Текст книги "Against the Ropes"

Автор книги: Jeanette Murray

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

CHAPTER

18

Reagan’s fuzzy brain fought to keep track of the plot. “But why is he so interested in that boat?”

Greg placed one finger over her lips. “Shh, don’t analyze. Enjoy.”

“I know, but—”

“Shh.” He pushed a piece of popcorn into her open mouth, causing her to bite down. “Watch.”

She poked him in the ribs—the non-bruised ones, she wasn’t a monster—and watched him squirm. “Jerk.”

“That’s me. It’s on my business card.” They were quiet another few moments, and she enjoyed the feeling of his hand smoothing over her hair, down her shoulder to her elbow. It was hypnotic, and made her eyelids feel heavy. Without thinking, she matched her breathing to his . . . slow and even, deep and relaxing. And felt herself start to drift.

“Tell me about your family.”

“Hmm,” she said, fighting the siren song of sleep. “Brothers. Lots of brothers.”

He massaged her scalp lightly, and she all but wept. Yummy. So yummy. “You mentioned them before. Older or younger?”

“Mix. I’m in the middle.” Her fingertip traced through the hair that led down his chest and into the waistband of the jeans he still hadn’t taken off. “You could get more comfortable, if you want.”

“Trying to seduce me out of my clothes?” He tugged gently on a strand of her hair in mocking reprimand, and it felt good. “Not gonna work tonight.”

“Darn.” She sighed. “Two older, two younger.”

“Smack in the middle. What was it like growing up like that?”

The term hell came to mind, but she swallowed that back. The growing up part, that wasn’t true. “Loud, crazy, sometimes painful. They weren’t always very nice and protective to their sweet princess of a sister.” She batted her eyelashes up at him. “Gonna beat them up for me?”

“Oh, yeah. Just point the way.” He paused. “Which way is that, exactly?”

She grinned. “Wisconsin. Just head toward nothing and keep on going, turn left at nada, and stop when you reach nowhere.”

“Population: Your family, huh?”

“Give or take eight hundred.” She could dance around it, but he seemed so intent on getting to know her. And she wanted to know him. Time to be a mature woman and step forward. “You know that term dirt poor?”

“Sure.” He sifted his fingers through her hair again, and she nearly went comatose with the pleasure. But then he tugged—still felt good—and made her look at him. “Don’t stop now, or I’ll stop, too.”

“No, don’t.” When he resumed his scratching and tracing of her upper arms and shoulders, she wriggled with pleasure. “That was us, literally dirt poor. As in, the floorboards of our ancient farm house were warped and had so many splinters my mom and oldest brother decided to rip them up, only to discover the ancient house we lived in didn’t have a sub floor. Built straight on dirt. And since my mom didn’t have the cash to fix it . . .” She shrugged. “It stayed, for about two years. Laid down tarps, some cardboard, switched that out every so often. For a few months, we had carpet . . . sort of.” She smiled. “Another family had done their house in carpet, had a lot of leftover remnants, gave them to us for free. They weren’t even nailed down. But they were warmer than tarp.”

“That sounds rough.” He stared at the TV, which he’d muted. “But with the right family, you can get through it.”

“We got through it. What choice do you have?”

“Was it rough?”

Now he was starting to sound like a reporter. “What’s with the third degree?” She playfully tugged at a few of his chest hairs, but he flattened her hand over his chest.

“I want to know you, all of you. It’s not such an odd request, is it? Knowing the woman I’m involved with.”

When he put it like that . . . “No.”

“Was it hard, moving away from them?”

“No. Maybe that sounds bad, but it just wasn’t. They were content with that life, all of them. Staying in that town was admitting to yourself you were fine being below the poverty line for the rest of your life. Nobody stayed there thinking they’d have anything more than government assistance, or barely above it.” That sounded ugly, but it was just the truth. “So I left. They didn’t.”

“And you ended up here.”

“When it takes you as long as it took me to graduate from college . . . you take the first job offered.” She tried to smile, but it went a little sideways. “I was so scared about not making it, I leapt at the first job offer. I wasn’t even really qualified for this. I lied through my teeth about liking sports and all that.” She blew a raspberry. “Sports. We didn’t even have a football team at my high school. Too small. We could barely field a basketball team with guys on the bench. I was a cheerleader during basketball season, because it was better than 4H. So, no, sports were not really my thing. But I feel almost no guilt, which probably sounds horrible now that I say it out loud.”

“You make the choices you have to make in order to survive.” His voice was so calm, so serious, she knew he wasn’t talking about just her. But this was a man who had seen the ugly side of war. His idea of ‘choices’ were likely very much a matter of survival. She wouldn’t push on that front. Smoothing a hand down his torso, she brushed lightly over his bruising.

“‘Survive’ is probably a little intense where I’m concerned. But I made choices I felt like I had to in order to make steps toward the life I wanted. So I took this job, moved here, live in the world’s crappiest apartment so that I can actually afford to live without a roommate, and wonder every day how I got myself into this mess.”

“‘World’s crappiest apartment,’ huh?”

She bit back a groan. Apparently, the skeletons were just dancing out of the closet tonight. “Yeah, I, uh, don’t live in a great place. Which is why . . .”

“Which is why you’ve yet to let me pick you up at your place.”

“Maybe,” she whispered, her cheeks heating from the embarrassment. She nuzzled into his shoulder, not wanting to look him in the eyes.

“Reagan, look at me.”

She shook her head. No, thank you.

“Reagan,” he said again, his voice commanding. “Look.” He guided her chin up with one finger. “I don’t give a shit where you live. I don’t care if you live in your car.” He thought about that for a second. “Well, I might care about that because it’s not the safest thing in the world. But what I’m saying is, where you live doesn’t matter to me. I respect that you’re keeping your expenses down to keep your privacy. It’s a personal choice, and one I can understand. Trust me, there are times I’m ready to crawl the walls having a roommate again, even though he’s not there half the time.”

She closed her eyes, feeling the relief roll down her body in waves. “So, yeah. There it is, I guess. My life story.”

“Hardly that, but it’s a nice outline. We can fill in more details later.” He kissed her once, twice, then a third time, deeper still, until she was gripping his shoulders.

Then she let go with a shriek. “Oh my God, I’m sorry!”

“Huh?” He pulled back, confused. “What?”

“Your shoulder! I squeezed and—”

He burst out laughing, kissing her nose when she wrinkled it in confusion. “Reagan, sweetheart, you’re not gonna hurt me. I promise.” One more kiss to the forehead this time, which felt mildly patronizing and mocking. “But thanks for thinking of me.”

“Starting to regret that,” she muttered, pushing at him so he lay flat again.

“I have one question, though.”

“Maybe I have one answer.” She waited, but he twisted and got out of bed, stalking across the room and picking up one of her discarded heels. “Those won’t fit you, you know. You’d probably need a wide.”

“Smart-ass.” He said it fondly, throwing her an arch look. “If you’re broke as a joke—”

“Classy.”

“Thanks. If you’re so broke you’re living in a crap apartment . . . what’s with all these?” He held up the shoe by the heel, waving it as if it were evidence in a court case. Your Honor, I present Exhibit B to the jury.

“I really would rather live in my car than give up my shoes.” When he gaped at her, she laughed. “No, silly. I buy them on auction sites for pennies on the dollar or at thrift stores or swap sites. Everything I have, I searched for hard-core and bought at a fraction of the retail price.” She glanced at her now-wrinkled, discarded suit on the floor of her hotel room. “You wouldn’t know it, but I usually take very good care of my things so they last.”

He surprised her by picking up her suit and folding it neatly, laying it across her suitcase. Then he made his way back to the bed, stretched out beside her, and curled them up under the comforter.

“Thanks,” he said quietly after a moment, then turned the TV off. His hand drifted up and down her back, lifting her tank a little to scratch at her lower back. It felt heavenly.

Just as she drifted off, she realized she’d done all the talking, and he’d done all the listening.

*   *   *

GREG awoke to a pounding at his door. He cracked one eye open, glanced at the clock, and groaned. It wasn’t even six yet, and they weren’t supposed to muster until half past seven. What dumbass would take his life into his own hands and knock so early?

He grumbled, pulled the pillow over his ear, and prayed the asshole away.

But the pounding persisted. With a grumble, he levered out of bed and headed for the door, suddenly aware he was still wearing jeans and his running shoes. A half-second before he opened it, he heard a hissed, “No, stop!”

He froze, hand on the doorknob, and looked behind him. Reagan stood, darting one leg into a pair of skin-tight black pants. Her ass was bare, but he couldn’t even concentrate on that when she looked so comical, hopping around the room.

Her room. Right. He was still in her room. They’d fallen asleep and he’d never made it back to his place. Shit. He’d nearly broadcast their sleeping together—literally sleeping—to whoever was on the other side of the door. Not that he cared . . . but she would.

“Who the hell is coming to your room at this hour?” he asked quietly as he sat back on the edge of the bed.

“I don’t know,” she whispered, then called out, “Who is it?” at the next set of knocks.

“It’s Coach Willis, ma’am.”

She rolled her eyes, though he wasn’t sure if it was at the coach—unlikely—or the ma’am—more plausible. “Can I help you, Coach?”

“Just need to speak with you a moment, if you don’t mind.”

She grabbed her black jacket from yesterday, buttoned it over her sleeping tank without putting on a bra, then wrapped her hair up with two quick flicks of her wrist and clipped it. “Just a moment.” She waved him back, and he understood she wanted him out of the line of sight from the door. He scooted back toward the headboard and listened as she opened the door.

“Yes, Coach, how can I help you?”

The coach answered, but it was so low, Greg couldn’t make it out. Her own answer was equally quiet, despite his strain to hear. After another two minutes, she closed the door quietly with a click. Then she walked to her suitcase and started tearing through it. “You’ve got to head back to your room. Get packed and ready to roll. I’ll see you at the bus. Or . . .” She chewed on her bottom lip for a moment. “I’ll think of something.”

“Think of what?” He stood, caught her shoulders and forced her to look at him. Forced her to slow down a moment and breathe. “What’s wrong with our own bus?”

She took a deep breath, then let it go again. Kara would have been proud of that. “I have to go check the damage for myself, but it appears as though someone has vandalized it.”

Greg waited for more. “So, what? Someone spray paint the sides? Did they draw a penis or something? What’s the real problem?”

“The real problem is the driver says he can’t drive it in its current condition, and has already reported the damage to his own supervisor. He can’t drive passengers on it due to liabilities. Which means I have to figure out how to get all of you, plus all your equipment, plus the support staff home.” She stepped back, cleared her throat, and nodded toward the door. When she spoke, her voice had dropped into Professional Distance Reagan mode. “I think you should take care of that while I get dressed. We both have a lot to get done this morning.”

“Yeah, sure.” He glanced around and found his polo, pulling it on. He wouldn’t make it weird, because it wasn’t. She had a job to do, and he wouldn’t be in her way. That was the mature, rational way to handle it, and he wasn’t going to get butt hurt over it.

But damn, he thought as he closed her door and quietly walked the hallway back to his own room. Would it kill her to bend just a little before she snapped?

*   *   *

REAGAN sat in the driver’s seat of the bus—ironically, the only seat not ripped to shreds—and did some quick Internet searching on her phone while she waited. The team was inside, having been woken up early to congregate and ask who had seen what. Marianne had her own little team and was doing the same.

She’d probably have to answer questions as well, to the base MPs as well as the MPs at Lejeune. There was no way this was coincidental. Not after so much else had happened to the team in such a short period of time.

But the scary part was . . . they were hours away from home. And unless you were a friend or family member of a teammate, most civilians wouldn’t know the team had headed down for a simple scrimmage.

So the culprit had most likely traveled down with them on the very bus he then vandalized. Very comforting.

Another ten minutes later—including one short and not-so-sweet call to her supervisor—Reagan had secured travel for the team back home. She hopped down from the seat and walked through the broken front doors, and nearly screamed when she hit the pavement and saw a tall figure lurking to her right.

“Hey.” Greg reached out and stroked a hand down her arm. “Sorry. You okay?”

She pressed the hand gripping her cell phone to her racing heart and took a deep breath. “Let me check my blood pressure and get back to you on that one.” Then she realized . . . “Why aren’t you inside with the rest of the team?”

“I told coach I wanted to stay with you. Just in case.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his team-issued jogging suit bottoms. In general, she thought windbreaker outfits were a little on the silly looking side. But he managed to make the parachute-like material sexy, anyway. She was in over her head. “He agreed. He thought it was best we kept eyes on everyone. Nobody is alone, battle buddy, that sort of thing.”

He’d told the coach, not asked. As if he wasn’t asking permission, but simply making the choice. Could have gotten him in serious trouble. It warmed her down in her still-chilled belly that he’d gone against the grain to make sure she was okay. “Well, thanks, but I’m fine. Just stressed.”

“Understatement.”

“No kidding.” With one last glance at the torn-up bus, she sighed and headed back toward the BOQ main lobby. Greg fell in step with her. “I guess it could have been an opponent from last night? Someone with sour grapes over losing?” Even as she said it, her voice lacked conviction.

Greg lifted one shoulder in a “maybe” gesture, but he didn’t appear convinced.

“But going inside like that . . .” She shuddered. “Just feels like more of a violation. Slashing a tire or keying your paint job sucks, but doesn’t feel like this does.”

“And that’s what they wanted. Whoever is pulling this junk wants to get in our heads.”

“What if he’s one of you?” She said it quietly, and Greg was silent long enough that she thought he hadn’t heard. She regretted asking the moment the question left her lips. There was no way he’d want to think about that. She shouldn’t have asked. He had enough to worry about.

“Probably is,” he said just as quietly. “Guess we’ll find out.”

CHAPTER

19

Greg played cards with Graham and two others while they waited for the replacement bus. The coaches had quizzed the team in groups of two or three, asking if they’d seen anything. Noticed anything. Heard anyone joking or whispering about damage to the bus. As far as he could tell, none had. Marianne had met with her interns, and Reagan was now in conference with the coaching staff herself.

The entire thing was a lame rodeo.

“So who was it?” one of the younger guys asked, playing a card. “One of the interns?”

“That chick was pissed when Hood wouldn’t let her sit in his lap,” the other confirmed. “Did you see the steam coming outta her ears when she stormed off?”

“Just the kind of female to pull shit like that,” the first said, scooping up the cards to shuffle.

Graham and Greg exchanged a look, but both declined to say a word.

Yeah, maybe it was a vindictive female. Women were just as capable of tearing up a bus as a man. But it seemed rather impersonal, to his way of thinking. Nikki would probably prefer a more direct hit to whoever had insulted her. Cutting up that specific Marine’s clothes, or slapping him in front of an audience.

Unless she considered a group punishment just desserts for the one Marine that had pissed her off . . .

He’d lose his mind heading down that path. This wasn’t his investigation to worry about.

Twenty minutes later, he sat with Graham at the back of the new bus, bumping out of the parking lot. Reagan had seated herself in the front, her phone permanently attached to her ear. He’d mock her for working nonstop, but thanks to this new problem, she was pulling double duty. And there was nothing he could do to help her or bear some of the burden.

“So who was it?” Graham asked, keeping his voice low. There was no way even Brad, sitting in front of them, could have heard. “Any of your guys seem likely?”

“Not really, no. But why would any of them want to punish the team? They made the team.”

“So maybe someone who got cut.” Graham nodded slowly. “Yeah, okay, I could see that. But it started so early, before the team was finalized . . .”

“People were cut on the first or second day. Injuries and junk. If someone is willing to roll up a paint balloon in a banner, or slash tires, then he’s not thinking straight. Plus, think about it.” Warming to the idea now, Greg turned. “Whoever this is knew everyone’s car who was at the barracks. They obviously know how to get into the gym, maybe because they’ve been in it recently. Maybe they know some door that gets left unlocked a lot. They know our schedule of travel because we were given all that info from the start. And the reason itself is clear. They didn’t make the team; they’re willing to punish those who did.”

“Maybe.” Unconvinced, Graham sighed and let his head fall against the window. “It’s gonna be a long-ass ride home.”

“No kidding.”

“At least you have something worth coming back home to,” Graham said with a snap, then sighed again. “Sorry. Getting tired of being the fifth wheel these days.”

“So ask her out.”

“She’s not ready.” Graham grumbled, “She might never be ready.”

“A woman like Kara’s gonna be ready. You might just have to nudge a little.”

“Nudge,” Graham said in a low voice. “Something tells me she’s going to appreciate that.”

“All the more reason.” Greg grinned as he thought back to his own nudging with Reagan. “Sometimes the ones that need a nudge are the ones that are the most ready to jump. They just don’t know it.”

“Speaking from experience, grasshopper?” Brad popped his head over the seat with a smug smile.

Apparently they’d been louder than he’d realized. Greg attempted to shove his roommate’s head back down, Whac-A-Mole style. But he was stuck with the grumpy guy.

“Yeah, how are things anyway, on the Love Boat?” Graham crooned, making Brad snicker and causing Greg to punch him in the shoulder. “What? It was appropriate.”

“Hardly. And things are . . .” Fantastic. Amazing. Better than I’ve ever hoped for. “Good. Things are good.”

“Somebody’s in looooove,” Graham sang again, which made Greg honor-bound to do his best to kick his ass without anyone on the coaching staff noticing. Rough work, but he gave it his best. After a few minutes of grappling and playing around, Brad reached in and thrust an arm between them.

“Knock it off, you two. People are looking back here. You want the coach to assign seats like we’re in freaking kindergarten?”

“Might not be a bad idea,” said a new voice.

All three jerked their heads to the other side of the bus, where Tressler sat, earbuds in, eyes shut, head back as if asleep or zoned out to the music. But apparently he’d been listening the whole time.

“Butt out, Tressler,” Brad said easily. The younger Marine had been in Brad’s imaginary platoon during tryouts, and though those had naturally dissolved as the final team had been announced, each of them had felt a little more responsible for those who they’d been in charge of. Greg had breathed a serious sigh of relief when he’d missed the Tressler trap.

“Just saying,” the younger man said, ignoring the warning. He never opened his eyes, just swayed slightly with the bus. “The odds are, someone on here slashed the seats of the old bus. Maybe they weren’t alone. Maybe it’s a duo, or a trio.”

The three looked at each other. He saw surprise register in his friends’ faces as well. None of them had considered that.

“Maybe breaking up cliques would be for the best.” Opened his eyes now, he turned and shot them a shit-eating smile. “Starting with you three.”

Graham vibrated beside him, but Greg knew guys like Tressler. They lived to stir the shit pot, and were usually well out of range when the entire thing exploded. Annoying little gnats who were irritating to listen to, but harmless in the grand scheme of things. And definitely not worth blowing up over.

Greg smiled back. “You know, quality attracts quality. Might be why you’re sitting alone.”

Tressler flushed. Brad thumped back down into his seat, but Greg could hear the man swallowing a laugh. Graham coughed and turned to the window, his shoulders shaking.

And Greg settled back in his own seat, satisfied when Tressler turned his back to them to look out his own window in a childish pout.

Greg leaned into the aisle to watch Reagan again as she walked down the rows doing another headcount like an RA on a dorm floor. When her eyes met his, he winked. She didn’t acknowledge his wink, except to flush and turn her head back around. She wobbled a little on those damn impractical heels of hers when the bus listed to the left. Someone—he couldn’t see his face—reached up to steady her by gripping her elbow. And when she bestowed a grateful smile on them, Greg’s hands fisted so hard the knuckles cracked.

“The Love Boat,” Graham sang under his breath. “Soon will be making another run . . .”

“Eat me.”

*   *   *

“OKAY.” Reagan took a deep breath, then stepped out of the car and met Greg on the sidewalk in front of her apartment building. Her palms were sweating. “So, don’t judge the outside. It’s not as bad as it looks.”

Greg glanced down at what appeared to be an ashtray full of blunts dumped on the small, patchy lawn leading up to the main door, and raised his brow.

“Fine, it sucks. Just don’t judge it until you get inside.” She opened the door, walked up to the second story, and unlocked her three locks.

“Three?”

“There were only two, but I added one after getting approval.” The door stuck, swollen by the heat, and she muscled her way in.

“You know how to add a deadbolt to a door?”

“I’ve got brothers. They like tools. I paid attention.” She shrugged a shoulder. “Home sweet home.”

He did a quick circle—that’s all it took, really, to see her entire apartment—and stayed quiet. She swallowed back the “what do you think?” question because it was just too damn needy for her to even admit thinking, let alone actually ask. It sucked, but it was hers. And embarrassing as it was for her to bring a man back to her place, she knew going forward they needed privacy to keep connecting. They wouldn’t get it at the BOQ. So, here they were.

“Well, you’re clean,” he said finally.

How did one admit that she was scared if she didn’t bleach everything twice a day, there would be roaches? Not that she’d seen one . . . yet. Or at least, not the crawling kind.

“I can see you in here.” He sat on the small, secondhand couch she’d searched for for a week before picking out. She could have settled for something ugly and blah-brown immediately and been fine, but she was holding out for pretty. She’d found it. The charcoal gray didn’t look like much at first, but the piping of bright, cheerful yellow around the edges had sold her. And the gray-and-yellow throw pillows were fantastic. She’d found a coordinating throw blanket to drape along the back, and two end tables she’d stenciled the tops of to coordinate.

“It’s not much,” she started, hating her defensive tone.

“It’s great.” He held out a hand, and she sank down beside him. “I know what you’re trying to accomplish here, and I respect that. Stop worrying that I’m judging you.”

Resting her head against his shoulder, she did her best to mentally shake off the day. “Today sucked.”

“Yes, it did.” He sifted his hands through her hair, disrupting her French twist and making a mess of the strands at the edge of her neck. But who cared? She wasn’t leaving again tonight. “Any news?”

“None. No leads from the MPs down there. I guess there’s no security cameras in that parking lot. And people were in and out all night. Combine that with the fact that nobody saw the inside of the bus after about four that afternoon until the early morning next morning, and there was a disgusting amount of time available for whoever to make their move.”

He was quiet awhile. “Could have been one of their boxers.”

She snorted.

“Probably not,” he agreed. “Figured out how to spin it yet?”

“Since it happened so far out from here, I’m hoping we can all just play the It Didn’t Happen game and move on.” She snuggled tighter into his embrace. “Tell me something.”

“Like what?” His voice was thick, as if fighting off sleep.

“About you. Your family. You know about mine, so tell me about yours.”

He didn’t respond, and for the longest while she wondered if he’d fallen asleep. Then he murmured. “I didn’t have any brothers to show me how to put in a deadbolt.” Then he sighed, and she knew he was gone for the night.

*   *   *

“SON of a bitch!”

Greg came awake with a start, and promptly rolled off the bed and landed with a thud on the floor. His legs flailed and he found himself completely trapped in a pile of bedding. “What the . . . Reagan? Did you set a trap or something? What the hell is going on here?”

She stormed in, sexy with a short robe on, her hair in a messy bun and no makeup. Her legs were tanned and long under the robe and she was barefoot. She tapped one foot next to his head. “No, I did not set a trap, Gregory. Get up.”

He struggled, fought and finally waited for her to help him untangle his legs from the girly bedding. Seriously, who needed this much lace on anything? Once he was free from captivity, he sat on the floor, arms locked around his knees and his back to the bed. “What’s wrong?”

“This.” She handed him the morning paper she’d tossed on the bed before assisting him, then slid down to sit beside him. “How do they already know?”

“This,” Greg quickly found out, was an article—more like opinion piece—about the ruined bus from the day before. The newspaper had taken the vandalized bus story and run with it, adding in some color commentary about the previous “tragedies” that had befallen the Marine Corps boxing team thus far. Was this an indication of what was expected when someone put that many trained killers—WTF?—together and encouraged them to beat each other bloody? Was this inevitable? Or maybe the violence and horrifying nature of the sport had spawned a vigilante of sorts out to right the wrongs created by this bloodthirsty pairing of military and “sport.”

It was signed by their all-time favorite asshole journalist, David Cruise.

“This guy,” Greg said with a sneer, “needs a new hobby.”

“This guy,” Reagan said, taking the paper back as he started to wad it up, “is making my job impossible.” She smoothed the paper down. “We have a leak.”

“I know.” That hit him right in the gut. He’d wanted, so very badly wanted, for this to be unconnected. For the acts in the gym to be the work of a crazy pack of unruly teens. For the whole thing to blow over so they could focus on the team, on the sport, on the challenge ahead. And he wanted to delude himself into believing the bus was vengeance from the team from Paris Island, completely unrelated.

But this sealed the deal. The asshole was one of them.

“Maybe,” he said, grasping at straws, “someone from the MPs here leaked. When you called them, maybe someone talked and—”

“They don’t know yet.” She sighed and pushed some hair behind her ear, staring at her primer-painted wall blankly. “I never called them. I had planned to stop in today and give them the rundown in person but . . .” She let her hands lift and fall again in a helpless gesture that looked so very wrong on his strong, independent Reagan.

“We’ll figure it out.” He pulled her close, let her rest her head on his shoulder for a moment. “We’ll get there.”

She sighed and burrowed in a little tighter. “Can I tell you a secret?”

He kissed her temple. “Always.”

“I’m afraid of getting fired,” she whispered.

The way her breath hitched at the end, as if she were swallowing back tears, gutted him. “No, baby, you won’t get fired.”

“You can’t know that.”

“I can, because I won’t let it happen.” He had no clue how, but the promise sort of just spilled out, and he knew in that moment he’d do almost anything to keep it. “First we—”

“Stop,” she said quietly. “Please, just for a minute . . . can you not fix it? For a minute, just let me be scared and hold me and not do or say anything logical for sixty seconds?”

Wrapping his arms tighter around her, he murmured, “Yeah, sure,” and let her cry for a minute. After the tears slowed, he waited until her breathing had caught up to his, mimicking the rhythm of his chest rising and falling. And he knew the storm was past.

“Better?” he asked against her hair.

“Thank you.” She nuzzled his neck. “You can fix it now.”

He chuckled. “Oh, can I?”

“I know you can . . . but it’s mine to fix, I guess.” She sighed and sat up straight. He instantly hated the distance between them. She grabbed the paper behind her and stared at it a moment. “What’s this guy’s deal, anyway? He’s got a personal vendetta against the team.”