Breaking Her Rules

by Jennifer Snow

  “No! No . . . I mean, no,” Grace said.

  “Yeah, what she said,” Walker said with an amused look at her. She looked frazzled. What was up with her? Could those feelings she’d once had for him still be there? He wondered why she’d never told him. Maybe because she’d been too busy denying it to herself. He wondered if he would have ever considered dating her before. His sister’s friends had always been off-limits, but now that they were all adults, did that code still apply?

  “Oh, that’s right. You and Erik are together now.”

  “That’s right,” Grace said with a pointed look in his direction.

  That’s right. Now there was something else standing in the way. The man who held his fighting career in his hands. He should try to remember that.

  Beside him, Faith shot Grace a look that clearly meant go away, but if Grace noticed, she ignored it, staying right next to him. In fact, was it his imagination, or had she moved even closer?

  Was Erik as big of a roadblock as he thought?

  “Well, Walker, I was wondering if you were free tonight,” Faith continued.

  “He’s working,” Grace said.

  He hid a grin as he nodded. “She’s right. As much as I’d love to take you up on your offer,” he said for good measure, “I do have to bartend tonight.”

  Faith laughed. “Glamorous life of a law-school-dropout up-and-coming fighter, huh?”

  “It doesn’t get any better.”

  Beside him, Grace glanced at her watch. “I have to get to work, so . . .”

  “I’m not on air for another hour; maybe we could grab a coffee now?” Faith said to him.

  Grace was shaking her head no next to him. “I thought I was dropping you off at the gym?”

  Grace was jealous. May as well use that card since it was all he really had. “It’s still early.” He shrugged. “Maybe Faith could drop me off?” he said, turning to her.

  “Not a problem,” she said.

  “Well then, coffee would be great,” he said, stepping toward the blonde and away from Grace.

  Grace sighed. “You’re right. It’s still only eight forty-five. I have time to do a quick coffee first,” she said, adjusting her purse strap on her shoulder.

  “Oh, actually, Grace . . . I meant just Walker,” Faith said.

  “Yeah, besides, you said you had to get to work, right?” he said, wrapping an arm around Faith. “We wouldn’t want to keep you.”

  Her eyes narrowed and she looked ready to say something.

  Come on, Gracie, fight for me. Say the word and I’ll put a stop to this flirting with Faith immediately. The blonde was cute, but far too forward. Men liked a chase, and he was no exception. He didn’t doubt other fighters jumped on the offer, like the one Faith had made to him moments ago on set, but once they had her, they lost interest. Though, he suspected in Faith’s case, the feeling was mutual.

  Instead, Grace forced a smile. “Yes, I do have to get to work. You two have fun,” she said before turning and walking away.

  And damn if it didn’t sound sincere.

  ***

  Grace couldn’t concentrate. She couldn’t sit still. She couldn’t eat. All she could do was think about Walker. The fact that he insisted on flirting with her even though he knew she was with Erik, the fact that he was out with Faith Hart, the sexiest woman on the planet, and the fact that she really shouldn’t give a shit.

  So why did she?

  She needed to talk to Erik. That would make things better. He calmed her, centered her, made her think rationally . . .

  “I am seriously losing it here, Grace,” he said, answering his cell phone on the first ring.

  She took a deep breath, shoving aside her need for his comfort. “What’s going on? Negotiations not going well?”

  “This guy seems eager enough, but his manager is a pain in the ass.”

  “They all are. But you are the best in this industry. Has there ever been a fighter or manager who has turned down the opportunity to fight in the MFL?”

  “No.”

  “Exactly. So don’t let this rattle you. It’s his job to get the best contract for his fighter, but ultimately the MFL is where these guys want to be. You know that.”

  “I do. Man, where was your beautiful voice of reason yesterday?” he asked, sounding a little better.

  Right here if he’d answered his phone or returned a call every now and then.

  “You’ve got this.”

  “You’re right. I’ve got this.” Of course he did. She’d never met a man so unbreakable before. His job required him to feel little, and show even less. A trait she somehow found appealing. Strong emotions—like the ones Walker displayed—made her uncomfortable . . . Maybe that was why she felt on edge around him. That had to be it. The man was explosive in his drive and energy, and his emotions were close to the surface. She had trouble trusting such openness. Probably stemmed from all of her mother’s relationships over the years.

  “How’s the fight promo going?” he asked.

  “Good. The design team finalized the press release this morning.” She paused. Should she tell him about Walker’s interview with Knock Out Sports Television? “And Walker Adams was featured on Knock Out this morning,” she said casually, as if she was reporting press news about any fighter and not a man who’d had his arms around her only a few hours ago. She felt sick. Sure, nothing had actually happened between them, but if the situation were reversed, she knew she wouldn’t be okay with Erik having a female houseguest, especially not a hot one. Especially not one he’d been in love with.

  “Then I guess he’ll be featured in Faith Hart’s bed tonight,” he said tightly.

  A knot formed in her stomach at his words. It was true and despite her best efforts, it annoyed her. And it surprised her that it sounded like he was annoyed by it too. She forced a light laugh. “Whatever. As long as he’s off my sofa.”

  “Right. How is that situation working out? I hope he’s keeping his hands to himself,” he said, but his voice lacked an element of jealousy she would have expected.

  Still, she was quick to reassure—or rather, lie. “Yes, of course. I told you, he’s just an old friend . . . a brother of a friend, absolutely nothing more than that . . .”

  “Grace, I know—I was kidding.”

  “Oh, right.” She forced a nervous laugh. Then she frowned. Why was he kidding? Did he not think Walker would be interested in her? Erik didn’t have a jealous bone in his body, which was good. She couldn’t stand the possessive type, but just once, it would be okay if he showed the least bit of concern over losing her.

  She shook her head. She was being stupid. Erik wasn’t jealous, because he felt secure in their relationship. He trusted her. And she sure as hell wasn’t about to let Walker destroy that trust between them.

  “Listen, Grace, I have to go. If things go well this afternoon, I should be back tomorrow evening.”

  Relief washed over her. Good. Once he was back, things could resume as normal, they could continue their plans of moving in together, and she could put the overbearing, unwelcome, resurfacing feelings she had for Walker to rest. “Hurry.”

  ***

  Three hours later, one thing was clear. Walker had made her sick.

  Her head felt heavy. Her eyes were barely staying open, let alone focusing on the paperwork in front of her. She shivered as a chill ran through her, and every muscle in her body ached.

  She shook it off. She didn’t have time to be sick. The fight was less than two weeks away. She needed to push through. If she didn’t stop, if she didn’t give in to the illness, it would have to move on to someone else.

  Reaching for her coffee cup, she took a sip of the lukewarm coffee that had been sitting on her desk since that morning and winced as the liquid felt like sandpaper tearing down her throat.

  She was going to kill Walker.

  She scanned the mock-ups for the following month’s fight card posters, but the words swam together. How was she supposed
to approve these when she couldn’t even see straight? She needed a nap and some strong painkillers. Then she could finish this. Glancing at the clock revealed it was past two. This would be the earliest she’d ever left the office. Gathering her things, she picked up the mock-ups and, turning off the office light, she went home.

  She wasn’t sure how she’d made it from the office to her apartment—muscle memory, perhaps—but ten minutes later, she unlocked the door and trudged inside, bumping into Walker, who looked like he was on his way out.

  “Hey. You’re home early.” He shot a quick glance toward the kitchen, where his dirty blender still sat in the sink. “I swear I was going to clean up before you got home.”

  “I don’t care,” she said hoarsely, tossing her purse onto the kitchen counter and burying a cough in her arm as she opened the fridge.

  “Whoa, you must be sick,” he said, coming to reach past her into the fridge. “Here. I bought a new bottle. This will knock you out cold.” He handed her a bottle of NyQuil.

  She shook her head. “I don’t want to be out cold. I have work to do. I just want this throbbing headache to stop and these body aches to go away,” she said, shivering again as she closed the fridge and set the NyQuil bottle on the counter.

  Walker dropped his bag and rubbed her shoulders. “You need to sleep, that’s the only way you’re going to feel better. You’re working too hard. This is your body’s way of telling you to slow down, take a break . . .”

  “No, this is my body’s way of telling me that allowing your germ-infested body in my apartment was a mistake.” For more reasons than one, she thought grumpily.

  He looked apologetic as he said, “Sorry, didn’t mean to make you sick . . .” He checked the time on his watch. “I was heading out to the gym. Are you going to be okay?”

  She blinked, swaying slightly as the kitchen around her felt like a roller coaster beneath her feet. What had he said? “Huh?” Her eyes flitted closed, and he looked like a blur. “Oh, yeah, don’t worry about me . . . go,” she mumbled, resting her head against the fridge. If only the kitchen floor would stay still for just a minute.

  ***

  There was no way he could leave her like this. “Okay, come on.” He wrapped an arm around her back and then placed an arm beneath her knees to lift her effortlessly in his arms.

  She didn’t struggle or insist he put her down, which only further confirmed how sick she was. Instead, she curled into him, resting her head against his chest. Two things happened simultaneously—his dick woke up and his heart started to pound. He wasn’t sure which of the two was more inconvenient. Thank God, she was too sleepy to notice.

  “Bedroom or couch?” he asked, not sure where she’d be most comfortable.

  “Couch . . . I have work to do . . . promo sheets to approve,” she mumbled.

  “Yeah, I don’t think work will be happening, baby girl,” he said, setting her down on the couch. He reached for his pillows and stacked them behind her.

  Her eyes closed, she rolled to her side and shivered again. “Walker, I’m freezing.”

  Must be the fever; it was eighty degrees inside the apartment. Nevertheless, he reached for his blanket and tucked it tightly around her. He brushed her dark hair back away from her face, letting his hand linger on her warm, flushed cheek. A second later, her deep breathing revealed she was already out.

  Passed out and beautiful.

  His phone chimed in his pocket and he quickly read Tyson’s message about getting his ass back to the gym, before putting the phone on vibrate and tucking it back into his pocket. He could leave, go work out, and be back within a few hours. She’d probably be sleeping the day away and wouldn’t even notice.

  He went to the kitchen and picked up his bag, but hesitated at the door when he heard her coughing. She sounded awful, and what if she needed something?

  He owed Gracie a lot, but it wasn’t a sense of obligation that made him stay. He felt an odd, unexpected desire to take care of her.

  He tossed his bag into the closet and returned to the kitchen. He knew what she needed to feel better. He hoped she had all of the ingredients he needed to make his mother’s homemade “get well” soup.

  ***

  A delicious smell lured her awake, and she thought the fever must be inducing a lucid dream as she opened her eyes. The lamp in the living room was on in the corner, and the kitchen light was on. What time was it? She remembered briefly coming home . . . and then . . . Her eyes widened. Walker. He’d carried her to the couch and tucked her in. He’d touched her cheek and . . . that’s the last thing she remembered.

  And now he was . . . making soup?

  “Hey, look who’s finally conscious,” he said, turning to notice her awake a second later.

  He was wearing a Christmas-patterned apron she couldn’t even remember owning as he stirred the soup in the pot on the stove. “Where did you find the apron?” she asked, tossing the blanket aside and swinging her legs over the side of the couch. Her head still hurt, but at least she was able to think straight. The nap had done wonders for her health, if not her career, she thought, noticing the mock-ups still on the kitchen counter.

  “I found it in the closet at the end of the hallway,” he said, a smirk on his face.

  What closet at the . . . Oh God! She groaned. “You opened the closet door?” She buried her face in her hands.

  He came into the living room and sat next to her. “I did indeed. You really take the expression skeletons in the closet quite literally, huh?”

  “Shut up . . . God, I can’t believe you saw that.” The hall closet was her messy zone. Everything and anything she didn’t want out in the open was stuffed and stashed in a hazardous, unorganized heap inside the closet. She hadn’t actually opened the door in months. She was surprised he hadn’t been crushed to death by an avalanche of crap falling out on him.

  He laughed as he stood. “Come with me.” Taking her hand, he pulled her up off of the couch.

  “Where are we going?” she asked as he led the way down the hall. “It’s okay, I really don’t . . .”

  He opened the door and she gasped. “You organized it?” How long had she been out?

  He nodded. “Blankets, linens, aprons . . .” He gestured to the too-small one he was wearing. “All on the top shelf. Books, photo albums, and old CDs are on the middle shelf. Oh, except for this one . . .” He pulled a recordable blank CD from the pocket of the apron.

  Her mortification soared to a whole new level as she reached for it. Please don’t let him have opened it. She remembered that CD well. She also remembered her and Kylie’s plan to become the next Pussycat Dolls and the terrible music they’d cowritten and recorded on that disc. The name of the band, Passion Petals, was written across the front, confirming it. “Give that to me.”

  He handed it over. “I like the third one,” he said, grinning. “Um . . . what was it called? ‘Walker’s Girl’?”

  Shit. Of course he’d had to listen to it before embarrassing the crap out of her with it. “I was twelve,” she mumbled, adding it to the neat stack of CDs on the shelf. Embarrassing or not, it was part of her past she actually looked back on with happy memories. They were few and far between and always included Kylie. There was no way she could toss the CD away.

  “Anyway, everything else—cleaning supplies, tampons . . . a dead vibrator . . . all on the bottom shelf.”

  Tampons and a dead vibrator—good thing he’d found the CD, or those things might actually have embarrassed her. She closed the closet door quickly. “Well, that wasn’t necessary, but thank you.” Turning in the hallway, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the bathroom mirror.

  Oh jeez—seriously? Mascara-stained cheeks and Medusa hair stared back at her. She dove into the bathroom and closed the door. “You could have told me I looked like Marilyn Manson.”

  “Don’t waste too much time getting pretty; the soup’s ready. Besides, I already snapped photos of you with my phone. My favorite is the one of
you drooling on my pillow,” he called through the door.

  “You will be erasing those,” she yelled, wincing as her throat hurt.

  “Already uploaded them to Facebook.”

  She groaned as she reached for a facecloth. He better be kidding.

  Of course, the first time she’d gotten sick in years and it had to happen while Walker was around. After washing her face and brushing her hair, she went back to the living room, where he’d placed a bowl of soup on a placemat on the coffee table.

  “Sit. Try it,” he said, removing the apron and sitting in front of his own bowl.

  “Where did you find everything to make this?” she asked, sitting next to him and picking up her bowl.

  “You had almost everything I needed. I made it work.”

  She took a sip of the hot broth and moaned. “Oh my God. Your mom’s ‘get well’ soup.” As kids, whenever any of them got sick, Mrs. Adams would make her magical “get well” soup. She said the magic ingredient was love.

  And Walker had made it for her. Her pulse raced as she ate another spoonful. “Didn’t you have training today?”

  “I can head over there later,” he said with a shrug.

  “Well, thank you for taking care of me. I felt awful earlier. That nap did help,” she said taking another spoonful, then setting the bowl aside. As good as it was, each swallow was destroying her throat.

  She sat back on the couch and leaned her head against the pillow.

  “Hey, look what else I found,” he said, handing her an old scrapbook.

  She took it and smiled. On the worn, pink cover were multicolored letters spelling Gracie’s Memories. “I almost forgot about this.”

  He lifted her legs and placed them back down on his lap, sliding closer.

  She went to move them, but he held them in place. “It’s okay,” he said, leaning toward her as she opened the cover of the book.

  Pictures of her and Kylie filled the pages—their sleepovers at Kylie’s house, summer camp, Halloween and Christmas pictures. With each page they looked older. “Oh my God.” She covered her mouth as she reached the pictures they’d taken the summer they’d turned fourteen.