Walker took the book and moved in for a closer look. “Why do you both look like Oompa-Loompas?”
She laughed. “The Summer of Orange.”
“Huh?”
She took the book back. “We found an old bottle of my mom’s self-tanner and decided to try it. Unfortunately it had expired . . .” Though she doubted the quality of the product in the first place.
“That’s hilarious.”
“Yeah . . .” She turned the page. Pictures from a pool party in the Adamses’ backyard appeared, and her gaze settled on one of Walker sitting on the edge of the pool. Even at seventeen, he was muscular and strong and gorgeous. Then she noticed something else; in the picture, he was looking across the pool deck at . . . her. Huh, maybe she hadn’t been as invisible as she’d thought.
She glanced at him quickly and he winked. “That’s right, I noticed you.”
She looked away quickly and he turned the page. Her high school prom picture made her cringe. “That dress still gives me nightmares,” she said, looking at the bright pink, floor-length, off-the-shoulder dress—the best choice selected from a long line of bad and worse dresses at the thrift store. She hadn’t even wanted to go to prom, but Kylie had said she wouldn’t go without her, and she knew her friend had her heart set on going.
“Who was your date?” Walker said, squinting at the Polaroid photo from the old camera her mother still insisted on using.
“Chris Antle.” Her one and only semiserious relationship, meaning it had lasted more than three weeks. He’d been her first sexual experience, not that she’d been overly attracted to him. More so, it was the fact she wanted to get her first time over with before college and he’d been the only guy she’d trusted back then not to tell everyone at school about it.
“Antlers, right. I remember him. He took your virginity, didn’t he,” he teased.
Well, so much for him not telling everyone. She sighed. “Someone had to.”
She turned the page and immediately wished she hadn’t.
“Is that your dad?” Walker asked, looking at the one and only picture she had of her mom and dad together.
“That’s him.”
“Who was he?”
She shrugged. All she knew were the bits and pieces she’d gathered from her mom over the years. Mostly, they didn’t talk about him. It was a subject they both agreed to leave undiscussed. “Um . . . his name was Clint Marshall, and he was a professional poker player who’d run out of gas and luck just outside of Lovelock. He ended up at the diner, where Mom fell head over heels in about thirty seconds. He stayed with her long enough to convince her to hand over her paycheck—he was entered into a poker tournament in Vegas that he swore he was going to win.” She paused. “Mom never saw him again and she found out a month later she was pregnant.” Her mother was so trusting. Her good-natured heart never saw the bad in anyone. Maybe that was what had taught Grace to question everything, making it impossible to trust her own judgment at times.
“Have you ever considered looking him up?”
She hesitated. Once when she’d first moved to Vegas she’d seen his name on a poker tournament schedule outside Emerald Palace and she’d almost gone inside, the pull of her curiosity was so strong. For so many years she’d wondered about him, fantasized about what she would say to him if she ever did meet him, but when the opportunity was right there, she couldn’t do it. “No. It’s too late for a relationship, so what would be the point?”
“He never knew about you . . . Don’t you think . . .”
“No,” she said firmly, and he nodded. She closed the book and shifted on the couch. “I hurt everywhere. How on earth were you training feeling like this?”
His hands gently massaged her calves. “The body aches sucked. They were the worst part.”
She nodded, not trusting her voice to speak. A wave of heat rushed over her at his touch. She tried to concentrate on the football game on the television, but her mind raced. He shouldn’t be doing this. She shouldn’t be allowing him to do this. She certainly shouldn’t be enjoying it as much as she was. But her body ached so badly, and his hands felt so good.
She could feel his eyes on her and she swallowed hard. What was he looking at? “The football game is that way,” she said, pointing to the television.
“Right, the game.” He was still looking at her.
His hands slid a little higher on her leg, crossing over her knee, gently kneading her right thigh.
She couldn’t breathe. His touch was intoxicating and dangerous and she should stop it.
She didn’t.
His hands traveled even higher, and his eyes fell to her lips.
Oh God, what she wouldn’t give to feel his lips on hers, his hands caressing every inch of her like that . . . softly, gently . . . For years she’d craved attention like this from Walker; turning it away now would be torture.
But when his hands started to travel further, she had to. “Walker . . .”
He shook his head, as if the sound of his name broke him out of his self-imposed trance. He lifted his hands from her leg, and ran one hand through his hair. “Jeez, sorry, Gracie . . .” He lifted her legs and stood, tucking the blanket back down around her and letting his hands rest on her knees a second longer. “I should get to the gym before I have to work.”
“Good idea,” she said, drawing her legs away from him, up to her chest.
“You’re good? You don’t need me?”
Oh she needed him all right . . . or new batteries for that dead vibrator in her closet. “You should go.”
***
“You had sex,” Tyson said the next day. It wasn’t a question.
He hadn’t had sex in four months. “Pretty sure I’d remember if I had.” Walker panted as he continued to punch the pads Tyson held and duck away from his swiping attempts. He’d already taken three shots to the head with the wooden side of the pad. He didn’t want another one.
“You’re off. Your timing is off. Your rhythm is off. It indicates a lack of tension, lack of energy . . .” Tyson dropped the pads. He looked about as frustrated as Walker felt.
“I didn’t have sex.” He’d sure as hell wanted to, after having his hands on Gracie the day before and his inability to control the semi-hard-on he’d gotten anytime he’d thought about it. Even at training and later at work. But he hadn’t. He’d resisted even when Faith Hart had met him outside ShadowDancers at one in the morning once his shift ended at the bar.
And fuck if he didn’t deserve some kind of medal for his resistance.
“Have a drink with me,” she’d said, climbing out of her Lexus convertible in the parking lot of the club as he’d left the building.
“I’d love to, but I’m training first thing in the morning,” he’d said, accepting her hug.
She’d kept an arm around his waist as he’d walked her back to her car. “Oh come on, I’ve been thinking about you since we had coffee this morning.”
His thoughts had drifted to her more than once as well, however not as often as they’d drifted to Gracie and the jealous look in her beautiful dark eyes as he’d walked off with Faith. The woman she’d grown up to be was even more of a mystery than the teenage girl that had intrigued him with her standoffish ways. He wondered if even his sister knew the real Gracie Andrews. It made sense to him she was attracted to Erik Johansen—the man was safe, successful, a workaholic who wouldn’t be needy of her time, and he suspected Erik was as anal about organization as Gracie. But was that enough to build a life of happiness on? Was that even what she was looking for? He couldn’t claim to know her well enough to say. And he wanted to know her—much better. Especially after her confession a few nights ago. She’d been in love with him when they were kids? Who the fuck knew?
At his side, Faith had pouted when he’d remained silent. “So, you haven’t been thinking about me?”
“What hot-blooded man wouldn’t be thinking about you after that parting kiss this morning?” he’d said, turning her to
face him. He didn’t like upsetting pretty women. Therefore he’d never tell her that the whole time she’d had her lips pressed against his and her breasts crushing against his chest, he’d been thinking about how the kiss failed to create the same arousal in him as his hands on Gracie’s legs had. Nope, no woman would appreciate hearing that.
“Okay . . . you’re too tired for a drink. You’re right. It’s getting late. Why don’t you follow me back to my place?”
He must have been out of his mind to refuse the sexy woman, but he’d said, “I really can’t. Not tonight anyway.”
She’d looked disappointed, clearly not used to rejection. “Okay. Your loss,” she’d said, planting a kiss on his lips before climbing back behind the wheel of the car that could make a man hard almost as easily as she could.
“Well, if it’s not sex throwing off your game, what is it?” Tyson asked now, tossing him his water bottle and setting the five-minute timer for their first sparring round.
“I don’t know. I mean, I guess I’m totally stressing about going home this weekend for my grandparents’ wedding anniversary. My dad isn’t exactly supportive of my chosen career and he’s been pissed since I dropped out of law school . . .” He stopped.
His coach was staring at him. “Seriously, man? I’m your coach, not your fucking therapist. I don’t care about whatever shit you’ve got going on—just get it out of your head while you’re in here.”
Walker nodded. “Right. Sorry.” His coach was right. Any personal issues had to stay out of the gym, and certainly out of the octagon. He had to somehow turn the energy he was wasting on worrying into determination and drive to succeed.
Tyson grabbed his hand wraps and started wrapping his hands. “Your dad’s probably right though; you do realize that, right?”
Walker frowned. “What are you talking about—you love fighting. You should understand why I want to do this. Plus your father is Alan ‘The Steel Fist’ Reed. He must be supportive of your fighting career.”
“He’s the reason I started fighting,” Tyson said, nodding. “And yeah, I’ve been lucky to create a great life in this crazy industry, but I had nothing else. All I’ve known is fighting, man. As a kid I spent half of my life training and helping my father at the gym. I dropped out of school at fourteen. You are a year away from a law degree. You’re smart and instead you want to get punched in the brain.”
The gym door opened and both men turned to see Faith enter.
“Oh shit,” Tyson mumbled, dropping his gaze to his hand wraps.
“What?”
“That woman hates me.”
“Why?”
“The same reason every woman I’ve slept with hates me. I didn’t call her.”
“Asshole,” Walker said with a grin, enjoying his trainer’s discomfort. “But you can relax, I think she’s here to see me.” Tapping Tyson on the shoulder, he climbed over the side of the cage. “Hey. What are you doing here?” He wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm as she came closer, a look of admiration in her eyes as she took in the shirtless view.
“I tried texting you this morning to see if you had time for lunch today, but I didn’t get an answer,” she said, placing her hands on her hips.
“Sorry, I’ve been training since six thirty, and the warden here”—he nodded toward Tyson—“won’t allow cell phones on the floor.”
Her expression hardened as she glanced toward Tyson. “Yes, I know all about Tyson’s rules.”
“Hey, Faith, how are you?”
She ignored him. “Anyway, it’s probably too late for lunch, but are you free to take me to dinner?”
Walker shook his head. The woman obviously had her sights set on him, and while his dick was tempted, he was going with the voice in his mind saying it wasn’t a good idea to get involved with her . . . or anyone right now. “I don’t think . . .”
“He’ll be done in a couple of hours. Come back then,” Tyson said from the cage.
He shot him a look. “I will?” Where had his train-all-night-and-day coach gone? The guy who’d made him run eight miles before training the day before because he’d been so late showing up?
“Great. I’ll come back,” Faith said, touching his glistening chest, excitement in her eyes.
Man, the woman really had a thing for fighters. He didn’t believe for a second it had anything to do with him personally. It was the career, the type, she was attracted to. Like in high school when he’d dated the cheerleaders. It wasn’t the girls themselves he was into—it was the uniforms and the tight little popular bodies underneath. Football players and cheerleaders. They’d been a cliché, that was all. And now he found himself once again sliding into a stereotype that turned on women like Faith.
Climbing back inside the cage, he said, “What the hell was that?”
Tyson shrugged, hitting the timer to start the sparring round.
“Five minutes ago, you were on my case because you said I was off my game—now you’re feeding me to the wolves?” he asked as his coach landed several jabs and he countered with a solid right hook that earned him an appreciative nod, followed by a straight right to the jaw.
“Faith is different.”
“How?”
Tyson threw a body shot and went in for the takedown, but Walker sprawled, defending the move, keeping them on their feet. He moved away from Tyson to start circling him again.
“Faith has a reputation.”
“I gathered.”
“It’s not all bad . . .” He hesitated. “The guys call her the Career-Maker.”
“Because of the publicity on the show? I don’t think three minutes on air is going to help my career,” he said, dropping his right shoulder into Tyson’s stomach and knocking him onto the mat.
“No. She’s like a good luck charm,” he said reversing the position to take the mount, forcing Walker to work from the bottom.
“You’re messing with me, right?” He knew fighters could be superstitious about routines and good luck rituals before fights, but this was the craziest thing he’d ever heard. “You mean, all I have to do to win my fight is bone some hot reporter?”
Tyson got to his feet, standing back to let him up. “Not just any reporter. Faith. I know it sounds like bullshit, but every fighter in here who’s been with Faith has won their fight.”
Sounds like a lot of guys had had the pleasure of knowing the woman, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to put his dick anywhere his training partners—and coach—had been, by the sounds of it. “You included?”
Tyson nodded, as the bell rang signaling the end of the five-minute round. “But in my case, even though I won my fight, it put my career on hold for a bit.”
Walker reached for his water bottle and squirted the liquid into his mouth, then spit in the bucket in the corner. “Why?”
“Because I nailed her while she was still dating Erik Johansen.” He set the timer and got back into position.
Faith and Erik had once been an item? He wondered if Gracie knew that.
“You don’t mess with the matchmaker’s girl,” Tyson said.
No shit.
Chapter 6
“Grace, Lisa from Paint Me Promotions is on line three,” her assistant April buzzed her office later that day.
Reaching for a tissue, she blew her nose and cleared her throat before saying, “Great, I’ve been trying to get her on the phone for days. Put her through.”
A second later, Lisa Ashley’s stressed-out voice was on the line. “Hi, Grace.”
“Hi, Lisa. You sound about as stressed as I feel,” she said, ignoring the other lights for incoming calls on her phone. While she had Lisa on the line, she had to secure the models for the following evening’s promo event.
“It’s this stupid reality show. I’m filming every other day for next season, and I swear the producers are purposely on the hunt for pain-in-the-ass, impossible-to-please clients to watch us perform miracles at the last freaking minute.” She sighed.
&n
bsp; “That’s television—the more dramatic the better,” Grace said, but she’d watched the show a few times last season and Lisa wasn’t kidding. The body paint company had been expected to pull off quite a few challenging feats. “Well, I promise, my request is simple. Three girls, camouflage makeup, for three hours tomorrow night.”
“You know, I’ll be happy once this camouflage craze dies down.”
“Sorry, it’s hot right now. And the event coordinators have this idea of camouflaging the girls into the promo posters.” She rolled her eyes. Sex sells. Naked, beautiful models walking around ShadowDancers the following evening would draw a big crowd to the fan event, even if they were completely covered in body paint.
“Let me write this down, otherwise I will forget. Hang on a sec,” she said, and Grace could hear her setting the phone aside.
Her own cell chimed with a new message. She’d been so busy, she hadn’t even heard the phone ringing. She dialed her voice mail while she waited, and the sound of her mother’s voice singing “Happy Birthday” was one her aching head couldn’t handle at that moment, so she saved the message and set the phone aside.
She couldn’t even think about her birthday right now.
She turned in her chair to reach for a bottle of Tylenol, as Erik passed her office in the hallway. He didn’t stop or even glance in . . . She frowned, covering the mouthpiece. “Erik!” she called.
He came back and stuck his head in. “Hi.”
“Hi! You’re back! I wasn’t expecting you until this evening,” she said, standing and putting the call on speakerphone.
“Rex needed me back here today for a meeting with the fight commissioners, so I booked a flight and got back this morning.” He glanced at his watch. “He’s is in the boardroom waiting. I’ll swing back.”
“Wait—how did the negotiations go?”
He smiled. “We got him.”
“That’s great!”
“Yeah. Anyway, Rex is waiting.”
She sat back down in her chair. “Oh, yeah . . . of course.” It’s not like he hadn’t seen her in four days. Sure, rush off to his meeting—without a hug, a kiss, a happy birthday, maybe . . . She forced a smile. “We’ll talk later.” She wasn’t even sure he heard her as he left, and she sank back against her chair. “Welcome home.”
Breaking Her Rules Page 10
