Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 77124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
“The difference is that he enjoys hitting me. You would just be putting up a fair fight. It’s no fun if you just let me win.”
“So let’s just call it now. You win.”
“Afraid not,” I said, striking out, and landing a small punch to his chest. But the man was solid. I didn’t even knock him back a step.
“We’re supposed to be talking about the… case,” he said, glancing around to check if anyone was eavesdropping.
“So talk,” I said, swinging, but he lifted his glove to block. Once, twice. “So, it’s not that you’re uncoordinated,” I said, looking at him with my head tilted.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I said, shaking my head.
But, yeah, the man was a little… accident-prone. And I’d only known him for a few hours. The bike, the coffee cup, a rat running across his path, making him nearly fall off the damn sidewalk as we walked my dog.
Then there was the story about his forehead and the car door and the hot coffee spilled on him at the shop.
I guess I figured his reflexes would just be slow. But that wasn’t the case when he kept deflecting my punches as I got more and more determined to get past his defenses and land at least one good hit.
“Have you boxed before?” I asked, eyeing him suspiciously.
“No.”
“How are you so good at this then?”
“I have a big family,” he said, shrugging. “Things got… scrappy as I was growing up.”
I guess that made sense.
Even if it got more and more frustrating with each passing moment as the sweat started to pour again.
“At least swing,” I grumbled, circling him again. “You can pull the punch,” I said, shrugging.
“I don’t trust my luck there,” he said, looking a little sheepish. “Did you find out anything?” he asked since, yeah, we did meet to talk, not fight.
“I actually have an appointment with a hacker after this,” I admitted. “He had… a mission.”
“What kind of mission?” Anthony asked, knocking my uppercut away.
“A… video game mission,” I said, letting out a little laugh. “He’s… a pain in my ass. But he was adamant about not being able to meet me until then. No matter how much money I offered.”
“Can I tag along?” he asked.
“Depends. Do you like pizza rolls?”
“Pizza rolls,” he repeated as I tried three quick jabs in succession, all of which he met with his gloves or forearms. “I guess they’re fine.”
“Because he’s going to talk to you about them,” I warned him.
“Got it,” he said, giving me a little grin that had no right to be as sexy as it was.
And just like I’d used Denny’s distraction against him, Anthony used my preoccupation with how stupidly hot he was when he grinned against me.
His fist rushed forward, but he pulled it at the last second, the tip of his glove kissing my chin.
Something crackled in the air between us as we stood there gazes locked, breathing a little labored, bodies close.
Desire surged, building like waves through my body until I felt it tingle across my skin, felt it twist in my core, and clench between my legs.
“Impressive,” my mother’s voice called, making Anthony take several hasty steps backward from me, glancing almost guiltily over at her. “Saylor has been in the ring since she was a little girl,” she explained, holding the ropes open for Anthony to slip between, then reaching out to help remove the velcro from his gloves, so he could slide them off easily. “Saylor, why don’t you go get cleaned up while I talk to your friend.”
I had every intention of going to the meeting as gross as I was, sweat-soaked through my clothes and my hair, but I honestly needed a few minutes alone to reason with my libido.
An ice cold shower seemed like the perfect way to accomplish that.
Even if it did mean leaving my mother unattended with Anthony.
I went to the women’s locker room that was almost always empty, other than a small handful of women who liked to lift heavy or fight. And didn’t mind the guys like Denny around offering to spot them when they didn’t need it, or, worse yet, lifting their weights up without even asking.
I stepped under the cold spray for as long as I could tolerate it, then went to my locker where I always kept a few changes of clothes—both workout and street—and slipped into a pair of black jeans and a gray long-sleeved t-shirt.
I brushed out my hair, then twisted it up into a claw clip until it wouldn’t drip all over my shoulders, then grabbed my phone with its wallet case and my keys, then went to save Anthony from my mother.
It just so happened that the moment I stepped into the gym, Anthony threw back his head and laughed at something—undoubtedly embarrassing—my mother said to him.