I looked up at him through my lashes and realized he wasn’t poking fun, but he was definitely amused by me.
“Good night,” I murmured, walking past him.
His hand on my bare arm had me pausing, my breath catching. The touch was gentle, his skin warm, yet it was like a shock to the system. “I hope to see you on Sunday, Emory.” His voice was quiet, almost intimate.
I gave a little nod, but didn’t look up at him, my skin where he touched tingling all the way down to my car.
CHAPTER TWO
GRAY
I'd fucked up. That’s all I could think about. After my five-mile run, I began my usual thirty-minute stint with the jump rope. Click. Click. Click. The sound of the plastic striking the gym mat was almost lulling and I fell into my groove, my muscles warm from the run.
Breathe in, breathe out.
There were a few early-morning guys getting their time in, but it was Saturday, so most of us were there to get in and get out and not interested in talking. This suited me fine. My first client was at ten, but right now, I just went through the paces. Besides, the guys knew I was always there for them—it was my gym—but a guy’s workout time was sacrosanct and everyone knew not to fuck with me during mine. With my usual early-morning opener at the front desk handling the day-to-day running of the place, I didn’t have any distractions. The gym had been open a few years and I had my regulars, my solid core of employees, which suited me just fine. I liked things calm. Consistent. The only fights I wanted to be involved in these days were in the ring, and usually it wasn’t me doing the fighting. I was done with that life now. I was just the trainer behind the ropes. Yeah, right. There was no fucking way I could ever be just a trainer behind the ropes.
The cleaning crew had come through overnight and the strong scent of pine cleaner and bleach lingered. The speakers pumped out a techno beat. I hated lyrics blasting while I worked out, the voices distracting me, so I kept a playlist where the steady rhythm helped keep the mood amped. As owner, I ran the gym my way. Since my name in the industry preceded me, no one was going to question me or how I did things.
I gave a little chin nod to a guy heading to the locker room, not breaking my rhythm with the rope, then gave myself over to my thoughts. Both activities were brainless, so my mind wandered easily to how much of an idiot I'd been the night before. My dinner meeting with my fighter, Reed, and the PR guys had gone long, so when I finally pulled myself free, I floored it across town to the engagement party. The way Paul looked at his fiancée, Christy, had been worth the hustle, but watching a woman charm the bartender had made my night.
I’d been standing with two guys questioning me about the next big fight when I saw her. It was as if I’d been round-kicked to the head and I couldn’t look away. She had brown hair, wavy and long, pulled back from her face in some magical way women tamed it. But hers didn’t look all that tame. Controlled, perhaps. Barely. As if a strong wind, or a man’s hands running over the silky strands would set it all free. Her eyes were dark, but sparkling with mischief. Her full lips were coated with something clear and shiny. The bartender had laughed at something she said. It wasn’t flirting. She didn’t touch him, didn’t lean in to work her feminine wiles. Didn’t even bat her eyelashes. She just had a way about her I wanted focused on me, not the damn guy behind the bar. So when he handed her a glass of water disguised as a gin and tonic, I was intrigued and I was never intrigued these days.
Her dress was yellow. It had no sleeves so her tanned, toned arms were exposed. But that was all she exposed because the neckline was high, like a T-shirt. There wasn’t a hint of cleavage, although the trim style showed off her curves and narrow waist. And fuck, she had just the right amount of curves in all the right places. I was a man, what the hell did I know about dresses, but it reminded me of something Audrey Hepburn would have worn in one of those old movies. It looked vintage, with a full skirt that hid her hips and her legs down to her knees. Strappy sandals with a reasonable heel made her look…feminine. Not like the over-the-top, in-your-face, fuck-me-now women in the bar area who were eyeing me as if I were a piece of meat, or the MMA champ they knew me to be. They wanted me to take them to the restroom, lock the door and fuck their brains out. No names, no connection. Just a quick lay with the champ.
I was done with that shit.
So this woman, this woman, she was soft and lush. Mysterious. Intriguing.
I’d been pulled into another conversation about fighting and had to look away. I was able to get my sights on her again when I finally made my way over to Paul. She’d gotten cornered, talking to some asshole who’d been standing too close with his hand on her arm. From across the room I had no idea what they spoke of, but it was obvious she wasn’t interested, especially when she’d moved out of his grasp. I watched him closely; he definitely wasn’t her date. If he was, he sure as hell wasn’t getting lucky. Her gaze kept darting outside and she took frequent deep breaths as if she was ready to flee. Something he said made her frown, a little crease forming in her smooth brow and I’d been pissed. She shouldn’t be doing anything but smiling, but not with this douche.
If what he was saying offended her, I had no clue why she didn’t just toss her drink in his face and walk off. Paul must have noticed as well, because he told me the guy was his cousin—his handsy cousin—and asked me to step in and rescue her. He couldn’t tear himself away from the group we were with but I didn’t mind, not in the least. He told me the woman was a friend of Christy’s and was too nice to give an asshole—he said every family has an asshole cousin—much of a brush-off. Paul had no idea I’d been watching her, but it fucking made my night that he knew her and asked for my help. It was the perfect excuse to get her to turn that brilliant smile on me without coming across as another guy that tried to pick her up. The way she looked, the way she just glowed, the men would be hounding her.
As I made my way closer, I could see she wasn’t the most beautiful woman in the room. There were ladies in their twenties I passed who put their best assets to full advantage, trying to score. It wasn’t just the men troll
ing. It was an equal-opportunity meat market. Cleavage, exposed thigh, stiletto heels, pouty red lips were being put on full display. Youth was also on their side, but youth lacked experience. Life. This mystery woman was definitely in her thirties, probably closer to forty. She wore her age well, as if she knew who she was, what she wanted from life and told everyone else to fuck off. Except for Mr. Asshole. He’d made her frown. As I made my way across the room, the guy’s hand moved to her waist and I saw red. I wanted to storm over there and rip the man’s arm off for touching her. She stepped back and I knew she wasn’t interested. That’s right, baby. He’s not for you. She wasn’t a quick lay. She was so much more.
This wasn’t the ring and I couldn’t just beat the shit out of him. I had to be civilized so I didn’t get arrested, but more importantly, scare the crap out of the woman. I took a few deep breaths and chilled the hell out and got the girl. At least for a little while.
I glanced up at the digital clock placed high above the wall mats. Fifteen minutes to go. Sweat dripped down my back and my legs were starting to tire. But I pushed on and thought about the conversation with Emory to get me through to the end of my workout.
She’d actually considered that I would drug her with the water. Someone like Emory shouldn’t have those thoughts, shouldn’t have to watch out for predators. Men who were willing to treat her poorly, or worse. Had some guy—perhaps her ex—been a dick and hurt her? Was that why she was wary?
When she’d looked at me, she’d been cautious. Yeah, I had cauliflower ear from fighting. My nose had been broken multiple times. I had scars on top of scars. Tattoos. I looked dangerous, and to some people, was dangerous, but not with Emory. It just proved that my life was fucked up enough that a good girl like her would be afraid to be with the likes of me.
She was divorced. The guy must have done something to fuck with her. She was skittish and nervous as a sixteen-year-old girl on a first date. She'd blushed so endearingly and that proved it. So I’d given her space, kept my tone gentle, tried to keep her at ease, because hell, I was pretty fucking scary looking. She’d said she wasn’t scared of me. Just nervous. Well, the feeling had been mutual. I’d been nervous as fuck around her because I didn’t want to mess up. But I had. I’d stuck my foot in my mouth over and over. I’d told her I wasn’t picking her up and I saw her smile slip.
I’d made her think I wasn’t interested, that she wasn’t enough, when in fact she was too much. Too perfect. I didn’t want to be like the other dicks in the bar, because while I probably had the same thoughts as the oyster guy, I was gentleman enough to know she didn’t do pickups. She would have run away screaming if I’d shared how much I wondered what she wore beneath her prim dress. Something sexy and lacy, perhaps. And that made me debate what color her nipples were, if her skin was as silky soft as it looked.
Emory wasn’t some woman at the bar looking for a good time. She’d admitted outright she wasn’t looking. Period. The kicker was, she had no idea who I was. No idea I was famous in the industry. She didn’t know about my career, didn’t know my wins, my championship belts, my notoriety. Didn’t know I’d been stopped at least five times within as many minutes when I showed up at the bar. There was no sign of recognition at all when I told her my name. She wasn’t a groupie, and that made her one of the only women who’d said to my face she wanted nothing from me. I had been the one to pursue her. To give her the option to see me again, and she’d been the first in a long, long time I’d done so.
Unfortunately, my notoriety and fame had its price. Men wanted to be my friend, to be buddies with the champion MMA fighter. Women wanted in my bed, to be with the Grayson Green. Everyone wanted a piece of me. For themselves. For their own notoriety. Only a select few were on my true friends list, those I trusted. Who knew the real fucked-up person behind the façade.
I could get laid anytime I wanted, I could’ve walked through that bar and gotten some action without even trying hard. Gone back to their place for a quick fuck. Hell, I could have pulled them into the janitor’s closet. That had been fine when I was younger, when I didn’t care about knowing their names. I’d just wanted the meaningless release. Now, I wanted…something more. The chance for something real. Not fake tits. Not fake-and-bake skin. Not empty brains. Not groupies.
As the buzzer went off, I realized I wanted Emory and I’d have to try damn hard to get her. Hanging the jump rope on a wall peg, I grabbed my towel, wiped the sweat from my head and neck as I caught my breath. She wasn’t someone I could just have. It wasn’t going to happen that way. She was going to take work. Careful handling. The need to know more about her had gotten me to ask her to watch the rugby game tomorrow. Even knowing her for less than fifteen minutes, I knew she wouldn’t go out with a guy that picked her up in a bar, even if I was a friend of Paul’s.
So I had to leave it up to her and hope that I intrigued her enough to want to stop by. I’d left it light. Easy. I’d see if she showed up, and if not, I’d have to figure out how to win her over a different way. I could connect with her through Paul’s fiancée, Christy.