Outmatched

“Isn’t that right, sweetheart?” I asked, wrapping an arm around her once again, and giving into the urge to nuzzle her hair. God, she smelled good. I’d have to get used to that. And the way touching her made my dick immediately perk up.

Down, boy.

She smiled so tight and fake, I wanted to laugh. Her hand came down on my thigh—way too close to said dick. Pale pink nails sank into my flesh, her grip hard enough to feel even through my jeans.

That’s a bite I’ll be feeling later. She really was cute in an angry pixie sort of way.

“You’re too sweet, lumpy,” she gritted out.

Lumpy? I huffed a small laugh.

“You two been together long?” Fairchild asked as the waitress set down our drinks.

“Feels like forever,” Parker said lightly.

“I admit, I’m surprised to see you here,” Fairchild went on, taking a sip of his Scotch. “The whole time you were fighting, you always had a new lady on your arm.” He chuckled. “I remember one fight, Morgan showed up with three women,” he said to Jackson. “One on each arm and one leading the way to the ring.”

This fucking guy.

I wanted to meet Parker’s gaze and give her a commiserating look. Not that I thought she’d appreciate it right now; the woman was tight as a drum and nearly vibrating with irritation. “Eh, well… when you know, you know.”

I saluted Parker with my beer before taking a deep pull. I didn’t know shit about romantic love. But for a chance to save everything I did love, I’d fake it. With that, I leaned forward, bracing my forearms on the table—much to Miss Priss’s evident dismay.

“Forget the women,” I told Fairchild. “Did you ever hear the story about the time I met Donny Douglas for an underground fight?”

As expected, Fairchild’s eyes lit up. “I didn’t. When was this?”

Hook, line, and sinker. I launched into the story, knowing it would keep Fairchild entertained, that with each word, he’d want me around more—and Parker by extension. Yeah, she needed me. She just didn’t know it yet. But she would.

Four

Parker

I shivered in the chilly late spring night, my heart thumping in my chest as I watched Rhys talk in undertones with Mr. Fairchild. Jackson and Camille had already left. Finally, Fairchild got into his Town Car, and I narrowed my gaze on Rhys as he sauntered back over to me.

He walked with the swagger of a man who’d just won a boxing bout.

The big jerk.

“So, I just saved your ass.” He had the audacity to grin.

The anger that had been slow-cooking in my gut since we’d all sat down to dinner threatened to boil over. If I stayed here one more second, I would eviscerate him with the power of my mind.

I was sure of it.

There was no way a person could be this angry with someone without that energy manifesting itself. I abruptly turned away from Yvonne’s and began walking south toward the apartment I shared with my best friend Zoe. It was thirty minutes by foot, which should give me some time to walk off my uncharacteristic rage.

“I’ll walk you home and we can discuss terms.” Rhys fell into step beside me.

Bafflement overtook the fury. “Excuse me?”

He shrugged. “You still need someone to pretend to be your boyfriend, right? And I think I can say with certainty that Fairchild thinks I’m the shit.”

Yes, Fairchild definitely thought Rhys was the poo. Of course he would. They were both Neanderthals. I gritted my teeth, frustrated that my short legs could never out-stride the tall boxer beside me. A boxer, for goodness’ sake!

Not that I didn’t appreciate boxing. Any competitive sport demonstrated discipline, determination, and skill. Those were all good qualities.

No, the boxing didn’t bother me.

It explained the muscles and the broken nose.

What bothered me was the sycophantic bromance that had developed between Rhys and Fairchild. He never outright agreed with any of the backward, bordering-on-misogynistic bull-twaddle that came out of my boss’s mouth, but Rhys also hadn’t outright disagreed.

For most of the evening, Jackson, Camille, and I had to listen to Rhys entertain Fairchild with stories of his glory days as a boxer. It wasn’t that the stories weren’t somewhat interesting; it was just that they opened the door for Fairchild’s commentary. And his toxic masculinity.

The whole point of the dinner was to show Fairchild I was an important addition to the team. All he cared about was Rhys.

“You derailed my dinner,” I seethed.

“Derailed it?” Rhys huffed. “Anytime Jackson brought up the subject of renewable energy, Fairchild’s eyes glazed over. You should thank me for keeping the guy interested enough to stay through the entire meal.”

“Yes, I so enjoyed him constantly grilling you about how much blood you’ve spilled and how many women you’ve bedded. That’s what I always look for in my dinner conversation.”