by Celia Crown
“No, we can eat in the cafeteria.” I grab her hand holding the phone; it is cold, icy even. The contrast in temperatures between her hand and mine is notable. I am concerned she has been cold all this time.
She goes out of her way to be professional, but I do not want to be treated as if I’m one of her usual clients. At least she does not call me “sir” too much, and I have gotten her to use my name without the prefix.
“You kids go!” the coach shouts. “I’m going to teach this beanbag who’s boss!”
“Please ignore him, he won’t be satisfied until he embarrasses himself.” She sighs and opens the door to let herself out again.
I follow her while signaling at my coach. He makes a motion like shooting me with his fingers, but that childish gesture means something else.
He has hinted that Ezra is single. I have never heard him speak so highly of anyone, and with such pride in his voice.
My focus in college was not academics; I was more interested in sports. That did not mean I could slack off on my studies because my scholarship would have been taken away from me.
“You’re close to your father,” I note with a smile.
She nods. “It’s hard not to be.”
“What do you mean?” I pry softly, but not overly intrusive.
I want to hear it directly from her, not from her father. It will create a stronger bond between us as we spend more time together.
“I’m assuming you know how he is?” she questions with a light laugh. “His ‘journeys,’ as he would call them.”
“It’s his favorite topic,” I say, sighing through the grunt.
From the first time I met coach, he had more stories than I could count. Sometimes I wondered if he was making them up.
Oh, they were interesting, bizarre in terms of the details.
“It has been like that since I was young. Gone for a long time and then returning to suffocate my mother and me with his attention.” Her Russian accent comes out, one of the most wonderful things I ever heard.
I have heard Russian accents before, but not like Ezra’s.
It sounds like music.
“My parents weren’t supportive of my decision to become a professional boxer,” I mutter with a dry chuckle.
“They weren’t?” she probes, shocked as she turns to me. “I don’t see why. I cannot imagine your size was an overnight development. Pursuing athletics is definitely an option for a man with your physique.”
I shake my head as I remember their clear words of wisdom. “They wanted me in a cardigan and glasses, holding my degree in law or physics -- whichever seemed more impressive on a résumé.”
She hums as she tilts her head while we wait for an elevator to take us up to the cafeteria.
“I can see you in a suit or a cardigan,” she muses. “It’s very flattering.”
“I wouldn’t say ‘flattering’ with a sweater that rose up whenever I moved,” I point out with a grimace.
My clothes need to be bought in an extra-large size, so suits are out of my comfort zone. The problem with cardigans is that I don’t look very appealing in them. The mental image is revolting.
“I know plenty of women who would find you very attractive in a cardigan,” she remarks confidently as the door opens.
“Do you?” I blurt out.
Ezra steps into the elevator and holds the door open. “I do.”
Her cheeks do not turn red, but the sincerity in her pretty eyes leaves me breathless when she smiles. What this woman does to my heart is not the worst thing; it’s the way she makes my blood boil.
I want her.
We drop the subject of cardigans and just leave it at that. I don’t want to push Ezra too much; these things take time now that I know she is attracted to me.
The elevator opens and reveals the cafeteria. Some people have their own tables, but others sit with those they know.
As soon as we step near the table closest to the exit, we are greeted by several heads jerking up with curious eyes. They are nosy and intrusive as they move back and forth between the two of us.
I usually call my dietitian or consult my nutritionist about the food in the cafeteria. But all the nutrition information is spelled out on the menu. They have healthy options for the athletes and non-restrictive choices for those who prefer them.
I have self-control and steer clear of the unhealthy foods when I order. Ezra picks something light in a smaller portion, but she is more focused on the clock.
“Waiting for someone?” I ask.
I don’t know where that thought came from; it just sounded like the normal thing to ask.
She hums. “No, I’m waiting for a phone call.”
“I don’t mean to pry,” I wonder, needing to know what goes through her mind.
“Not at all, Reese,” she says. “I don’t have the faintest idea where I have seen that man ‘Peters.’”
“Is he that forgettable?” I ask, trying to get as much information as I can. “He was last year’s champion; I’m sure you’d remember if you met him.”
“I tend to tuck memories of trivial meetings away unless needed for my job. I certainly would have remembered a man like him.”
“Like him?” I echo back slowly.
Our food comes out piping hot, and we take our trays to the checkout line. We pay separately as she ponders my question.
Finding a seat, she sits down and finally answers. “My job is to protect the client. I must know about their home life, secrets, and skeletons that could endanger them.”
That means she has learned things about me.
“Did you get any sleep last night?” My brows furrow with disapproval.
It’s a reasonable question since she has been with me for most of the day, and her attention is always focused on me. So, it’s fair to assume she had not gotten much sleep doing all that research.
“You could’ve just asked me anything, I’ll answer whatever you need to know.”
She twists the water bottle cap. “That would be biased information. I don’t need to trust my clients, but they need to trust me to protect them. I cannot do my best if I have tainted intel.”
The way she speaks, I have many questions for her.
“Are you in the military?” I ask as I pick up my utensils.
“No,” she quips. “I work with many clients who have colorful backgrounds.”
In layman’s terms, they probably have not all been above the law in the past. Borderline, to say the least. I have heard of Cypher, anyone not living under a rock would know about that security company.
They employ the best in terms of physique and mentality.
“I have been known to pick up on some unusual habits since I work closely with my clients.”
I inject hastily, “Any of them closer than others?”
“Annika.” Her lips twist into a brighter smile, so brilliantly gorgeous as her eyes twinkle with fondness.
A rush of irritable possessiveness curses my heart with a limbo of painful throbs. The fork in my hand bends, but I don’t notice since I’m focused on my hostility towards this mysterious Annika.
Workplace romance is a bad idea.
Who am I to judge?
What I want falls into that category too.
I want her despite the fact I am the client, and she is assigned to me. A classic romance in the workplace.
Fuck, I will embrace that damn cliché if I can get her to smile at me like that.
“Are you alright?” she whispers. “You’re angry.”
“I’m not,” I say, clipped and curt.
I reel back the tension that radiates off my shoulders, so her attentive eyes move away.
“Does the name Annika have a negative association for you?” She caps her water after a short drink.
Her pink lips glisten with the moistness, and her little tongue swipes them away. That does not help the aggression curling in my stomach. And now, my cock has twitched into thickness.
B
ad timing, one of the worst things that could happen right now.
We are just starting dinner; I have to get this anger-fueled sexual tension under control.
I am not walking out with her after the meal while there is a tent in my pants.
Changing the focus back to her, I ask, “Who’s Annika?”
The tone of antagonism must have eased into my voice, but nothing is showing on her face. She either didn’t pick up on it, or she brushed it off as typical of the way I sound.
Adding that to my appearance, she might get undesirable ideas that I am a destructive man who doesn’t work well in teams.
“Annika is someone I value dearly,” she explains with a chuckle. “We are often hired by the same client to be his security detail—a bit of a womanizer, that man.”
Ezra smiles as she fills in the details, but she is not offended by whoever the client is. I take it the man does not do anything out of line, or she would have put him in his place.
“Annika and I are his arm-candy; we fit with the image he wants to create.”
So, Annika is a woman.
I will take that over a man.
Fuck, this jealousy at any mention of a man is going to drive me crazy.
“Why did you join Cypher?” I want to know how she chose this path for her career.
She has the skills to work in a variety of fields. She took down a man of my size with ease, and she kept me down even when I tried to move.
She knew what she was doing; her small and lethal hand around my neck was the only thing she needed to dominate me.
I was also distracted by how stunning she looked above me.
“Russia is a scary place,” she begins. “Someone had to protect my mother when my reckless father was off on his journeys of self-discovery.”
“Have you brought this up to him?” I insinuate boldly. “The instability.”
It is not my place to tell her what to do. But when I look at Ezra, I see a vulnerable girl until I remember she is a fighter.
It burns my heart to know the male figure in her life is the definition of hot-and-cold. From what she has told me and what the coach has spilled, his presence was either non-existent or smothering.
There was no other choice for her. Ezra had essentially matured into the stability that everyone in the family needed.
The coach is not going to change any time soon, I just know it. Spontaneity might happen when the final match ends, regardless of the result.
Nothing seems to hold his interest longer than a year.
“I can give it to you,” I offer as I abandon the thought of eating for now.
“What?” she asks, chewing her food.
“Stability,” I assert.
This festering emotion will keep growing until it takes over every thought in my head. It’s never going to stop; no one else will ever make me feel these complex emotions.
Emotions that are akin to obsessive infatuation and possessive fixation. Pure yet so dark, they consumed my dreams last night.
She tilts her head in amusement as her lips curl into an ambiguous smile.
Ezra whispers, gentle and melodic, “Fraternization is frowned upon; I prefer not having my boss give me ‘the talk.’”
“I’m serious.” I extend my hand and slowly wrap my long fingers around her smaller ones.
“I know,” she says.
Three weeks of concentrated training in this facility before the fight means I will have three weeks to make her mine.
If I were not experiencing this myself, I would have laughed at the notion of love at first sight. It is not “love” yet. However, my gut has never been wrong, and I use it to make important decisions.
There is no reason not to trust it now.
“I want to give you that.” My chest expands with a purring growl. “I can give you stability.”
“You can,” she comments with her lips wrapped around the fork. “After the contract finishes.”
“After.” I breathe quietly.
She laughs warm-heartedly. “There won’t be consequences then; you can woo me to your heart’s content.”
Nothing around us exists anymore, it fades into oblivion as I tighten my hand on hers. I don’t think about the people staring at my back. I feel lighter when I don’t think about them, and it all disappears from my mind.
“Not until I have all of you,” I emphasize with a strenuous hold she will not be able to wrestle out of.
“Annika has told me that I’m expensive and complicated.”
She doesn’t fight my hand; her palm touches mine while her deft fingers trace patterns on my wrist.
“When I win, that hundred-million dollars will be mine, and you will be too.”
Ezra hums, accepting, and encouraging. “I will hold you to that promise, Mr. Reese.”
Chapter Five
Ezra
It is against the rules to be involved with a client. It is not rocket science to think it would turn into a PR nightmare for Cypher’s team. We pride ourselves on a clean image, but things don’t always turn out the way we expect them to.
We had one member of the team go rogue.
It was a complex situation, but it brought so much publicity for Cypher that business was booming. The reason the team member ended up going his own way is still a secret. Only a handful of people know what happened, and those are the ones at the top.
My boss knows, but he is not in the habit of filling in the details for anyone.
Fraternization with clients is frowned upon, but it still happens now and then. The repercussions aren’t too severe, just a reduction in pay if it gets out of hand and harms the client in any way.
Which is why I am not that opposed to Reese getting a bit too close. It is not the proximity I allow most people, but he’s a special case.
My heart agrees with a flurry of thumps when he grazes me with his calloused knuckles or presses his chest against my back. My knees buckle when he places his hand on the curve of my hip.
It is so naturally domineering, and I like it.
I have never experienced this before. It is perplexing.
I don’t know what I was expecting him to do when he declared his intentions without a shred of doubt in his amber eyes. But I was not ready to have his presence take over my mind.
This is risky behavior.
I am supposed to be clear-minded and alert, but Reese is making it more difficult for me.
I should have told him this should wait until the contract ends. His eyes, so selfishly demanding, steered me toward the choice he wants me to make.
I didn’t notice what he had done until I agreed to it during dinner, and that was three nights ago. I still do not have the faintest clue what type of persuasion technique he used.
It is making me crazy.
That is a skill I want to learn.
“What? What is this?” my father grumbles as he stands beside me.
The hand on my back dances down my spine as Reese finds his breath after a rigorous workout. They have been working on Reese’s aim while building up strength in his arms.
He had fought against my father. Dad was never professionally trained. He was wide open, and his steps were not coordinated. But he could hold his own.
This is the man who was known to fight bears.
It was more humiliating than worrisome when I would see him in the backyard of our old home. A stereotype in Russia was of men who fight bears, and my father fit that image perfectly.
The scars on his body prove it.
I was exposed to it at a young age, so it’s impossible to know if it was nature or nurture that affected me. I was desensitized to violence, and it did not help when my father taught me how to fight the bullies at school.
For a long time, people thought I was a boy.
“Banking issues?” he hisses as he shakes his phone.
“Unauthorized transactions have been reported, and they froze the account?” he exclaims, needlessly outraged.
“And I have to come in to change the password for my online banking?” my father yells with an aggravated hiss.
I have the same bank as he does; I specifically chose it for the strict security. There are some inconveniences, and charges may look out of the norm. But it is better than having my money disappear with no warning.
“I have to go,” he snaps as his face scrunches into a frown.
I nod and save my breath; he does not need consoling. It is normal for him to be annoyed by things that don’t go his way; he always finds a way to fix it later.
“That’s cold, daughter of mine,” he whines. “I don’t have access to my money.”
I turn my head away. “Then, I suggest you fix the problem. My services do not come cheap, father of mine.”
He mumbles, “Don’t I get a family discount?”
“To put up with your antics, I should double the charges. However, you are family, so I gave you a discount despite being so difficult to deal with.”
His mouth opens and closes as he tries to get his voice to work. But he finally swallows his pride and settles for sticking out his bottom lip.
I am going to pretend that my father, a grown man, is not pouting.
This is just ridiculous.
“I thought your job revolved around Reese,” he comments as he starts to pack everything he needs into his back pocket.
Reese’s hand twitches on my back in a subtle gesture hidden from my father. He’s partly shielding me from Dad and using his height to his advantage when he tips his body closer to mine.
Not an hour goes by where he does not have a hand on me.
“Yes, that is what I do,” I agree, but I am not following his line of thought.
“He can’t get hurt because it’s your job to protect him,” my father says with a grin.
This is not good. Whatever is running through his head needs to stop, or it will spiral out of control.
“Yes,” I say, pausing for him to continue.
“Perfect,” he exclaims loudly as he claps his hands. “You’re going to train him.”
Out of instinct and pure reflex, I blurt out, “No.”
“It’s what you’re paid to do. If Reese loses, his pride will be hurt. As will his reputation. So, it is in your best interest to help him avoid losing.”