“Mmm-hmm.” The vibration of his low voice rumbles against my back.
If I don’t get out of this hold soon, I may end up doing something stupid like rub up against him and purr.
I twist hard and he releases me. Darting around the Impala, back to the grease tin, I lather my hands up with ammo and slink towards him, hands held forward in warning.
He crooks his finger at me and lifts an eyebrow. I lunge again.
We chase and dodge, while laughing and throwing threats at each other, until we’re out of grease and forced to call a truce. Our clothes and skin are covered in the oily evidence of our horseplay. Against a wall, I slide down to sit and catch my breath. He tosses me a stack of shop towels and goes to work cleaning off his neck and face.
“Okay, all fun aside, whose booty do you have to kick to get this belt?” I wipe grease from my shoulder.
He sits next to me, cleaning the muck from his fingers. “Victor Del Toro. He’s the current heavyweight champion. No one’s been able to knock him off the throne—until now, of course.” The confidence in his voice makes it a statement of fact rather than a prediction.
“Hm. Well, good luck.” A quick glance has me locked in his stare, fiery hazel pulling me in. “Not that you’ll need it.”
His eyes roam my face and neck. My defenses try to push my gaze to the floor, but I’m captivated by his allure. Awareness, like a silent confession, passes between us igniting my blood. I suck in air and roll my bottom lip between my teeth to avoid saying something I’ll regret like kiss me.
A slow grin pulls at his mouth, his eyes sparkling. “You should come to the fight.”
The way he’s looking at me wakes the butterflies in my stomach. Come to the fight? I’d say yes to anything he asks. “Sure, yeah.”
He’s still staring, but his smile grows, his dimples forming bookends to his radiant smile. “It’s September fourteenth at—”
“Shut. Up.” My powerful response surprises even me.
“What? Why?” He’s genuinely confused which only endears me to him more.
“Oh, no, I just mean . . . shut up . . . like . . . no way . . . My twenty-first birthday is September fifteenth.”
“Wow, twenty-first. That’s a big one. I remember my twenty-first.” His eyes search the rafters, concentrating. “Actually, I don’t.” Shrugging one shoulder, he smirks. “I heard it was great though.” He runs a hand through his hair with a shy grimace that I find completely sexy.
I fold the greasy shop towel. “How long ago was your twenty-first?”
His eyes narrow on mine. “Raven, are you trying to ask me how old I am?”
Heat warms my neck, rising up to color my cheeks.
“Five years ago. I’m twenty-six.” Comfortable silence fills the air. “Anyway, you should come to the fight. I’ll get you a ticket. Call it an early birthday present.”
“I’d love that. Thanks.”
*
Jonah
Thirty minutes with the heavy bag didn’t make a dent in my attempt to exorcise Raven from my head. I thought for sure that spending time with her this morning would work in my favor. Figured if I got to know her better, I’d realize she’s just like other girls. I was wrong.
From the moment she walked into my house to the moment she walked out, she held my rapt attention. Usually when women start talking I zone out, but this girl said things I wanted to hear. She talked about cars like they were family. It was captivating. If that weren’t enough, working together was a breeze. We fell into easy conversation and comfortable silences, as if she were one of the guys—well, one of the guys in a supermodel package. Damn. What a package. Even the garage, with its twenty-foot ceilings, felt small with her in it. No matter how far away I would move, her perfect body seemed too close. Thank God I had to get to training or I’d probably fallen to my knees and begged her to have dinner with me.
This isn’t good. With the title fight coming up, I can’t afford any distractions. Maybe I should put the restoration on hold until after the fight. That should give me time to forget about her. Or maybe I should pull my shit together and stop acting like some teenager with perma-wood.
I can’t blow her off now. I promised her tickets to my fight, and I can’t go back on a promise. Comfort washes over me at the thought of looking out from the octagon on the biggest fight of my life and seeing Raven standing in my corner. This shit is not cool. I’ll get one of the guys to give me a thorough ass kicking before I leave for being such a pansy.
But pansy or not, I’m drawn to her by some unseen force. Everything from my thoughts to my dick gravitates in her direction. Like getting caught in a rip tide, one minute I’m swimming, free to go in any direction, and then I feel a tug. I’m kicking and flailing my arms and legs toward shore while the invisible pull takes me in the opposite direction. No matter how hard I swim, I keep going further and further out to sea.