Against the Ropes by Jeanette Murray Page B

wild side?”
    â€œNo, but taking up the challenge to try does. Lying to me and making me think you enjoyed yours to get me to eat mine is a close second.”
    She flushed. “Caught.”
    He picked up her hand and nipped at her knuckles, then pressed a kiss to the same spot. “I’m impressed.” He let her go—why did her fingers instinctively curl to keep his hand with hers?—and settled back for another small bite of yogurt. “Not so bad, if you concentrate on one flavor at a time.”
    She wrinkled her nose and pushed hers to the side.
    â€œHow did the Great Paint Spill end up after we left?” He took another bite, and she watched his tongue lick the last of the yogurt from the curve of the spoon.
    That tongue could do wicked, wicked things to the curves of a woman’s body. Say, her body, for example . . .
    â€œEarth to Reagan.”
    She blinked. “Sorry, what?”
    â€œThe paint spill thing. What came out of that?”
    â€œRuined shoes, and probably a ruined suit, too.” She was still smarting over that. It had taken her months to find those shoes on sale. Months. She grabbed the yogurt back. Even the gross flavors were better than thinking about those shoes. “Otherwise, a very upset reporter, and a big bucket of ice in my belly over how he’s going to write up this little piece of ‘mischief.’” She used air quotes on one hand—the one not gripping the spoon that was currently going in for another bite.
    â€œHow are you still eating that thing?” Greg looked appalled.
    â€œIt’s not as bad, if you try to stick to one flavor on your spoon at a time.” She scooped out some fudge brownie with a little whipped cream. “See? Yours was all mixed up. I kept mine in nice, divided sections.”
    â€œYou couldn’t even go wild without putting order to it.” Looking disgusted at her lack of spontaneity, he grabbed her spoon and licked the yogurt off. “Serves you right.”
    â€œProbably.” Plus, she didn’t really need all the added calories. Gross taste or not, it all stuck straight to her hips. She’d be a walking cello if she wasn’t careful. “What’s your favorite part about boxing?”
    He blinked, then settled back in the wrought-iron chair that looked too small to hold his weight. “Where’d that come from?”
    â€œYou said to be able to ask you another question and coach you through it, I had to go out with you again.” She spread her arms wide. “We’re out, dessert and all.”
    She saw the moment he realized she had him. He scowled, then stabbed his spoon into his yogurt and pushed it to the side. “I’m good at it.”
    â€œYou are,” she agreed. Then when he said nothing more, she prompted, “And?”
    â€œAnd . . .” He shrugged and used the handle of the spoon to push his yogurt cup around the table. “I like to win. I like to have fun. Winning is fun, so . . . yeah.”
    Reagan tapped her finger to her lips. His entire demeanor changed when she questioned him as Reagan Robilard, Team Liaison than when they were simply chatting. Was that a good thing, or bad? “If a reporter asks, you’ll need more. That answer will come off in print sounding cocky, though I doubt that’s actually how you mean it. Try something like, ‘I took to the sport of boxing naturally, and as I became better, my enjoyment for it grew.’”
    He sneered. “That sounds like twisted PR crap.”
    â€œIt
is
twisted PR crap. But it’s my job to twist the crap until it can’t get you into trouble in any way.” She stood and tossed her yogurt in the trash behind her. “I’ve got to get back to my place and start figuring out how to play serious damage control. Plus, I’ve got an interview with the head leader guy of the MPs to figure out exactly how