Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 56257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
He laughs again, just like earlier. I seriously need to calm down, but any positive emotion from him is like a tickle right to the reward center of my brain. “Do you think I’m trying to impress you, good girl?”
He frowns like he’s pissed at himself for bringing up the old nickname. I went through a super religious stage as a kid, soon after Mom died. This was before I found the DVD. I asked Dad, Brad, and even Rust to call me that.
“Good girl. I remember that. I must’ve looked silly with that big Cross around my neck.”
He shrugs. “I don’t care about people’s religion. I don’t care where that came from.”
“It’s okay. I kind of like it. It takes me back to those days.”
He tightens his grip on the wheel. I wish he were wearing short sleeves so I could see the tightness of his forearms, the power in them. I think of them twitching when he moves his hands over my body.
“Were those good days for you?” he asks.
“Good? No, not really, but they were simple. As a little kid, I believed so hard that it made everything okay for a while there. It helped me, but I could never get back to that. I tried so many times.”
“Maybe you’ll get back there one day,” he says.
“What about you?” I ask. “Do you believe in anything?”
Rust is notorious for giving as little as possible away in interviews. His stoic demeanor has worked well, making him seem distant, tough, and imposing, especially as a heavyweight. It’s not like we’ve ever really talked before. Thanks, Brad, for giving us some alone time. No, no, I’m so twisted.
“No,” he says darkly. “I never have, and I don’t think I will now. To me, the world has always seemed cold.”
“Because of… your childhood?”
The subtle curve to his lips is long gone. He stares bleakly at the rainy road. A flash of lightning floods his face with light. He doesn’t flinch or even react. He just keeps staring. “It has nothing to do with that.”
“How do you like your steak?” I ask after a shower. The heating makes the house cozy, and the lamps make it feel intimate. I’m wearing thick PJs and a hoodie, covering myself up. It’s not that I think he would be tempted, but it would make me act differently around him. I’d just be waiting—praying—for him to look at me.
He’s in the living room, watching a Cain Cruz fight on TV. No, not a fight. That’s a younger Rust in there, squaring off against the only opponent who ever defeated him in a fight.
“Medium,” he says, glancing at me, his expression unreadable.
“Is this getting you pumped up?” I ask.
“I don’t need any more motivation, but there are mistakes in this fight, too many. I can’t make them again.”
“You won’t,” I say.
“It’s a fight. Anything can happen.”
He leans forward, wearing just a T-shirt now, his arms tensed as he watches his younger self. His hair is still a little wet, swept off his face. My hand almost spasms with the urge to run my hand through it, trail down his back, feel him, savor him. Just for a little while. Not forever.
I busy myself with the dinner. When it’s almost ready, I return to the living room. The fight is over. The TV is turned off. Rust is leaning over a leather patch with a needle in his hand, prodding at it, making an electronic brr sound.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Tattooing on fake skin,” he replies.
“Tattooing?”
He looks up, that subtle curve back on his lips, his dark eyes gleaming almost mischievously. “Fighters retire early—thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven. I’ll need a career when I retire. I’m not made for podcasting, coaching, public appearances, or shaking hands and kissing babies. However, this I might be able to do, but it’ll take some work.”
I walk closer and look down at the piece. It’s a wolf’s head, drawn well and sketched to give it a sense of depth. “It looks good to me,” I say.
He switches off the gun, the brr noise dying. “There’s lots of work to do.”
“You’re just a perfectionist.”
He stands up and smirks down at me. I’ve never seen him smile this much before. Well, not at me. With Brad, he’s generally upbeat, but he’s never been like this one-on-one before. It feels super significant. It feels sinfully significant, honestly.
“Says the one who cooked a perfect steak.”
“You haven’t tasted it yet!”
He chuckles. “I don’t need to.”
In my mind, Mom frowns. “Look at you, pretending like you’re on a date. Are you going to have sex with him before or after your brother gets home?” I stamp down on the thought. Or try to. Fail to.
In the dining room, we sit at the table, Rust looking down at his meal with a content expression. I’m struck with a homely sense as if I’ve just cooked dinner for my man, my husband, and now we’ll settle down for the night. It’s so, so, so out of place that I want to scream. And husband? I couldn’t even legally get married until ten months ago.