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“Okay, I’m going to give you a compliment now, and please don’t let your already impressive ego inflate even further?—”
“Hilarious, coming from you,” she mumbles.
“—But this is all very good. Better and more thorough than half my men would do.”
“Half?” Her eyebrows raise. “You have really good men then.”
“Fine, better than most.” I drum my fingers on the table, considering. I think about the empty pantry and her barren refrigerator. I think of the bills piling up. I imagine her stressed out to the point of proposing this job to me, of all people, a guy she clearly can’t stand, all because she’s utterly desperate.
“What?” she asks, making a face. “You’re staring at me.”
“I’m considering.”
“How about you consider at the wall instead?” She moves to stand up, but I reach out on impulse and touch her wrist.
I don’t grab it. I don’t dig my fingers in. I just—touch it. And she stops moving, her eyebrows raised, her mouth open ever so slightly.
“Come to Bloody Strike tomorrow morning and we’ll put a real plan together.”
She doesn’t move. I don’t pull my hand away. I like the feeling of her skin. It’s soft, with little downy hairs. I like her tan skin and her thin wrist, and I love her pouty mouth and her heart-shaped face. The girl’s so damn pretty.
“You’re taking the job?” she asks finally.
“I’m leaning in that direction.”
“I want ten percent.” Her eyes narrow. Well, maybe not that pretty, since now she’s looking at me like she wants to bite off my nose.
“Fine. I’ll do ten.”
She seems skeptical and I wonder if I should have negotiated, but she finally pulls away and heads back into the kitchen. “You’ve got a deal,” she says. “And now you may leave. I’m going to eat this, shower, and sleep for ten hours.”
I get up and turn to the door. “There’s cream cheese in the refrigerator and some milk. I wasn’t sure if you took it in the coffee.” I say it as casually as I can, because if she knew I got that stuff mostly so she’d have more food to eat, she might dump it out of spite.
“Great. How generous. You may go now.”
I wave, smiling to myself. She doesn’t suspect a thing.
Chapter 5
Valentina
Ronan’s got an ulterior motive.
There’s no way he appeared at my apartment out of nowhere and decided suddenly my job was a good idea. No, he didn’t bring me bagels—two dozen,waymore than necessary, but enough to keep me fed and going for a week if I keep them frozen—plus milk and cream cheese for no reason.
Unfortunately, I’m not in a position to worry about that. Which is why I force myself out of bed early the next morning, shower and get dressed in something casual and comfortable, before heading over to Bloody Strike.
It looks closed, but the door’s unlocked. I head inside, expecting six shirtless meatheads to turn in my direction all at once like last time—but find only a single shirtless meathead instead.
Ronan’s off to the right of the ring. A heavy bag is suspended from the ceiling, and he’s working at it like he’s got a grudge to settle. Sweat trickles down his finely shaped chest and shoulders as he strikes, again and again, each time with perfect form.
The man’s a specimen. I’ll give him that. He’s annoying and selfish, and I’m still annoyed he broke into my apartment for fun, but still. He’s incredibly attractive.
“I’m pretending this bag—”Punch, punch, punch. “—Is Marco’s fucking face.” He pulls back, grinning at me, and wipes a wrist across his forehead. I resist the urge to look at his muscular forearm.
I fail and glance at it: yep, really sexy, the asshole.
“I’d rather not talk about him.” I march over to the bar and plop my bag down on top. Ronan drifts over, wiping his chest and arms with a towel. Again, I succumb to temptation and glance at his chest as the towel presses against the muscle, and I wonder what it would be like if my lips were there instead.
