Outmatched: A Novel

by Kristen Callihan

  He most assuredly did!

  What the heck was he up to?

  I was going to vomit. I was going to vomit all over Mr. Fairchild’s Prada loafers.

  “Rhys?” Mr. Fairchild practically bulldozed past Jackson to get to my tormentor. “Rhys Morgan, I’ll be damned.”

  Wait, what?

  I watched Fairchild pump Rhys’s hand, grinning at him like he was the second coming, and then felt the floor disappear beneath me when he turned to Jackson and said, “You didn’t tell me Parker was dating Rhys Morgan.”

  At our blank expressions, Fairchild guffawed. “He’s only the best goddamn heavyweight boxer this country has seen in a generation.” He clamped a hand down on Rhys’s shoulder. “You’re sitting with me, son.”

  What?

  As Mr. Fairchild led Dean’s brother into the restaurant, Rhys looked over his shoulder at me and winked.

  Actually winked.

  Ugh, he was the devil.

  In all my sand-snake dimension wishing, had I inadvertently wished open a gate to another dimension where an angry boxer just lied to my bosses about dating me?

  Jackson and Camille grinned. “Guess who just became teacher’s pet,” Jackson teased. At my frown, he laughed. “I’m kidding. But it’s always great to keep Fairchild interested at these dinners. This is good, Parker.”

  No.

  This was a disaster.

  Three

  Rhys

  * * *

  What the hell was I doing? Though I ambled at apparent ease by Fairchild’s side, it felt like I was hurtling downhill on a runaway cart. I didn’t want to be here. I sure as hell didn’t want to be arm candy for an entitled—albeit cute—rich chick. Yet here I was, walking through a restaurant that looked more like an exclusive gentlemen’s club library.

  Patrons watched us pass, more than one set of eyes lingering on my ripped jeans and scuffed work boots. This was a place for suits and silks, not rough and scruff.

  The responsible side of me was saying get out, turn around and get the hell out now, that this was a disaster in the making. Unfortunately, I lived my life listening to the hothead inside who said let it ride. Plus, there was the bonus of Parker Brown glaring a hole through my back with each step I took.

  She was a piece of work with her outraged protestations of innocence. That she somehow managed to look down her cute nose at me even though the top of her head barely reached my shoulder was a true talent. Little Miss Priss had actually shooed me. It would have been adorable if she hadn’t been trying to buy my brother’s services.

  Even though I was laughing it up with Fairchild, pretending to listen to him ramble on about boxing stats, my awareness was attuned to Parker the same way it would have been if we were opponents about to enter the ring. Yeah, you worked the audience into a frenzy by talking yourself up, but what you were really doing was psyching out the competition.

  And Parker Brown was rattled. I swore I heard her mutter something about sand snakes, whatever that meant. Her ire amused me.

  When I saw her picture, I thought she’d crumble as quickly as dry toast when I told her off. I thought she was mildly pretty. I’d been wrong on both counts. Sure, she’d been flustered and blushed a nice deep pink, but she hadn’t folded. And her picture hadn’t done her justice.

  A pixie with delicate bones and fine features, her skin was porcelain smooth, glowing with good health, her dark brown eyes too big for her heart-shaped face. I didn’t go for women like her. I liked a good, sweaty fuck to take the edge off. I’d be afraid I’d break Parker. Hell, I could probably span the woman’s waist with my hands.

  I shook off thoughts of holding that slim waist steady as I… No. No. No. Discipline, Morgan. Use your fucking discipline.

  “Rhys Morgan, I’ll be damned,” Fairchild said for the tenth time, his level of enthusiasm never waning. “Could have knocked me over with a feather when I saw you standing there.”

  A simple uppercut would have knocked him over. Though he was fairly tall and appeared to be in reasonable shape, he had a glass jaw look about him—surface tough guy who’d talk a good game, then fold under the first sign of any real physical threat. That said, he obviously thought he was the man.

  He strode through the space as though he owned it. Maybe he did. The guy oozed wealth, from his gray bespoke Savile Row suit to his fine Italian leather loafers. I once had the means to buy those things and strut around like an overpuffed peacock. But those days were best forgotten.

  Unfortunately, I was in for a walk down memory lane with Fairchild. He clasped my shoulder and gave it a shake and a squeeze. “Where have you been, son?”

  Only one person had the right to call me son, and he was dead. I gritted my teeth and shrugged lightly, dislodging his grip. “Here and there.”

  The pretty hostess stopped at a table in a secluded corner. She pulled out a chair and Fairchild smoothly sat down before Parker could. All class, this guy.

  I turned and gave my “date” a smile with teeth before pulling out another chair. “Sweetheart?”

  Glossy dark eyes shot sparks of pure rage at me as she returned my smile—it was more of a grimace, honestly—and took the proffered seat with the easy grace of someone born to money.

  “Thank you.”

  Butter wouldn’t melt in that mouth.

  Like that, I imagined her mouth slick and soft and melting on my… Discipline, damn it! No way in hell was I going to allow myself to be attracted to Ms. Parker Brown, Fifth Avenue princess.

  She was nothing more than a possible solution to my current problems. Because, as much as I hated to agree with Dean, a couple thousand dollars a week for pretending to be her boyfriend was easy, much-needed money. And, in a stroke of rare but brilliant insight, it occurred to me that I could kill two birds with one stone here. Fairchild was a fan and fucking loaded, which made him a potential sponsor for the gym. I only had to convince him of it.

  Otherwise, I’d chalk the night up as an opportunity to rattle Parker Brown’s chain as payback for attempting to buy my brother. Then I was out of here and out of her life.

  Clearing my throat, I sat in the chair next to hers. But Fairchild scowled with all the petulance of a spoiled kid. “I thought I said you were sitting with me, Rhys. Ms. Brown, change seats.”

  Parker paled, her pink lips parting and working like a confused fish, and I already knew, from the fire she spit at me earlier, she was battling between telling him to piss off and doing the thing that would earn her greater job security.

  I was almost willing to let her suffer, but my mom didn’t raise me that way. Besides, Fairchild was an asshole. I might have needed his money, but if I lay down like a mat for him to walk on, he’d have zero respect for me.

  Leaning forward, I pinned him with a stare even though my smile was easy. “I can converse with you just fine where I am, Fairchild. Besides, I like having my honey close to me.”

  I slung my arm over Parker’s slim shoulders and gave her a loving squeeze. A gurgle escaped her. She covered it up by smiling wide and pained as she leaned into my embrace, the picture of a loving girlfriend. But under the table, a spiked heel pressed down on the toe of my boot. Hard.

  When I didn’t wince or move away, her brown gaze flicked to mine.

  I grinned at her. Steeled-toed boots, honey. That’s what you get for tussling with a blue collar. Her sidelong glare promised retribution later. I was looking forward to it. Far too much. She was fun to rile. But it was a mistake touching her; the scent of roses and something richly smoky floated from silky soft skin. Some twisted part of me wanted to lean closer and take a deep breath, fill my lungs with that strange mix of innocence and sin.

  What the hell was I going on about? Innocence and sin? Who the fuck said that? God, this chick was messing with my mind. I dropped my arm and sat back in my seat. Jackson took the chair opposite.

  The waitress arrived to take drink orders—I was the only one who asked for a beer, something that had Parker’s lip
s compressing. It wasn’t as though I was dipping into the hard stuff like Fairchild, who had asked for a Macallan 25, neat. I might not know much, but I knew a glass of that would set him back at least two hundred dollars here. She should have been happy I’d stuck to my five-dollar draft beer.

  As soon as the waitress left, Franklin was at it again. “Still can’t believe you quit, Morgan. Oh, I understand about losing your father.” He waved a hand as if to bat that inconvenience away. “But you could have simply taken a mourning break.”

  The official story I’d given the world—and Dean—was that when Dad died, I’d lost heart and had decided to focus on my family. It was true for the most part, and it seemed like the best reason to give, because I would be damned if I brought Jake into the mix. No one would get anymore of him at my expense.

  Now, Fairchild was in my face, demanding more. I grinned with teeth that wanted to take a bite. “I don’t regret my decision. I’ve moved on to better things.”

  “Better things?” He scoffed. “Nothing could beat stepping into the ring and annihilating your opponent.”

  I was pretty sure punching this guy in the mouth would beat that. But I gave him an idle shrug in response and said nothing more.

  Thankfully, Jackson became Mr. Manners—probably trying to cover for my refusal to bend to Fairchild’s will—and changed the subject.

  “Franklin,” he said, “I’m so glad you’re finally meeting Parker. Her suggestions for our forecast model have made significant improvements to it, which has led to interest from a huge client in the European market—”

  Fairchild made a derisive noise and waved a hand, cutting Jackson off. “In my day, you played the field based on your gut, not fancy computer software.”

  Parker recoiled at his verbal hit. And I had the impulse to throw a punch for her. But like any good fighter, she took the strike, then pushed back, tensing and straightening her spine.

  Her smile was cool water. “I agree, Mr. Fairchild. Nothing tops the power of well-honed instincts.” She kept her voice carefully modulated, totally unrattled. “The true purpose of my job is to provide information to back up that instinctual drive by taking numerous factors—hourly energy demands, wholesale power prices, generation mix,”—she waved an elegant hand as if to say this was all elementary shit—“and factoring in such variables as the proportion of power generated from renewable sources, and cross-border power flows for several European markets, and condensing that information into reports and data tools.”

  We were all staring at her now, enthralled by her ice cream voice and gentle confidence. And she knew it.

  “With that,” she said, “our clients have a clearer picture on how to proceed in various avenues.”

  It was obvious she could go on and on but she stopped then, resting her hands on the table, and stared back at Fairchild with those brown doe eyes.

  I wanted to laugh or maybe clap. This wasn’t the flustered harpy I’d been arguing with, or even the nervous Nelly I’d seen at the bar, tapping her toe in an agitated rhythm as she waited for Dean. This Parker knew her shit and wasn’t going to be cowed.

  Unfortunately, Fairchild blinked as though he was coming out of a fog and gave her a bland look before turning to Jackson. “Well, she can talk, that’s for sure.”

  Jackson looked like he wanted to kick Fairchild. Parker just looked kicked.

  Fairchild’s watery gazed settled on me and a smile lit his weathered face. “Whatever gets the job done, eh?”

  Like I was supposed to chuckle in agreement? Fuck, I was supposed to charm this dickhead. I’d have to walk a fine line between agreeing and pushing back.

  I shrugged. “I’ve never underestimated the importance of having the best on my team.”

  Fairchild chuckled and gave me a broad wink. “You’re being modest. Rhys ‘Widowmaker’ Morgan doesn’t need anything but a good one-two punch to knock out his opponents.”

  Widowmaker. Inside, I recoiled, feeling slightly sick. When I was in the circuit, I’d assumed the title the press gave me with pride. It was a mark of distinction to be given a nickname. Then Jake died. Jake, who left behind Marcy and their infant daughter, Rose. I hadn’t been responsible for Jake’s death, but I sure as hell didn’t want to be called a widowmaker now.

  My shoulders felt too tight. I rolled them and took a sip of water. “There’s nothing like a good knockout hit…” Let me demonstrate. Pretty please? “But I wouldn’t have had the skills without my trainers.” I leaned toward Parker until our shoulders touched. A sizzle of heat licked along my arm. Damn it. Focus. “And lately, I’ve come to realize the love of a good woman makes everything better.”

  I was going to gag on my own words. And if the sound Parker made under her breath was any indication, she was already gagging. But I gazed down at her anyway, the very picture of a smitten fool. “Parker here is the best.”

  Fuck, I sounded like a tool. I wanted to kick my own ass.

  But I knew guys like Fairchild. He admired me for my boxing. But part of him would also hate himself for that admiration because he saw it as a weakness. I had to show him a little weakness in return. A small feint to reel him in, make him feel superior, followed by a little jab to keep him on his toes. Fairchild’s ilk liked a challenge, but not one that was too hard.

  It was a dance I hated playing. But I’d do it for the gym. For Dean, even though he’d never appreciate it. But most importantly, to pay the mortgage on the gym and not have to resort to selling the place to someone who’d tear it down and slap up gentrified condos. Besides, Parker Brown—despite the enormity of her gorgeous brain—was in over her head here. She didn’t need Dean. He’d have fucked this up already by irritating the hell out of Fairchild. She needed me.

  “Isn’t that right, sweetheart?” I asked, wrapping an arm around her once again, and giving into the urge to nuzzle her hair. God, she smelled good. I’d have to get used to that. And the way touching her made my dick immediately perk up.

  Down, boy.

  She smiled so tight and fake, I wanted to laugh. Her hand came down on my thigh—way too close to said dick. Pale pink nails sank into my flesh, her grip hard enough to feel even through my jeans.

  That’s a bite I’ll be feeling later. She really was cute in an angry pixie sort of way.

  “You’re too sweet, lumpy,” she gritted out.

  Lumpy? I huffed a small laugh.

  “You two been together long?” Fairchild asked as the waitress set down our drinks.

  “Feels like forever,” Parker said lightly.

  “I admit, I’m surprised to see you here,” Fairchild went on, taking a sip of his Scotch. “The whole time you were fighting, you always had a new lady on your arm.” He chuckled. “I remember one fight, Morgan showed up with three women,” he said to Jackson. “One on each arm and one leading the way to the ring.”

  This fucking guy.

  I wanted to meet Parker’s gaze and give her a commiserating look. Not that I thought she’d appreciate it right now; the woman was tight as a drum and nearly vibrating with irritation. “Eh, well… when you know, you know.”

  I saluted Parker with my beer before taking a deep pull. I didn’t know shit about romantic love. But for a chance to save everything I did love, I’d fake it. With that, I leaned forward, bracing my forearms on the table—much to Miss Priss’s evident dismay.

  “Forget the women,” I told Fairchild. “Did you ever hear the story about the time I met Donny Douglas for an underground fight?”

  As expected, Fairchild’s eyes lit up. “I didn’t. When was this?”

  Hook, line, and sinker. I launched into the story, knowing it would keep Fairchild entertained, that with each word, he’d want me around more—and Parker by extension. Yeah, she needed me. She just didn’t know it yet. But she would.

  Four

  Parker

  * * *

  I shivered in the chilly late spring night, my heart thumping in my chest as I watched Rhys talk in underto
nes with Mr. Fairchild. Jackson and Camille had already left. Finally, Fairchild got into his Town Car, and I narrowed my gaze on Rhys as he sauntered back over to me.

  He walked with the swagger of a man who’d just won a boxing bout.

  The big jerk.

  “So, I just saved your ass.” He had the audacity to grin.

  The anger that had been slow-cooking in my gut since we’d all sat down to dinner threatened to boil over. If I stayed here one more second, I would eviscerate him with the power of my mind.

  I was sure of it.

  There was no way a person could be this angry with someone without that energy manifesting itself. I abruptly turned away from Yvonne’s and began walking south toward the apartment I shared with my best friend Zoe. It was thirty minutes by foot, which should give me some time to walk off my uncharacteristic rage.

  “I’ll walk you home and we can discuss terms.” Rhys fell into step beside me.

  Bafflement overtook the fury. “Excuse me?”

  He shrugged. “You still need someone to pretend to be your boyfriend, right? And I think I can say with certainty that Fairchild thinks I’m the shit.”

  Yes, Fairchild definitely thought Rhys was the poo. Of course he would. They were both Neanderthals. I gritted my teeth, frustrated that my short legs could never out-stride the tall boxer beside me. A boxer, for goodness’ sake!

  Not that I didn’t appreciate boxing. Any competitive sport demonstrated discipline, determination, and skill. Those were all good qualities.

  No, the boxing didn’t bother me.

  It explained the muscles and the broken nose.

  What bothered me was the sycophantic bromance that had developed between Rhys and Fairchild. He never outright agreed with any of the backward, bordering-on-misogynistic bull-twaddle that came out of my boss’s mouth, but Rhys also hadn’t outright disagreed.

  For most of the evening, Jackson, Camille, and I had to listen to Rhys entertain Fairchild with stories of his glory days as a boxer. It wasn’t that the stories weren’t somewhat interesting; it was just that they opened the door for Fairchild’s commentary. And his toxic masculinity.