Outmatched: A Novel

by Kristen Callihan

  I didn’t want to agree. Not when I had to face the woman every day. But Dean was right. She was a total Hepburn. I’d bet my best leather jacket that she had a strand of perfectly matched pearls in her jewelry box—and that she’d look classy as fuck in them.

  “Doesn’t matter what she looks like,” I told Dean. “We have a business agreement. Nothing more.”

  “Nothing?” Dean’s blond brows lifted high. “Because I could have sworn there was a hint of maybe the arrangement leading to—”

  I lifted a hand to stop him. I did not want to hear about Parker’s apparent willingness to actually date Dean. It stirred up feelings in my gut that I wanted no part of.

  “Trust me,” I said. “It’s all business.”

  He grinned wide and knowing. Smug bastard. “Interesting.”

  “Whatever.” I grabbed my cup and poured the cold remnants of coffee into the sink.

  At my back, Dean snickered. When I turned around, he still wore the smirk.

  “So,” he said expansively, “while you’re Parker’s neutered pet…” He just loved rubbing it in. “I’ll take a nice, office job, just as you wanted.”

  “Well, okay, then,” I said, pleased to hear him finally making sense.

  “Thought you’d like that.” He was far too happy. “So you won’t object to taking your things out of the office. Because I’m going to need the space.”

  Wait. “What?”

  Dean looked at me as though I was two years old. “As the one with the big math-type brain, I’m going to sit my ass down and manage the accounts of Lights Out.”

  When I simply stared, he tutted and shook his head slightly.

  “You’ve been saying you’re crap at account managing. Well, move over, bro. Because I’m the new office manager.”

  Shit. He’d go through the accounts. He’d find out about the second mortgage, and just how deep in the red we were. He’d find out about everything.

  “Now, wait a minute,” I began. But he cut me off by turning his back to leave.

  “Forget it, Rhys,” he said as he walked toward the door. “You got your way with Parker. I’m doing this and you can’t stop me.” He paused and grinned. But his eyes were cold and angry. “As you keep telling me, I own half the gym. It’s time I start taking care of my end.”

  He was going to do his damnedest to make my life hell. The promise was right there in his expression. He let me see it, made sure I understood. Then the door slammed, and I let out a bark of incredulous laughter. Damn if I wasn’t proud. The other half of me was filled with dread because we’d eventually have some hard conversations, and I wasn’t exactly good at communicating.

  Didn’t matter, though. I’d overslept and it was getting late. Parker would be coming by soon and frankly, I needed to prepare myself for dealing with her, let her know who was in charge here.

  Dream on, Morgan. She’ll have you by the balls before you know it.

  Why did I look forward to that?

  Five

  Parker

  * * *

  A selfish bonus to being “green” (other than the awesome eco-warrior status) was it kept me active and fit. To my parents’ frustration, I refused to accept the Mercedes-Benz Cabriolet they’d bought me as a reward for earning my PhD. Maybe if it had been a Tesla I’d have been swayed, but, unfortunately, despite me yelling the word “green” from the rooftops since I was fourteen, my parents couldn’t wrap their heads around what that meant.

  As far as they were concerned, every young woman would love to drive around in a luxury convertible. Plus, the Mercedes had an “eco” stop/start button so why wasn’t that green enough?

  I gratefully declined the car and splashed out on an electric hybrid bike when I got the job at Horus. For journeys to the office I used the bike at full power, so I didn’t arrive sweaty and out of breath. Today, however, as I rode the six and a half miles north to Chelsea, I reduced the power, meaning it took me the normal forty minutes to get there.

  The truth was I was dragging the ride out, reluctant to step inside Lights Out. For the past few days, I’d lied to Jackson and my colleagues, and it was not fun. Jackson had informed our small team about the dinner date with Fairchild and how the big boss waxed lyrical over Rhys Morgan. Thankfully, only one guy on the team knew anything about boxing and recognized Rhys’s name, and even then, he wasn’t a fanboy.

  However, they all wanted to know how Rhys and I met, a subject that didn’t come up at dinner because Fairchild had monopolized the conversation. Prepared for those kinds of inevitable questions, first I’d googled Rhys and then I’d learned as much as I could about his career.

  He’d been a heavyweight fighter. A champion. From my research I’d discovered there were four major professional boxing organizations that held bouts. The International Boxing Federation, the World Boxing Association, the World Boxing Council, and the World Boxing Organization.

  When Rhys was twenty-eight years old, he became the WBC heavyweight champion. Some other guy was the heavyweight champion that year for all three other associations, so I wasn’t sure how that worked. Honestly, I wasn’t sure how any of it worked. However, I was smart enough to realize that Rhys Morgan had been an awesome boxer. It was a mystery to me why he’d retired at thirty-one, until I’d found an interview Rhys had given explaining how he’d lost his passion for boxing after his father died.

  The boxing community seemed to mourn the loss of Rhys and I came to understand why. There was a YouTube video of the fight that garnered him his heavyweight title. It was brutal but fascinating to watch. Rhys Morgan was built like Hercules, all muscles and gleaming skin, and he was fast. As I watched him move around the ring, impressively light on his feet despite his size, I’d felt those butterflies in my belly again.

  He was beautiful in a primal way.

  I knew nothing of his sport, and we came from very different backgrounds.

  Moreover, Rhys was determined (which was a polite way of saying he was a bit of a steamroller) and vibrated with this passionate energy I’d never experienced before.

  He might not be my type, but he was a catch. Many women would want to be in his orbit, and I was sure he’d have his pick.

  And I was going to pretend to date this guy.

  Would anyone really buy it?

  A car horn shook me out the memories of watching Rhys fight. Those images were currently playing in a loop in my head. Yet, it would be safer while cycling if I concentrated on getting to Lights Out in one piece.

  Seriously, this whole debacle was distracting.

  So far, I’d avoided telling Jackson about how I met Rhys. I hated lying about dating him and the more I embellished the deception, the guiltier I felt. Avoidance was my friend right now.

  There was absolutely no way anyone could find out about Rhys beyond my work colleagues. God, if my parents or my sister Easton found out, I’d die.

  Okay, so that was melodramatic… but I would certainly feel like I might combust with shame if I had to fib to my family about Rhys. Probably because they wanted so badly for me to meet someone and fall in love.

  I was thirty years old and single, and my parents were worried because I’d been single a while now. Like, a while. A whole lotta while.

  Thirteen years.

  My stomach lurched at the number.

  It sounded worse than it was. I mean, I had dated during those thirteen years. And had lots of sex. Okay, maybe not lots. But I’d had sex. In my quest to feel that spark of chemistry once again, I’d gotten myself a little something-something over the years. Some of it bad. Some of it good. All of it… just… meh.

  There was no point in settling down with someone I didn’t spark with. I’d rather be single forever than settle for less than I knew was possible. And I knew what was possible because for a brief, splendid moment in time I’d had something special.

  So I kind of gave up, especially while working on my PhD. My career became my entire focus.

  Ironic that a relat
ionship was the one thing I needed to advance my career.

  Twisty little universe.

  Yes, my parents were definitely not going to find out about Rhys. I didn’t want to get their hopes up. Mostly I just didn’t want to lie to them. Not that it wasn’t slightly tempting, considering my younger sister had just gotten engaged. My family wasn’t putting any pressure on me, but I felt it anyway.

  Ugh, societal pressures were the emotional equivalent of a black hole. No matter a person’s obstinate refusal to bend to them, every single one of us got sucked in somehow. Boo to black holes!

  Speaking of… I slowed to a stop outside the gym on Fourth. It was a red-brick, seventies-style building, three-stories with tinted brown glass windows and a flat roof. Well-maintained greenery, grass and hedges, grew along the edges. But there was something drab about the building; the signage above the door was peeling.

  “Here goes nothing,” I muttered to myself as I got off the bike and padlocked it to the railings by the entrance.

  For the past few nights I’d spent my free time writing up a contract for Rhys to sign. Every time I thought I’d finished it, I’d think of something new. Hopefully, he’d sign the thing with no arguments.

  That wasn’t entirely honest of me. The butterflies in my belly demonstrated there was a part of me that didn’t want Rhys to sign the contract at all. Part of me wanted him to tell me he’d changed his mind.

  There was no reception area, so I strolled across the glass-fronted atrium and through double doors that led into the ground-floor space. This was the gym. Considering it was a Saturday afternoon, it wasn’t as busy as it should have been. Sure, there were people there, working out, but every machine in the room should have been in use and wasn’t. As I took in the peeling paint on the walls, some aging workout equipment, worn workout mats, and a sad little water cooler on either side of the room in lieu of a fancy drink dispenser, I could see for myself why Rhys needed the money. There were no TVs for people to watch during their workouts. They were stuck with the music pumping out of the PA system unless they brought their own headphones to drown it out.

  The gym was run-down. It needed sprucing up to be brought into the twenty-first century. Curiosity still lingered over where his earnings from boxing had disappeared to, but it was none of my business. All that mattered was that Fairchild liked Rhys and Rhys would keep me on the boss’s radar long enough for me to get a permanent position.

  The contract in my hand trembled a little as I tried to contain my nerves.

  “Can I help you?”

  I turned toward the masculine voice and found myself face-to-face with a beautiful man. The blood beneath my cheeks grew hot as I stared into dark chocolate eyes framed by the longest lashes I’d ever seen on a guy. He had warm, tawny skin and a head full of thick, jet-black hair. When he smiled, two incredible dimples popped in either cheek.

  Dreamy bedroom eyes, ahoy there!

  “Do you speak?”

  I flushed and laughed at my ridiculousness. “Yes, I have been known to produce speech.”

  The man’s eyes danced with laughter. “Good to know. I’m Carlos. Can I help?”

  I glanced down at the contract in my hand before being compelled to look into Carlos’s eyes again. Seriously, I thought Rhys had beautiful eyes, but this guy could give him a run for his money. “I’m here to see Rhys Morgan. He’s expecting me.”

  Carlos grinned. “Are you Parker?”

  “That’s me.”

  He held out his hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m a trainer here.”

  Carlos’s hand was calloused and strong. It was very nice to touch. I returned his smile. “You too.”

  “This way.” He indicated with his head toward the left. Carlos led me out of the main gym into a small hall that housed an elevator and a stairwell. “He’s on the second floor where the boxing gym is.”

  We took the stairs, and I followed the trainer into a space similar to downstairs except half of it was taken up by two boxing rings. There was a class being taught in the clear side of the space, and as we walked past, I recognized the martial art as capoeira. Interesting. I wondered if Rhys knew capoeira. That would be a sight to see.

  At the sound of Rhys’s familiar, booming voice, my eyes flew in his direction. He was standing outside one of the boxing rings, shouting instructions at two young men who wore nothing but long shorts and boxing gear.

  My gaze drifted down Rhys’s back. My lower belly fluttered.

  It was just nerves.

  The guy was an intimidating specimen. So tall. Much taller than Carlos who I put at around five foot ten. Even that was tall for me. I only stood at five foot two. Hence why I’d put a “No Tinker Bell” clause in the contract for Rhys.

  Rude!

  Unless I’d misread his reasons for calling me that. Tink was loyal and adorably feisty.

  But that was beside the point.

  My eyes glanced off the well-developed muscles revealed by the basketball tank Rhys wore and the way his joggers cupped his firm, high, and very muscular ass. There wasn’t an inch of fat on the guy.

  “Rhys. Company!” Carlos yelled as we approached.

  The man himself turned around, and I felt the breath expel from my body as his intense gaze drank me in. As he took in my low-heeled T-bar shoes, pleated pale blue skirt, and black Ted Baker shirt with its little jeweled bow tie, a frown deepened between his brows. I didn’t care what he thought of my appearance. I thought I looked cute. That’s all that mattered. It’s not as if I thought much of his appearance.

  Okay, so I could admit that he was attractive in that caveman, overtly masculine, alpha-male kind of way that some women found appealing.

  I wasn’t one of them.

  I was above that sort of primal need for power and strength in my chosen mate.

  At least I was determined to be.

  A guy had to be funny and thoughtful above anything else. Plus, I liked my men short and cute. Not intimidating and so tall they’d have to lift me up to kiss me.

  An image of Rhys doing just that flashed through my mind and I expelled it with such force, I almost said the word “blech” out loud.

  Sure enough, Rhys frowned as we drew to a halt in front of him. “You okay, Tinker Bell? Does boxing offend your fragile sensibilities?”

  I scowled at his sarcasm. “Why would you say that?”

  “Because you look like you just swallowed something nasty.”

  “Nope.” I shrugged. “Although you should know that when I googled this place, hardly any information came up. You need a website. Or at least a Facebook page.”

  Rhys cut Carlos a look. “What did I tell you? She’s already fucking dispensing business advice.”

  Carlos smirked. “She’s not wrong, is she?”

  I grinned at Carlos, and suddenly Rhys took hold of my biceps, his expression fierce. “We’ll be in the office.”

  “You don’t need to manhandle me,” I grumbled as he led me across the gym. He opened a door to a narrow corridor, hurried us down it, and then pushed open another door that led into an office.

  There was a beautiful and impressive rosewood desk in the center of the room, completely at odds with the chaos of the rest of the space. There were wall-to-wall shelves filled with folders and files spilling out here and there.

  The urge to advise him to put in a proper filing system was real, but I considered his reaction to my earlier advice and replaced the words with, “Nice desk.”

  He grunted and moved around me to sit on it. The desk was expansive. Yet somehow, he dwarfed it.

  My goodness, I forgot how big he was.

  Rhys’s eyes dipped to the papers in my hand. “I’m guessing that’s the contract.”

  “Yes.” I held it out. “Hopefully, everything within it is acceptable to you.”

  Without saying a word, or offering me a seat, he began to read through it. After a few minutes, he reached behind him for a pen and scored across the paper.

  Irrita
tion bloomed in my chest. I’d spent ages on the paperwork! “What are you doing?”

  He flicked me an exasperated look before returning to scan the paper. “I already told you I recycle. You don’t need to put a clause in the fucking contract demanding I do so because ‘People won’t believe we’re dating otherwise.’”

  Okay, so maybe that had been a little much.

  His pen struck through another line. “I will not curb my language. ‘Fuck’ is a beautiful word. It has several meanings and can be used in almost any fucking sentence. You want reality?” Those green eyes bored into me, making it impossible to look away. “No one would believe I’d date the language police.”

  Grumbling under my breath, I fought to let that one go.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You have something to say, say it.”

  Fine! “I just don’t think it’s necessary to use the F word every five seconds.”

  Rhys curled his upper lip. “F word. Really? You’re thirty years old, Parker. It’s well past time you started using your grown-up words.”

  I gave him the middle finger.

  A smirk tickled his lips as he looked back down at the contract. “Well, that’s something at least.”

  More time passed as Rhys slowly read. I didn’t know if it was because he was a slow reader or if he was deliberately being aggravating. Just as I began to tap my foot, he ran the pen over another line. “What now?”

  “I don’t need you to buy me a wardrobe. I have handmade tailored suits in my closet from my boxing days. You need me in a suit, I have suits. And don’t pass out from shock, but I even own a tux.”

  I considered that clause. I’d stated in the contract that he’d need to dress the part at dinners and events. I had presumed Rhys wouldn’t have the kind of formal wear required. “I’m sorry for assuming otherwise. I didn’t mean to insult you.”

  He raised an eyebrow at my apology but didn’t respond beyond a muttered, “No problem.”

  “Jesus Christ,” he huffed a few seconds later, running his pen across the paper again. His expression was incredulous. “As long as I’m not being an absolute prick or a derogatory asshole to you, I think you can let me call you Tinker Bell. It’s not meant as an insult. And I should have a nickname for you. It projects an aura of intimacy.” He smirked, that boyish wicked grin of his.