Outmatched

Parker’s gaze drifted over everything. Her little heels clicked in the echoing silence. The loft was enormous, taking up the entire top of the building. I’d cordoned off a bedroom, bathroom, and personal workout space on the back half, but the main space still dwarfed us.

She stopped and turned to face me. “It’s perfect.”

I shouldn’t give a rat’s ass if this woman liked my place. I shouldn’t care if anyone did. But something in me eased at her statement. Then I got annoyed all over again.

Grunting, I headed toward the kitchen. It had taken Carlos and I the better part of a summer to put it in, but we’d got the job done. Black cabinets on the bottom, open shelving—which is damn cheaper—along the top. We’d spent two weeks cursing like fiends trying to figure out how to pour a proper concrete countertop, but we figured it out eventually. I glanced at the lumpy end of one counter and swallowed a laugh. Okay, so we’d gone with wood butcher block for the center island after the whole concrete experiment.

“It’s home, anyway. Used to have a condo by the harbor.” A sleek penthouse with views for miles. “Seemed easier to fix up the loft and live here when I took over the gym.” Cheaper. It was cheaper, and I needed the cash. “Saves me commuting time, that’s for damn sure.”

Babbling like a fool, I stopped at my fridge and pulled out the groceries I’d picked up for tonight. But a thought hit me, and I paused to glance back at Parker. She’d followed me to the kitchen and was standing by the island, her big brown eyes on me.

She’d taken off her jacket and draped it over the back of a barstool. Even so, she appeared far from relaxed.

“You okay with fettuccine carbonara?” Maybe I should have picked something … lighter. Fish. Chicken. I had no idea what Parker ate.

“It sounds delicious. Can I help?” She edged closer, clearly too aware of every move she made.

We both were. Blowing out a breath, I rooted around for a head of butter lettuce and vegetables. “Yeah, sure. Can you make the salad?”

“I can do that.”

Well, this was going…horribly. I’d had easier conversational flow with strangers in elevators. Get Parker and me alone, where no one might interrupt us, and we were stiff as old sticks.

I grinned at the ridiculousness of our reaction, and Parker immediately noticed.

Her nose wrinkled. “We’re acting like strangers, aren’t we?”

“Yep.”

“We’re not going to fool anyone, are we?” Worry clouded her eyes.

“Fail?” I placed a hand over my heart in mock horror. “I don’t know the meaning of the word.”

She rolled her eyes and grabbed the lettuce and salad fixings. “Good. At least one of us doesn’t.” Before I could respond, she glanced around. “Where are your knives and cutting board?”

I got her what she needed, and then turned on the stove and set a pot of water on the burner. Parker was already cutting up the tomatoes.

“Since you’re holding the knife,” I said, “I’m warning you now—I’m about to touch you.”

She huffed in wry amusement but held herself very still. “Probably a good call to warn me.”

“Getting stabbed isn’t on my list of activities for tonight.” Slowly, like I was approaching a skittish cat, I eased up to Parker, standing right next to her, and then gently placed my hand on the small of her back.

The fine muscles flanking her spine tensed and quivered. She stared down at the cutting board. “Why is it so much…more when we’re alone?”

The quietly asked question went straight to my dick. I had to let out another slow breath. “Because it feels real.”

I hadn’t meant to say that.

Her smile slanted when she glanced up and met my eyes. “It’s easier to act when there are eyes watching the performance.”

She was still twitching against my palm, as though she was fighting the desire to move away. I kept my hand on her, letting her feel my heat, the weight of my touch. “All actors have rehearsals. That’s what this is.”

With a quick, efficient nod, she reached for the avocados. “You ever do any real acting?”

“Me?” I laughed at the absurd image. “No. Wait—scratch that. There’s definitely an element of acting in boxing. Playing it up for the crowd before a bout, promotional crap. The shit you do to psyche out your opponent.”

“You mean when you guys go nose to nose and say terrible things to each other?” She seemed amused.

“I keep forgetting you’ve never watched me fight.” My ego was just fine but, without even trying, she was surprisingly good at taking it down a notch. “Yeah, sweetheart, that’s what I meant. But,” I added, “I hated that bullshit. It used to make me laugh when a guy got in my face and went off on some tangent. Shut up and fight already, man.”