The rumble of deep voices and rock music sounds from behind the set of doors. He swings it open and walks through with me on his heels. I’m caught up in the tour when my eyes land on the figure of a man. The sight of him makes me freeze in place.
Dammit. It’s him. Blake’s standing there with a couple of guys. I couldn’t describe the other guys because my eyes are glued to Blake’s bare arms. I thought they looked superb beneath his long sleeves, but uncovered—I can’t swallow. He looks better than real, like a weight training Ken doll, all hard lines and sinewy curves. His shoulder cuts flow with an elegant masculinity down to his biceps and triceps, which are bulging and glistening with sweat.
His eyes meet mine in the mirror. Even at this distance, I’m sucked into the deep green nirvana of his stare. My heart rate speeds up, and a slow, steady smile curls his perfect lips.
Everything about you screams easy.
The voice in my head slashes through the spell. Blinking to clear the haze, I curse the debilitating abuse that haunts me still.
“…available to you as well.” Mr. Gibbs stands smiling at me, and I register what was apparently the tail end of a longer sentence.
“Excuse me?”
He narrows his eyes at me, and I stand a bit taller, hoping he doesn’t mistake my drifting away for a moment as incompetence.
“The gym. It’s available to you as well.” He raises his eyebrows. “Do you work out?”
“Sure.” In my old life, working out was the only way I could work off my anxiety. But he doesn’t need to know that.
“Great. Let’s move on to—”
“I see you found our little mouse.”
My skin flames at the nearness of his voice, and my stomach tumbles.
“Ah, perfect. Blake Daniels, I’d like you to meet Lay—”
“We’ve met.” His eyes are locked on mine, and my glasses slide down what feels like the entire length of my face. I wiggle my nose to get them back into place. He smiles, his gaze bouncing back and forth from my eyes to my lips.
I glare at Blake, quickly remembering that he may be the best-looking man I’ve ever seen, but he’s still a jackass. “Yes, Mr. Daniels was very helpful this morning.” Not.
He dips his chin and rubs the back of his neck. Is he embarrassed? Well, maybe this guy has a heart after all.
“Looks like you found your way okay,” he says, motioning to Gibbs, who is talking to a good-looking guy with dark skin and arms bigger than my waist.
“No thanks to you,” I whisper and bite down hard to keep from calling him a dick.
“Owen, Rex, and Mason, this is my new assistant, Mrs. Layla Moorehead.”
“Layla.” I correct him, and then shake hands with the guys, mentally running their stats.
Owen Miller, MMA champion on the National circuit, retired fighter, current trainer. Rex T-Rex Carter, kickboxing champion and former Olympian, known for his superhuman leg strength. And the UFL’s most recent acquisition, Mason “Mayhem” Mahoney, all-state college wrestler and jiu-jitsu red belt.
“It’s nice to meet you all. I’m…”
Blake’s still standing in the same spot, and his eyes spear me with a glare. I cringe beneath its weight and forget what I was going to say. What’s his problem?
“Layla will be your contact for all things when I’m unavailable.”
I’m grateful for Mr. Gibbs’s interruption, but I can’t drag my eyes away from what looks to be a seething Blake.
“She’ll be taking on more responsibility than Heidi did.”
Suddenly I remember what I was going to say. “I’m looking forward to the opportunity—”
“Shit, you already got the job.” Blake’s comment makes the guys chuckle. “This ain’t an interview.”
His sudden change in personality makes me fidget. He’s not teasing, he’s pissed. As I drop my gaze to the floor, a stubborn piece of hair falls into my face. I smooth it back and hope to hide my embarrassment. “Of course.” Be confident. I lift my head and straighten my shoulders. “You’re right. I apologize—”
“Apologize?” Blake looks at me, and I don’t miss the flash of disappointment in his eyes.
What did I do wrong? And why on earth do I care what this guy thinks? He’s the worst kind a jerk. Cocky, arrogant, and condescending. I glare at him, and he meets my eyes with an unwavering scowl. Staring at each other, we lock into a battle that I refuse to lose.
“I’m going to get Layla started, so I’ll see you guys at the meeting later this afternoon,” Gibbs says.
Blake’s gaze moves away from me.
Ha. I win. I exhale a deep, gratifying sigh and remind myself that sticking my tongue out does not scream professionalism.
The guys mumble their goodbyes, and I follow Mr. Gibbs from the weight room, grateful to be free from the stifling presence of Blake Daniels.
“Wish I could tell you things will get better, but they won’t. Professional fighters aren’t the warmest bunch. Sooner you get used to it, the better.”
I smile and choose not to share that I just out-intimidated one of those fighters in a staring contest. Oh great, now I’m thinking like an eight-year-old.
“Nothing they can throw will surprise me.” Asshole jerks are my forté.
*