I have better ways to spend my time than being here, so let’s all move on.”

He laughed. Actually laughed, so hard and so loudly that even with the door closed, several people from the main room turned to stare. Reagan felt the heat creep up her neck and burn her cheeks. So maybe this wasn’t the best idea. Actually, now that she thought it through, it was a horrible, stupid idea.

Oh, God. How dumb could she be?

“You think . . .” He gasped and grabbed his big belly, huffing a little with the laugh. “You think I’d just give you a source? For what? No, wait, let me guess.” He laughed so wide he looked like a deranged jack-o’-lantern. “Because you’re so pretty and people just hand you things. Ha!”

Do. Not. Cry. Don’t you dare cry.

“Apparently not.” Mustering up every single ounce of dignity she could find—which sadly, was very little—she stood, putting the file back in her bag and slinging it over her shoulder. “Have a good day, Mr. Cruise.”

He was still laughing as she left the room, and his stupid laugh echoed through the hall until she left the building. But she managed to not cry until she was in her car.

CHAPTER

20

“So you’re saying it didn’t go well,” Marianne said later that afternoon at Back Gate.

“I’m saying, if Satan had opened a portal right there, crooked his finger and said, ‘Come on in, the water’s fine,’ I would have jumped willingly.” Reagan took a sip of her water, wishing it were something stronger. So, so much stronger. But the bar was crowded and they’d be waiting a few minutes for their ordered drinks. “You didn’t cancel any plans with Brad to meet tonight, did you?”

Marianne made a face that said, Come on, really? “Hell no. He’s a big boy and can keep himself entertained for a few hours while I have a healthy bitch session. Plus,” she added as the server put down their drinks, “I think he and the guys were having a late-night practice or something.”

Reagan paused with the drink halfway to her lips. “How are they getting into the gym?”

“At Graham’s house,” Marianne clarified, just as Kara sat in the third seat. “I ordered for you. I figured bottle was your choice.”

“Read my mind,” Kara said fervently. “Mmm. I have approximately two hours before I have to pick up Zach, so I can have exactly one more before I’m back to water.”

“Babysitter?” Reagan asked, grateful to avoid the topic of her crying like a wuss on the way back from her meeting with Mr. Journalist.

“Uh, no. I mean yes, but no.” Flustered, which was unusual for her, Kara set her drink down and looked through her purse a moment. Reagan knew that routine. It was the I’m-avoiding-eye-contact-by-pretending-to-search-for-my-lip-balm routine.

“Spill!” Marianne poked her friend in the arm. “What’s going on with the babysitter?”

“I couldn’t get one. So I texted you, but you didn’t answer.”

Marianne’s brow crinkled, and she dug in her back pocket for her phone. When she glanced, she winced. “Sorry, it was on silent. Oh, hey, look.” She showed her phone to Reagan. “Kara can’t make it, no babysitter.”

Reagan sipped her drink and smiled. “Shame.”

“Anyway,” Kara said more forcefully. “When you didn’t answer, I tried texting Brad, because I figured maybe you two were still together and you hadn’t left yet. So he could pass on the message.” Kara smiled at Reagan smugly and added in a side voice, “Brad answers his phone in a timely manner.”

Marianne blew a raspberry.

“Moving along.” Kara took another sip, closed her eyes in reverence, and continued, “He informed me you had already left, but to hold tight and he would come get Zach himself, because he didn’t want me to miss out on the fun.”

“Aww,” Reagan said, her heart lifting a little. When she glanced at Marianne, her friend simply had a small, knowing smile on her face.

“But then ten minutes later, the person knocking on my door wasn’t Brad. It was Graham Sweeney,” she finished in a whisper.

Reagan glanced around, then leaned in. “Why are we whispering?”

“Because.” Kara threw her a dirty look. “It’s . . . he’s . . . I don’t know.”

“Cute,” Reagan supplied.

“Sexy,” was Marianne’s contribution.

“Pointless,” Kara finished. “The whole thing is pointless. I know he’s hitting on me. And I think he had a good time with Zach the other night. I’m not one of those people trying to use my kid to shelter me from life.” She paused after sipping, glancing to Marianne for confirmation.

Marianne shrugged one shoulder and nodded.

“So while I appreciate the interest, it’s just pointless. And for completely legit reasons.”

Reagan waited a moment, wracking her brain. “Because he eats small children for breakfast?”

Kara scowled at her. “Be serious.”

Finally, Reagan admitted, “I don’t get it. What are the reasons?”

“Baby daddy drama,” Marianne said, grinning when Kara pushed at her.

“You know I hate that phrase. Baby daddy,” she said in a mocking tone. But she sighed. “But she’s not wrong. Or not entirely. Graham’s in the military. He’ll eventually leave. I can’t. I’m here until Zach graduates, at least. What’s the point of starting something with someone if you can’t move with them when they go?”

“Oh.” That hadn’t occurred to Reagan. “But kids move all the time. Zach could adjust to a new location. He’s a smart, good kid.”

“I can’t leave the state,” Kara explained.

“So his dad is involved in his life?”

“Only as much as he can get away with, which is very little. It’s his way of controlling him—me—us.” Kara’s fingers tightened around her glass, then she set it down with a delicate clink. “Moving on . . . how was your day and why are we here sucking down drinks that don’t taste nearly as good as they look?”

“Because I screwed up at my job. I’m screwing up all over the place. I confronted that reporter, trying to get a name for the source.” She laughed, but it was humorless, and covered her face with her hands. Delayed embarrassment—wave two—hit her like a tsunami. “God, how stupid am I? What person waltzes into a newspaper and just expects to be handed a source because they asked nicely?”