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I roll my eyes but stay silent.
“Let’s make a deal.”
I flick my gaze back to him, where he’s watching me intently. The sky beyond his window is starting to get lighter. Dawn isn’t for another ninety minutes, but it’s no longer pitch black out.
“Okay,” I say, against my will. “What’s the deal?”
“You do whatever I tell you to for the next hour, without complaint, and I’ll tell you who I was meeting with.”
Whatever I tell you. I bite my lip. That could mean anything. His eyes flare as he watches my teeth worry my lip. His exhale is loud in the car.
“What do you mean by whatever you tell me?” Images fill my head. Him raising the privacy divider, pushing me down on the seat with those black eyes on mine. One large hand on my stomach, pinning me. Kissing him. In my imagination, he tastes like smoke and liquor. Sin. Forbidden pleasure.
“What are you thinking?” His voice is low.
I shut my eyes, trying to banish the images of his perfect jaw above the collar of his coat, the silky fall of his hair, the stubbled column of his throat.
“Thompson. Tell me what you’re thinking or I will make your life hell.” The sound of his voice wraps around me, drawing my nipples to points.
“I’m already there,” I say.
I can practically hear him freeze. When I dare to open my eyes, his are heavy-lidded, watching me, analyzing. Don’t go there, Thompson, his eyes say. It’s too late, mine respond. I should be mortified, but I’ve never wanted anyone like this before. So when he says, “Do we have a deal?” I say, “Yes.”
24
Jonah
Nerves jump in my stomach as I push open the studio door. The lights flicker on automatically, displaying the ring, the practice bags, the mats, the water station. No one comes to the studio, except Jason, Miles, and sometimes Mia’s brother. What is Callie going to think of this?
“You box?” Callie asks, her eyes wide. She’s dressed for working out like she’s someone who never works out. Incomparably impractical. That’s her. Tight leggings, a cropped sports bra that makes my head swim, bright pink sneakers. I want to grab her ass and grind her against me. And I think she wants it too. It struck me in the car. Her expression was as pained as mine is every time she walks in front of me. Or maybe I was seeing things.
“I used to box competitively.”
And I was fucking good. I don’t tell her that. I don’t mention that I could have gone pro. I could have been an instructor instead of a businessman. It’s not relevant now.
“When did you stop?”
I should have known that she would have questions. Her reporter’s mind can’t stop ferreting out secrets.
“Years ago. When I went to business school.” I remade myself. Shed the harsh accent, the motorcycle, the hobbies that didn’t fit with who I wanted to be.
I move to the corner, where the wraps and gloves are kept, and pull out the box of multicolored fabric.
“Come here. I’ll do your hands.”
She stands in front of me while I take her wrist in my hand and start wrapping her hand with the strip of green fabric. I’ve done this a million times for myself, but rarely for others. My hands are thick and awkward as I pull the first wrap tight.
“Why did you stop?” Is it my imagination, or does her voice sound higher than usual?
I snort. “Businessmen don’t box. Boys from New Jersey might, but men like me bet on boxing matches or own the casinos that host them, the TV stations that air them.”
“Do you miss it?”
My gaze flicks up to hers. She’s studying me, the way she always does when we’re close.
“I do,” I admit. “There’s nothing like competition. I miss winning.”
“But you still practice?”
