Outmatched

Now, Fairchild was in my face, demanding more. I grinned with teeth that wanted to take a bite. “I don’t regret my decision. I’ve moved on to better things.”

“Better things?” He scoffed. “Nothing could beat stepping into the ring and annihilating your opponent.”

I was pretty sure punching this guy in the mouth would beat that. But I gave him an idle shrug in response and said nothing more.

Thankfully, Jackson became Mr. Manners—probably trying to cover for my refusal to bend to Fairchild’s will—and changed the subject.

“Franklin,” he said, “I’m so glad you’re finally meeting Parker. Her suggestions for our forecast model have made significant improvements to it, which has led to interest from a huge client in the European market—”

Fairchild made a derisive noise and waved a hand, cutting Jackson off. “In my day, you played the field based on your gut, not fancy computer software.”

Parker recoiled at his verbal hit. And I had the impulse to throw a punch for her. But like any good fighter, she took the strike, then pushed back, tensing and straightening her spine.

Her smile was cool water. “I agree, Mr. Fairchild. Nothing tops the power of well-honed instincts.” She kept her voice carefully modulated, totally unrattled. “The true purpose of my job is to provide information to back up that instinctual drive by taking numerous factors—hourly energy demands, wholesale power prices, generation mix,”—she waved an elegant hand as if to say this was all elementary shit—“and factoring in such variables as the proportion of power generated from renewable sources, and cross-border power flows for several European markets, and condensing that information into reports and data tools.”

We were all staring at her now, enthralled by her ice cream voice and gentle confidence. And she knew it.

“With that,” she said, “our clients have a clearer picture on how to proceed in various avenues.”

It was obvious she could go on and on but she stopped then, resting her hands on the table, and stared back at Fairchild with those brown doe eyes.

I wanted to laugh or maybe clap. This wasn’t the flustered harpy I’d been arguing with, or even the nervous Nelly I’d seen at the bar, tapping her toe in an agitated rhythm as she waited for Dean. This Parker knew her shit and wasn’t going to be cowed.

Unfortunately, Fairchild blinked as though he was coming out of a fog and gave her a bland look before turning to Jackson. “Well, she can talk, that’s for sure.”

Jackson looked like he wanted to kick Fairchild. Parker just looked kicked.

Fairchild’s watery gazed settled on me and a smile lit his weathered face. “Whatever gets the job done, eh?”

Like I was supposed to chuckle in agreement? Fuck, I was supposed to charm this dickhead. I’d have to walk a fine line between agreeing and pushing back.

I shrugged. “I’ve never underestimated the importance of having the best on my team.”

Fairchild chuckled and gave me a broad wink. “You’re being modest. Rhys ‘Widowmaker’ Morgan doesn’t need anything but a good one-two punch to knock out his opponents.”

Widowmaker. Inside, I recoiled, feeling slightly sick. When I was in the circuit, I’d assumed the title the press gave me with pride. It was a mark of distinction to be given a nickname. Then Jake died. Jake, who left behind Marcy and their infant daughter, Rose. I hadn’t been responsible for Jake’s death, but I sure as hell didn’t want to be called a widowmaker now.

My shoulders felt too tight. I rolled them and took a sip of water. “There’s nothing like a good knockout hit…” Let me demonstrate. Pretty please? “But I wouldn’t have had the skills without my trainers.” I leaned toward Parker until our shoulders touched. A sizzle of heat licked along my arm. Damn it. Focus. “And lately, I’ve come to realize the love of a good woman makes everything better.”

I was going to gag on my own words. And if the sound Parker made under her breath was any indication, she was already gagging. But I gazed down at her anyway, the very picture of a smitten fool. “Parker here is the best.”

Fuck, I sounded like a tool. I wanted to kick my own ass.

But I knew guys like Fairchild. He admired me for my boxing. But part of him would also hate himself for that admiration because he saw it as a weakness. I had to show him a little weakness in return. A small feint to reel him in, make him feel superior, followed by a little jab to keep him on his toes. Fairchild’s ilk liked a challenge, but not one that was too hard.

It was a dance I hated playing. But I’d do it for the gym. For Dean, even though he’d never appreciate it. But most importantly, to pay the mortgage on the gym and not have to resort to selling the place to someone who’d tear it down and slap up gentrified condos. Besides, Parker Brown—despite the enormity of her gorgeous brain—was in over her head here. She didn’t need Dean. He’d have fucked this up already by irritating the hell out of Fairchild. She needed me.