“Must have been a good salad,” Costa said with a raised brow.

“Tasted like I’d rather be fat.”

*   *   *

“YES, of course I’ll hold.” Reagan tapped her foot on the linoleum floor of the training room, the sound echoing in the currently empty room. Currently empty, until Marianne walked in and gave her a What’s up? look.

“Newspaper,” she mouthed to Marianne, who shrugged and headed for her desk. Reagan watched as Marianne sat down at her desk and began typing on her laptop. From what Reagan could see, it looked like another pamphlet.

Marianne was in a very committed relationship with pamphlets. If pamphlets would take the next step, Reagan was pretty sure they’d get married.

A voice spoke in her ear and she straightened, pacing while she spoke. “Yes, I’m still here. Uh-huh, right. We’d love to do an interview. Do you want to speak with the whole group or . . . okay, sure. I’ll pull out a few representatives. Full team photo? I’m sure we can manage that, unless you . . . of course. Yes, I know your photographer has other things to do. No problem.” Reagan reached the end of the training room, spun around and nearly walked into a table. She skirted the furniture and paced to the other side. “I’ll look forward to it. You have my number. Thanks again.”

“Gonna break an ankle,” Marianne sang in a told-you-so voice.

“My ankles are fine. It’s my hips that are in real danger here. There are tables everywhere.”

“I know. What were we thinking? Tables in a training room. We should have done our decorating with your comfort in mind.” Marianne leaned back in her chair and swiveled to look at her. “Newspaper? Which one? The base paper?”

Reagan blew out a breath at that. “Of course not. That’s not even up for discussion. Getting in the base paper is a given. It was the Jacksonville paper. They’ll be doing an interview with the coaches and a few of the guys tomorrow morning.”

“Hmm.” Obviously uninterested, Marianne went back to her laptop. A scruffy-looking young man who was probably only a few years younger than Reagan walked in, gave her a once-over, then kept moving until he reached the storage area of the room. Without a word, he pulled a sleeve of disposable cups down and left again.

“Chatty fellow, isn’t he?”

“That’s Levi, one of my interns.” She grinned over her shoulder. “I have interns. I’m a real adult.”

“Congratulations on your adulty-ness.” Reagan paused a moment. “When does the adulty-ness kick in, exactly?”

“Still feel like you’re playing pretend?”

“Still feel like I’m pretending, and nobody else has caught on yet. I’m waiting for someone to walk in one day, point their finger and yell ‘Aha! We know you’re just a kid. Who do you think you are, playing at being an adult?’” She rubbed at her temples. “That sounds stupid.”

“Sounds normal to me.” Marianne stood and looked out toward the gym where the Marines were running through circuits. “I can admit I’ve led a pretty cushy life. Hardest thing for me so far was staying awake during my fourth year finals before graduating college.” She nodded at a group of young men who jogged by in a line of twos, several of whom gave her a quick wave of acknowledgement. “Working with these guys sort of puts things into perspective. For me, this is what I do. For them, this is a very short, very well-earned break before they go back to being the finest fighting force in the world.”

Reagan felt a squeeze in her chest. “Hoorah.”

Marianne winced. “We’ll work on your pronunciation.”

“That we will. For now, I have to snag a few guys for some interview prep.” She took a few steps, then looked back toward Marianne. “How amenable will Bradley be to my asking?”

“Not very, but he’ll do it.” She gave Reagan a wicked smile. “Better let me ask. I have ways to persuade him. He’ll be much more relaxed about the whole thing.”

“I so did not need to know that,” Reagan said, walking toward Coach Ace to plead her case.

*   *   *

“WHAT’S the deal now?” Sweeney asked, hopping onto one of the tables in the training room. “Are we being given another group to look after?”

Costa winced a little as he lifted himself—all arms—onto the next table. He settled the ice bag in his hand over his knee before answering, “I doubt it. Probably something PR related. I saw Ms. Robilard talking to Coach Ace before he pulled us aside.”

“She’s a hot number,” Sweeney said casually. “Not entirely my type, but definitely a looker. Those legs, in those heels?” He made a burning sound, flicking his fingers together as if they were singed. “Ow, hot.”

“I’m more partial to polo shirts and tennis shoes lately,” Costa replied. Both Sweeney and Greg groaned, and Sweeney threw his paper-covered pillow at Brad. He caught it and tossed it back with a grin.

“Boys, don’t make a mess of my training room,” Marianne called out, walking in with her two interns trailing behind. The lanky one with hair that reminded him of Justin Bieber before the singer went wild stopped short when he noticed the three men sitting on the tables. The female intern, with eyes that constantly roamed over the Marines like a cat on the prowl, hustled over to Sweeney’s table.

“Can I help you with anything?” she asked eagerly. It was like watching a puppy scrabble and paw against someone’s legs, waiting to be picked up.

“Uh, no. We’re good, thanks.” Greg nearly laughed out loud when he noticed Sweeney inching back and away from the intern.

“Then why are you here?” the guy snapped out. Greg saw anger in his eyes before his bangs covered them again. Quickly putting two and two together, he assumed the kid had a crush on his co-intern . . . and wasn’t a fan of the attention she paid to the Marines.

Frankly, the Marines weren’t often fans of the attention, either.

“We’re waiting for . . . her,” Greg finished, swallowing back the urge to whistle as Reagan walked in, clipboard in hand. Her hair was up today, in some complicated twist thingie that left a few strands artfully sticking out. Her suit had pants this time—damn—but somehow the creased legs of the pinstripe suit only elongated her legs that much more. Of course, it could also be from the huge platform heels she wore.

The woman loved her heels. And Greg was seriously debating making a move to get her into bed so he could see her in nothing but those heels. One round in the sack for every pair she owned.

That could keep them busy for weeks by his calculations.

It was good to have goals.

“Gentlemen,” she said, her voice that deep, formal tone she used for business. “Thank you for coming.”

“Didn’t have a choice,” Sweeney said simply.

“Oh.” She blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “Right. Of course. Well, thank you anyway. I have here some mock interview questions, and suggestions or guides for your answers.” She walked by each table and handed all three of them sheets. “A reporter from the Jacksonville paper is coming tomorrow and would like to interview a few of you for an article.”

“Why us?” Costa asked, voicing what all three were thinking. Of all of the Marines, they were the oldest, which meant they really were the least likely to want the attention an article would give them. The younger guys would fight each other for the chance to do it.

“Because you are the leaders. I’ve spoken to Coach Ace and he’s fine with taking an hour out of your practice time tomorrow to sit down with the reporter.”

“I’m sorry,” Costa interjected. “We’re losing practice time for this?”

“I’m sure as hell not giving up personal time for it,” Sweeney shot back, then flushed. “Sorry, ma’am,” he mumbled.

“Not a problem.” Totally unfazed, Reagan went on. “You three are the most mature and the least likely to go off into tangents that might, shall we say, highlight potential problems.”

“Potential pro . . . oh.” Greg nodded. “You want us to forget the vandalism and stuff.”