“It’s training, not battle.”

“I wasn’t talking about practice. I was talking about dealing with me.” And with that sassy parting shot, she slid between two cars and disappeared to continue her photo documentary.

“Higgs, let’s go man. This day’s a big cluster and I’m ready to hit the rack.” Brad appeared by his elbow and tugged lightly on his neck. “Sweeney’s dropping us back by the BOQ on his way home.”

“Oh, joy.” He followed along, not at all willingly.

*   *   *

REAGAN watched through the lens of the digital video camera, taking in as much of the action in the mock training ring as she could without losing definition and focus. The equipment was primitive at best. Though at this point, she should probably be glad she was given a digital anything. God knew, she could probably have expected a VHS recorder to take video with.

“Getting any good shots?” Coach Ace walked up to stand beside her. “I know my guys are preening like pretty peacocks for the camera.”

Reading between the lines, she closed the lens and picked up the tripod she’d paid for herself. Oh, how many pairs of shoes she could have bought for the price of that tripod . . . “You think I’m distracting the men.”

“Not think, know. They’re all under thirty, most of them single, and they are pumped up on adrenaline and testosterone and ego from having made the team. Hell yes, you’re a distraction.” Coach Ace scanned her from head to toe in a gesture that was definitely meant to be derisive rather than sexual.

Reagan placed one hand over her chest and fluttered her lashes. “Ooh la la. If only I’d remembered to wear my frumpiest outfit to disguise my feminine wares so as not to distract the menfolk from their important endeavors. However shall I earn your forgiveness, good sir?”

The head coach snorted out something she hoped was humor, then crossed his arms to watch the men spar. Another group worked cardio upstairs along the catwalk with Coach Cartwright, while a third was in the adjoining weight room with Coach Willis. Though she would rather bite off her own arm than admit it, she knew Greg Higgs was with the group in the weight room. That shouldn’t matter. She was here for the team, not one Marine.

One very fine, very delicious, very funny . . . Marine.

“Coach Ace,” she said slowly, packing up the camera in the case at her feet, “I have a job to do. I know you do, too. But we have to work together, not constantly butt heads.”

“It’s not hard to avoid that.” He picked up the case when she reached for it, taking it over to the side where she’d stashed her tote bag full of folders. “You stay out of the way and do your PR voodoo magic outside the gym.”

Tread carefully, Robilard. “That might have been how it worked in the past—”

“It was,” he agreed firmly.

“But that’s not how I plan on running things.”

She watched the coach, trying her best to gauge his reaction based on his expression. She would have been better off trying to guess what a brick wall was thinking. His face curiously blank, Coach Ace shrugged and walked to his office, closing the door quietly behind him.

“Was that acceptance, or denial?” she muttered as she packed up the camera.

Getting along with the coaching staff wasn’t specifically required, but it would be a hell of a lot easier on everyone if they could come to terms over the parameters of her job. She refused to run back to her own supervisor and tattle on the uncooperative coaching staff. So it was up to her to figure out how to get everyone on the same page.

And add that to the ever-growing list of things she needed to do better. She really had to pick up her game.

“Hey.”

“Eeeee!” Reagan bobbled the camera bag, nearly dropping it to the floor. She grabbed the handle just as a large pair of hands swooped under to shield the bag from the floor.

Heart pounding, she turned to find Gregory Higgs standing there, grinning. She started to speak, then realized her mouth was dry. To cover, she took the bag back from him and set it gently on the floor. When he only continued to smile, she stiffened her shoulders and met him square on. “What?”

“Do you ever wear anything smaller than three inches?”

That had her taking a step back in surprise. “Three inches of what?”

“Height.” When she blinked, confused, he added, “The heels. I’ve never seen you in anything shorter than three inches, give or take. Just curious if you ever wear flats.”

“Not if I can help it.” She bent over to pick up the camera bag again—now that her hands had stopped shaking and her heart rate was nearing normal—but he beat her to it. She accepted the bag with a slight nod and started toward the gym’s main doors. If she headed back to her cubicle in the main athletics office, she might be able to catch the travel coordinator.

Greg missed the hint and jogged beside her to keep up. “Luckily I like a girl with some height to her.”

She faltered just a little, glancing over at him. “I have a lot to do, so if you don’t need anything, I need to keep moving.”

“I can move. We’re on lunch break.”

Oh, yay. She snorted and kept going at the same pace. He kept up. “So are you free?”

“Free for what?” she asked, huffing a little. She realized then she’d been all but sprinting to the parking lot, hoping he’d ditch her and move along. She restrained herself so she could breathe properly. Time to use the gym facilities herself.

Or, maybe, she should just try not outrunning the fastest guy on the team. There’s a brilliant idea.

“Lunch. We’ve got two hours.”

“Oh.” She reached her car and nearly winced when he did a double take at it in the daylight hours. “Don’t mock her.”

“What’s her name?”

“Name?” Reagan tried to play it cool as she slid the camera bag into the passenger seat, then set her purse on the floor. The passenger door creaked as she closed it again. “Whose name?”

“The car’s.” Greg did a circle around it, taking note, she was sure, that the color of the vehicle was more primer than silver. And of the industrious way she’d duct-taped the taillight cover on. “A car like this always has a name.”

She mumbled something, but he cocked his head. “Sorry, didn’t catch that.”

“Dolly Madison,” she bit out. “Her name is Dolly Madison. Happy?”

He snorted, then chuckled, then laughed so hard she thought if he’d been a cartoon, he would have fallen to the ground and rolled around on his back. “It wasn’t meant to be funny.”

“I’m . . . I’m sorry,” he gasped out. “Your car is named Dolly Madison, and it’s not a joke?”

“She’s a mature, distinguished gentlewoman,” Reagan shot back. “You don’t mock the first lady.”

“The first lady’s been around the block a few times,” he added, which only set his oh-so-humorous chuckles off again.

“Go eat your lunch. I’ve got work to do. Unless . . .” She waited until his laughter had slowed and his attention was fully on her.

“Unless?” He inched closer, and she could smell the sweat from his workout. How was sweat appealing? That was impossible.

“Unless you want to come back with me and . . .” She glanced to the left, then the right. He hunched in, shoulders rounding as if to protect the secret she was going to impart. “Finish our interview for the PR packet I’m putting together.”

He straightened and stepped back as if he were a vampire and she had garlic breath. “Forgot I had a lunch date with Costa and Sweeney.”

“Uh-huh.” Reagan crossed her arms. “I’m getting the information I need from you, don’t doubt it.”

“Whatever you say, Legs.” He jogged away a few feet, then waved over his shoulder. “See ya around.”

“Yes, you will,” she muttered under her breath. “Cocky Marine.”

“That’s redundant.”

“Eeeeek!” For the second time that day, Reagan let out an embarrassing shriek, tossing her keys three parking spaces away and shielding her face. When she peeked through her fingers and found Marianne Cook staring at her in amusement, she groaned. “I hate my life.”