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Billy sighed and crossed the room to the staircase. “Come with me. Tomorrow, I mean.”
From where she stood on the fourth step, Shayna frowned. “Dude, it’s okay.”
He shook his head. “I want you to come.”
Her frown deepened. “Why? It’s not a big deal. Really.”
Why did he want her to come? When just moments before he’d felt so ambivalent and even a little embarrassed about it?
Billy didn’t have to think long on the answer—because she’d reacted as if WFC was not only perfectly normal, but really cool. And it was. But it was also fucking therapy of a sort, even though the format was something way different than sitting on a couch and spilling your emotional guts.
He needed to make up for hurting her feelings—and he knew he’d done just that. The expressiveness of her face made her an open book. And telling the truth was the best way to make up for it. He knew that, too.
“I was fucking embarrassed about what you’d think. That’s why I hesitated when you asked. Not because I didn’t want you to come. Besides, you could meet some of my friends.” Unusual heat rushed into Billy’s face, and he dropped his chin to his chest.
Shay made her way down to him until he was staring at her bare feet and her bright red toenails. “Did you think I’d tease you or something?” she asked, her voice neutral.
He forced himself to lift his chin and meet her gaze. “You do like to bust my balls.”
“Not about this. Never about this.” Her expression was so fucking earnest, and her face was even more beautiful.
He nodded, feeling the truth of her words down deep. After all, she’d seen his scars and heard him talk about how hard it was to come home from deployment and been nothing but cool about that, too. “So. will you come?”
Her smile answered before her words did. “Yeah. Sounds fun. I’d like to come. But I promise I’ll stay out of your hair.”
“You don’t have to stay out of my hair, Shayna.”
“Oh, good, because this is driving me crazy,” she said, her fingers suddenly combing through his hair. “You made it stand up funny.”
Billy could’ve fucking purred. If he did things like purr, which he fucking didn’t. But her nails felt damn amazing against his scalp. He would’ve closed his eyes at the goodness of it if it weren’t for watching the satisfaction shaping her pretty face as she touched him.
“There,” she said, her smile turning a little shy. She cleared her throat. “So, uh, okay then. What time do we need to leave?”
Chapter Eight
There was one fatal flaw in his plan to bring Shayna to Full Contact—Billy hadn’t given any thought to how she might look in her workout clothes.
And, Jesus, how goddamned sexy she looked in her workout clothes.
Short spandex shorts hugged her curvy ass, and the cut-outs on the back of her sports bra and tank top revealed some of her ink. With her red curls up in a ponytail, she managed to look both cute and sexy at the same time—and it was a killer fucking combination.
None of which he had any business noticing.
But what made it even more appealing was how obviously excited she was to be going to the gym with him. Her enthusiasm and gratitude hit him right in the chest, as if he’d given her the moon instead of an invite to come meet his friends. She’d kept up a nearly running commentary the whole car ride there, only pausing to ask Billy questions—about the gym, about his surveillance work, about WFC.
“How long have you belonged?” was her most recent question, and Billy could feel her eyes on him.
He was glad that driving gave him an excuse not to face her while they talked
. “A few years,” he said. “I joined not too long after I got home, even though I couldn’t spar at first because my back wasn’t healed enough.”
“Does it, um, is it okay…I mean, does it hurt now to get hit where your scarring is?” she asked.
Billy did look at her then. He didn’t love focusing on his injuries, but he had to admit that he respected how Shayna tackled the subject head-on, even if she was a little uncomfortable asking. Sure enough, her cheeks were pink. But he found only curiosity in her eyes, and maybe a little concern. No pity. Thank fuck. “Sometimes,” he admitted.
And even though that one word was all kinds of vague, he’d said more to her in those two syllables than he’d said to his friends in WFC—or to Coach Mack who led the club.
Sometimes…as in, sometimes it triggered a temporary worsening of the phantom pain of the kind that he’d had all this past week—and still had even as his ass sat behind that steering wheel, a sensation that ranged from an uncomfortable feeling of pins and needles to a nearly intolerable electrical burning.
