I hadn’t known who he was at the time, but I’d seen him once at the gym. He’d made my head turn. He’d been in a class and someone was demonstrating a skill, so everyone had been sitting on the mat watching. He’d had his eyes on the teacher, and I’d had my eyes on him because… wow. I hadn’t been around when he trained with Gray or got in the ring and fought. Emory had said they trained in the early mornings. That was definitely not my time to work out.
He shrugged. “
You teach. I fight.”
We stopped in front of a pizzeria, and he held the door open for me. The scent of garlic and marinara sauce surrounded us as we entered the crowded restaurant. It was warm from the ovens and the windows were a little fogged. It was casual, low key and my stomach rumbled. After my seven-mile run, I needed calories. Gooey, cheesy calories.
“This is your job then, fighting. It’s not a hobby for you.”
He shook his head.
“Surely, you’re more than just a fighter,” I replied, having to raise my voice over the din.
I joined him in the line at the take-out counter.
He glanced down at me, eyes roving over my face, dropping to my lips for a moment. “Nah, I’m just a fighter.” He held up his hands, showed me the big knuckles, blunt fingers. “Always have been. That’s all I know.”
I wasn’t so sure about that, but I didn’t say anything.
“Everything I learned came from the streets not books. I see you as a prep school kid.”
“That would be me,” I told him. There was no reason to deny it because it was true. “Went to a fancy place in Denver.”
It was a fancy coed private school that required uniforms and a huge chunk of cash for tuition. My parents had the means and the expectations that came with that kind of program although while I’d gone on to Cornell, an Ivy League school, I’d chosen to study art history, a complete disappointment to them.
What else was new?
“Prep school, then college, right? You have a PhD?”
I nodded.
“In what?”
“Medieval and Byzantine art specializing in gothic architecture.”
It was a mouthful, and his eyebrows winged up.
“Impressive,” he said slowly. “My fights? Let’s just say I’m getting my PhD in fighting.”
“When’s your next competition?” I asked. The people in front of us took their pizza box and left. We stepped up to the counter, waited for one of the busy workers to come over.
“Fight,” he explained. “January.”
That wasn’t far off, only a few weeks, and the idea of him in the ring made me nervous for him. “I’ll come watch, but you have to win.”
He looked down at me with a sly smile, but his eyes didn’t meet mine, they were squarely focused on my mouth. “I always win. Especially when it’s a hard fight.”
I swallowed, thinking he might not be talking about MMA any longer.
“Hi, Reed.” The counter girl interrupted us and gave Reed a very bright smile. “It’s been a while.” And a perfect view of her breasts in her snug t-shirt. The restaurant logo stretched snugly across her ample curves. She was probably twenty-one, blonde and smart in a way I never could be.
There were book smarts, which I had, then street smarts. Reed was all street smarts, I was sure, and this girl would be considered a genius. She knew the game. By putting her forearms on the counter and leaning in, she flaunted her assets. It screamed I’m available. I was always impressed by women who used what they had to get what they wanted. I saw nothing wrong with it, even envied them a bit for the skill, but this time, it only made me mad.
I was standing right next to Reed—we’d even been talking—and she knew I was with him. I was even wearing his damn coat. She didn’t care. I had to wonder if their familiarity extended beyond pizza carry out. I shut that thought down because I didn’t really want to go there.
“Hey, Claire. Yeah, not too much pizza during training.” He patted his flat stomach. I wasn’t sure if he knew her by name because he’d gotten friendly with her for a reason I was trying not to think about or because he actually did eat a lot of pizza and was lying out his ass.
“I’ll be at your next fight.” She flashed him a bright smile then bit her lip.