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When I hit the gym at midnight, Ryan is still there. He’s the head of my legal team and a recovering alcoholic who finds solace working out.
I watch him work the bag for a few minutes before I make a noise of disapproval. “That shitty footwork is going to be the end of you.”
He turns to face me, his black hair plastered to his forehead by sweat. “Do you think you can best me, old man?”
“I can beat your ass with one hand,” I respond. There are only a few years between the two of us. But out of all the guys who served under me, he’s the one I always had a soft spot for. He reminds me of a little brother.
I wrap my knuckles quickly, years of practice making it easy. Then I make good on my threat and kick his ass from one side of the ring to the other.
When he taps out for the second time, he pauses and rubs his injured shoulder. It hasn’t been right since his time overseas.
“You’re in beast mode lately,” he complains as we leave the mat.
I shrug and move to the gym’s kitchen, grabbing two waters from the fridge. I pass him one before uncapping mine and taking a long swig.
“Is this about a woman?” He gives me an amused grin.
I ignore the question but he knows me too well.
“It is. You dirty old bastard. Are you afraid the gear doesn’t work anymore? Is that the problem?” Ryan laughs.
“I’m afraid it still does work,” I say, thinking about the cold showers I take because of my irresistible little assistant. “After Nicole…” I swallow.
Seven years and I still find it hard to even speak my late wife’s name. She wasn’t just my wife or the mother of my child.
She was the crazy sixteen-year-old girl who married an equally crazy sixteen-year-old boy who promised he’d always protect her. Except that the one thing the boy never counted on was cancer.
“You figured it’d never happen again.”
I thought that part of me died. The part that needed a woman’s hands on me, that wanted to wake up next to someone each morning, that missed having a woman to come home to. “It’s the last thing I expected.”
He gives me a look filled with pity. “Take it one day at a time. It’s all you can do.”
* * *
Atlas is home and in bed by the time I get to the house. I’ve told her she should move to the college dorms. Each time I bring it up, she refuses. I’m beginning to think it has less to do with her desire to save money and more that she’s worried about leaving her father alone.
After a quick shower, I collapse in my bed. But despite the late hour and the exhaustion, I can’t fall asleep. I keep thinking about the book Katie sent me and that’s when I figure out what’s bothering me.
If she were reading the book, it should have been in a different format. But she sent it to me in a document, as if she were writing it herself.
It’s a silly thought but I can’t seem to let go of it. This is a puzzle I want to solve, so I finally grab my phone and check my email.
The document properties list K. A. Hunter as the author. Those are Katie’s initials, but that’s a coincidence. It has to be.
With a tight feeling in my gut, I enter the author name into a search engine. I’m instantly greeted with a picture of Katie.
It’s a cartoon drawing of her. Enough to make it clear she’s a real person but not obvious enough that someone would know exactly what she looks like.
Dozens of short stories appear beside her name. All part of the same series, Dirty Contract.
A couple of taps later and I’ve bought the first book in the series. I could say I’m supporting a hard-working employee’s dream. But it’s more than that. I’m damn curious about this side of her.
With each page turn, the tightness in my gut grows. Michael, the hero, doesn’t just share my name. He shares my looks, my clothing style, my mannerisms—hell, he even drives the same type of car as me.
It’s like she dropped me into the middle of her story. Worse, Katie sounds exactly like the heroine, Kitty.
I feel like a voyeur, as if I’ve invaded a part of her world that she never meant to show me. It’s almost enough to make me close the story…except that then I read the first sex scene.
