Page 5 of Wild for the Knight

Greyson’s eyebrows raise slightly as he sighs. “Abs, it’s a lot to pull off alone. Plus, it’s an eight-hour drive. Hannah would kill me if I let you make that alone.”

Hold the phone.

“I never agreed to driving with him...” I haven’t agreed to anything, but eight hours in the car with Tatum sounds like my own personal brand of Hell. I mean, I can barely stand to be in the same room with him, and now, Greyson wants to lock me in a confined space with him for eight freaking hours? Hard pass.

“Abby, please? Can the two of you get along for like a month? Then you can go back to hating each other.” He sticks out his bottom lip as he delivers the sucker punch. “Please? For Han?” His puppy dog eyes join the party, and I freaking hate it. Mainly because just like I know Tatum won’t say no to his brother, I won’t say no to doing something for Hannah. Frikety Frick. It’d be more enjoyable to sign my own death certificate.

Tatum finally finds his voice and graces the room with his infuriating dialogue. “Don’t worry, I’ll try not to ruin your meticulously planned life.”

I spin on my heels toward him, my arms flying out to the side. “You don’t have to try to ruin anything, Baby Wilder. You just do.”

He simply stares at me. If my little temper tantrum affected him, he doesn’t show it. Not that he ever does. I’m starting to think he’s actually a robot. Hmm, maybe I should see if I can find the power button. Then, I could shove him in the back of a closet and forget he exists.

Sighing, I drop onto the bar stool at the end of the kitchen island. My hands come up to slowly rub my temples—the things I do for Hannah. “Once every other week, Wilder, I’ll agree to that,” even though that’s too much time for my liking. “I can’t promise I won’t strangle your brother if it’s more than that. I already have to see him every Wednesday.”

Tatum’s face remains blank as he looks down at his legs, flicking an imaginary piece of lint off his black jeans like I’m not even here. Greyson, on the other hand, is smiling like the freaking Cheshire Cat. How are these two related?

This is going to be a disaster, a long, infuriating disaster.

There's not much that settles the chaos inside me like the steady percussive beat of my boxing gloves as they meet Nelson’s mitts. The rhythm flows, fast and purposeful, until the last punch is thrown and the finality of that heavy thud signals the end of the round. “What’s gotten into you today?” Nelson asks as I let my arms fall to my sides.

I can’t tell him the truth, that a certain Wilder brother has gotten so far under my skin I can’t think straight right now. He didn’t show up for our planning session this morning, leaving me sitting in the back of Beautiful Pour for an hour before I finally gave up.

Rolling out my neck, I raise my hands back to my face and recenter my fighting stance. “Nothing, just working out some frustration.”

“Does this frustration have a name?” Of course. He and his wife both read me like a book. I’m equal parts grateful and annoyed at that fact. At the moment, though, I don’t want to talk; I just want to hit something. Namely, the mitts that I’m pretending are Tatum’s obnoxiously handsome face.

My head drops back behind me as I let out a groan. Much to my dismay, I know this isn’t a conversation I’m going to get out of. “I’m planning Hannah’s bachelorette party. I’m supposed to have a little helper, but he didn’t show up to our meeting this morning.”

I throw a punch with my right hand, and he barely gets the mitt up in time before I hit him in the shoulder. “It’s frustrating because I asked if I could do it myself, but then Greyson asked, ever so nicely, if I could work with his brother on it. I could have a good chunk of it done by now if I weren’t relying on someone else.” His responding chuckle makes me that much more irritated. I strike out a body shot with my left hand, and he catches it.

I bounce on the balls of my feet, gloved hands framing my face, letting him know I’m done messing around. I need to hit. I need to move. I need to not be able to think about anything other than the moves he’s working us through. He calls out combo after combo as we move around the all-black boxing ring. By the time we’re done, there’s not an inch of me that isn’t covered in sweat. My eyes are burning from the saltiness. I grab the velcro of one glove with my teeth and rip it off, freeing a hand to undo the other one.

“Hit the bike, Butterfly. The last thing you need is to cramp up. You did a lot of calf work today.” I nod before bending down to pick up the glove I slung to the floor. He’s got a concerned look on his face, and I know it’s because it’s been a long time since I’ve pushed myself this hard. He saw me at my lowest. He’s the only one who knows why I’m actually here. And it’s not for the stress relief that most believe it to be.

I start to tell him I’m okay, just needed a little extra push today, but I’m interrupted by the equivalent of nails on a chalkboard. “Butterfly?” Tate’s deep rumble of a voice pumps an unhealthy dose of anger through my veins.

You have GOT to be kidding me. He’s like a gnat on a hot summer day that just won’t leave you alone. One you just want to squish between your fingers, then flick off to the side and never deal with again. The slight edge of annoyance in his tone is enough to set me off like an atomic bomb. I spin around to find him and Zeke leaning against the ropes on the other side of the ring.

“Heavens to freaking Betsy!” I say as I slap a hand over my heart, feigning relief that I don’t feel. “Praise the Lord. I can call off the search party!” Both of their eyebrows pull together as I continue. “Turns out you're not dead, just an asshole.” I focus on taking off my hand wraps, completely ignoring them. Nelson picks up on it and starts laughing uncontrollably.

“This is the guy that stood you up?” He shakes his head as he looks back and forth between Tatum and I.

“What is he talking about?” Tate asks as his brows pull low over his eyes. I don’t bother answering or even glancing at him as I walk off the mat toward the locker room. The silent treatment is an art form I’ve mastered over the years. Mama always told me, “If you don’t have anything nice to say, Abby Camille, you best not open your mouth at all.” I guess I’m mute now.

Hannah and Greyson deserve a party planned with care and precision, not one thrown together last minute because someone can't do what they said they’d do. My frustration simmers as I shower and change, each thought of Tatum turns the heat up, causing my blood to reach a low boil. What kind of person does he take me for? The kind that rolls over and plays dead? HA!

I gather my hair into a messy bun on top of my head. Aggressively stretching the hair tie with more force than necessary, I scowl at my reflection as I undo it and try again. The man lives in a fantasy world, one where only he matters. It makes him easy to hate—unreliable and only cares about things that benefit him.

If it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck...

I’m still fuming as I step out of the locker room, eyes glued to my phone as I try to piece together what Monroe is attempting to explain over texts. Something involving hats. I don’t know, honestly. In typical Lucas Monroe fashion, it's probably something ridiculous that sounds fun in theory but will, in all actuality, be a logistical nightmare.

I make it two steps before I run into a solid wall of muscle. “What was that? And why the hell does he call you Butterfly?” His hands circle my biceps, steadying me as I take two deep breaths to try and keep from blowing my freaking lid in the middle of the gym.

“Good afternoon, Tatum.” My voice comes out as frosty as the snowman. “My nickname has nothing to do with you, therefore, you don’t need to know the story behind it.” I try to move around him, but he mirrors the movement, blocking me like the human shield he is. Before I can protest any further, he snatches my phone from me.

“Give it back,” I snap, holding out my hand. “I’m not in the mood for your childish games, Tatum.”