“Good.”

Reagan blinked. “What?”

“Good. Then you can come home.”

Some children might think that was a loving thought. That their parents wanted them to come back and be a part of the family unit. That they missed their daughter. That they missed their sister. That it was love that gently tugged her back.

She knew better.

“Mom, I’m not coming back.”

“You just said you’re failing out there. You know you shouldn’t have taken that job. But you got all high-and-mighty about that degree of yours, and thought you could do anything you wanted to do. Everyone knows that’s a crock.”

“Gee, Mom, you should put that on a motivational poster for elementary school classrooms. ‘That’s a crock.’” Reagan focused her eyes on a spot on the wall above the laptop screen. If she stared hard enough, she wouldn’t cry.

“Don’t you start that. You know you were meant to be here. Your brothers didn’t hightail it out of here when they graduated.”

Only two had actually graduated high school to begin with.

“And they stay around here and help me out around the house. Your brother is getting close to marrying the Casper girl. And where are they gonna live?”

“In your basement?”

“Three blocks over,” her mother said, as if she hadn’t spoken. “Because they know where they belong. Never could impress on you that a degree was pointless. You’ll just end up back here anyway. Nothing in this town needs a degree. You spent all that money, still paying all that money, and for what?”

So I could get yelled at once a week by you for my stupid choices, Mom. Obviously.

“Hey, Mom, I’m ahead of you time-wise so I’m getting pretty tired.” She faked a yawn, though after it was finished, she realized she truly was exhausted. “I’ll have to call you another time to catch up. Say hi to the boys . . . and that Casper girl, whoever she is.”

“Doreen,” her mother snapped.

“Sure. Add her to the list. Love you, bye!” She hung up before her mother could argue and demand she stay on the line. Then she blinked as hard as she could to clear the tears.

“Family sucks sometimes, doesn’t it?”

She gasped, dropped her phone and turned to find Greg leaning against the door from the bedroom. “How long were you there?”

“Long enough.” He walked to her, wrapped her in a hug where she sat, and just held her awhile. Reagan wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her face to his stomach, which was at face-level. “I’d apologize for listening in, but I’m not all that sorry.”

She laughed a little, then sighed and bit his stomach lightly. Or what she could get of his stomach. Not much there to sink her teeth into. “Eavesdropping is rude.”

“Let’s call it a recon mission. Nobody has to apologize for missions.” He tilted her back enough that she could look up at him. Swiping his thumbs over her cheekbones, he nodded. “No tears, so it couldn’t have been that bad.”

“Not that bad. Just that expected. You’re not supposed to be embarrassed by your family.” She paused. “Are you?”

He gave her a pained look, then shrugged. “I don’t think there’s any ‘supposed to’ when it comes to family. You just . . . do or don’t.” He wiped a hand down his face. “I’m not Dr. Phil over here, Reagan. I don’t have the answers.”

“Okay.” She sighed and pressed against him. “I’m a mess.”

“Do you want to”—she could feel him swallow hard—“talk about it?”

“Let’s not, for tonight. I just want to feel you.”

She swore the sigh he released came with its own whispered thank God. But he merely stroked her hair and let them both breathe.

It wasn’t everything she needed, but for the moment, it was enough.

*   *   *

THE next morning, Greg watched with a grin as Reagan sauntered—no other word for it—into the gym about fifteen minutes into practice. She wore a tight pinstripe skirt and matching jacket with a deep purple shirt underneath. Her long legs ended with heels that matched the navy of her suit, and her hair was up in its normal elegant twist that left her gorgeous neck bare.

The team was still in cardio warm-ups, about to be divided into weightlifting and shadowboxing groups. But at the sound of her heels, the entire group looked up from their stretching and watched as she approached Coach Ace. The burly, barrel-chested man had his arms crossed, watching his team for any sign of weakness or incompetence.

Most of which he found daily, and let them know it.

Someone gave a low wolf whistle, and Greg fought against the urge to stand up out of his hamstring stretch, find the asshole and kick him.

But Reagan seemed to take the unexpected attention in stride. “Good morning, gentlemen.” She clacked up to the coach, whispered something in his ear that had him dropping his arms, then walked toward his office. Coach Ace followed, barking for Coach Cartwright to finish the warm-ups.

They stood, and Tressler leaned in from behind him. “Jealous?”

“Don’t be an ass,” Greg replied in an easy voice. “If you can manage that, I mean.”

“Just wondering if it matters much that your current mattress partner is constantly spending time alone with other guys. Coach Ace looked pretty excited to meet with her. Wonder if that’s how she’s keeping her job after all those fuckups.”

Greg pushed him back a step. “Shut up.”

The younger man held up his hands. “Hey, it’s no biggie to me if she keeps her job by ‘servicing’ others. The longer she stays, the longer I get to admire that ass walking around the gym. Just don’t be shocked if you find out you’re not the only fuck in town for her.”

Greg realized then that the color of rage wasn’t red. Everything he’d heard before said when you went into a rage-induced bender, the world was covered with a red mist.

He realized, three minutes later, it was black. Pitch black, like his memory of the past three minutes. He came to, half-sitting on the mat, half-lounging with his back against Graham’s front, his arms locked behind him. Tressler was likewise trussed up, with another teammate holding him back and Brad crouched by his face, speaking quietly into Tressler’s ear. Whatever Brad was saying wasn’t going over well with the younger Marine, because he flung a fuck-you at him and kicked out as if to make contact.

Marianne hustled over, her two interns following behind. Nikki stayed back, eyes wide with fascination, while Levi looked disgusted at the whole thing.

Angry with himself, Greg struggled out of the hold and stood, turning his back on Tressler. Graham stood beside him, half-angled in front, as if to be able to grab him in case he went after the asshole again.

Greg shook out his arms, realizing then that his knuckles burned. He wasn’t ready to turn around and see the handiwork on Tressler’s face yet. Please, God, let him not have done damage.

“What. The. Hell. Is. Going. On.”

In the nearly silent gym, the deep words, spoken low, were like a gunshot. They all turned in unison and saw Coach Ace, hands fisted by his side, standing beside a horrified-looking Reagan.

Damn. Damn, damn, damn.

“I wanna know what the hell is going on in my gym.”

CHAPTER

22

Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. Greg wasn’t sure anyone even breathed. He glanced across from him at Tressler, who stared steely-eyed at the wall to the left, mouth pulled into a mulish line of silence.

After thirty seconds of complete silence, Coach Ace stepped forward. “You,” he said, pointing at Tressler, “let Cook look at you, then get back to work. And you,” he added, pointing to Greg, “get in my office.” When nobody moved, Coach added a bellowing now! that had them all scrambling.