Breaking Her Rules

by Jennifer Snow

  “She knew you were there for her. I was always so jealous of both of you. Being an only child sucked. Kylie always had you to defend her.” She’d always thought having an older brother would have been awesome. Any sibling, really. It was so lonely at home by herself while her mother worked.

  “I seem to recall you defending her on more than one occasion as well.”

  “Me?” She shook her head. She didn’t remember that.

  “Yes, you. About two months after Mom died, some kid said something to her in the school yard after soccer practice. I’d arrived to walk home with her, and before I had a chance to knock the kid out, you gave him a jab in the stomach and an earful.”

  Oh my God—she had done that. The older boy had been teasing Kylie about her hair and clothes—her friend had basically given up taking care of her appearance as she’d struggled with her mother’s death, and she hadn’t been able to watch her friend get teased when she was already suffering through so much. “I’d totally forgotten about that day.”

  “I’ve never forgotten it. After that, I thought you were the coolest chick my sister could hope for in a friend.”

  “You always did like the feisty ones,” she mumbled, glancing again at the photo in his hands.

  An awkward silence followed and she stood. “Well, sorry again for snooping through your things.”

  He shut the suitcase and instead of putting the photo back inside, he set it on the coffee table next to the sofa. “Mind if I keep it there?” he asked.

  “Not at all.”

  They stood facing each other, and her heart echoed in her ears.

  Taking her hands, Walker drew her closer. She watched his chest rise and fall as he released a slow, deep breath before leaning closer and placing a kiss on her forehead. A soft, gentle, barely there kiss that had her knees buckling beneath her.

  “Thanks again, Gracie,” he said before slowly releasing her.

  She nodded. “Yeah, of course . . . no problem.” She turned and headed toward her bedroom, even more desperate to escape the tension in the air between them that evening than she had the night before with the flirting. “Good night, Walker.”

  “Good night. Oh, and Gracie.”

  Would he believe she hadn’t heard him if she kept walking? Slowly she turned back to face him. “Yeah?”

  “You really are an incredibly beautiful woman.”

  Chapter 5

  The number lighting up her office phone for the third time the next morning made Grace want to scream. The Knock Out Sports broadcaster was bordering on stalker, but she couldn’t fault the woman. It was her job to be persistent, and usually any promotion for the upcoming fight they could garner from the prime time daily show would be appreciated.

  So why was it different this time?

  She sighed. Because this time the woman wanted to do a feature on Walker. She’d already e-mailed her the details of the interview request that morning.

  This was a good thing. Free promo for the fight card, free publicity for Walker and an opportunity to generate hype for the fight. This was good. Answer the phone. Do it.

  She let the call go to voice mail.

  “Damn it,” she muttered a second later, picking up the receiver and dialing Faith Hart’s direct number. She knew why this request bothered her, and she hated herself for it. Faith Hart was hot. Like stupid hot, and she had a reputation of sleeping with almost every fighter she’d ever interviewed, including some of the married ones. No one was oblivious to her southern, girl-next-door charms. Grace always felt tall and awkward—just like her fifteen-year-old self—whenever she stood next to the five-foot-two, bubbly blonde, who on top of everything else seemed like a sweet and genuine person. Bitch.

  “Grace! I’ve been desperate to reach you today.” Her beautiful deep voice was a surprise to anyone who heard it, adding just another level of perfection to the woman.

  “Yes, sorry, I just noticed the missed call. I’ve been in meetings all day¸” she lied. “So, you want to interview—” Fuck. She cleared her throat. “Walker Adams?”

  “More than I want to breathe. I mean, where did this guy come from? And does he have any freaking idea what he’s getting into with this last-minute fight against Cruz?”

  Another perfect trait of Faith’s—her southern upbringing had raised her to be a lady. No potty mouth from this MMA enthusiast.

  “Well, I actually know Walker. We grew up together. So I could probably answer the questions you sent over.” She closed her eyes. What the hell was wrong with her? Let Walker do this interview—and this woman—if that’s what he wants. She had no right to interfere with his professional or personal life.

  “That’s really sweet of you to offer, Grace . . .”

  It wasn’t meant to be a sweet, helpful gesture. It was meant to keep Faith’s claws out of her . . . She stopped. Her what? Best friend’s brother. That’s it. That’s all he ever was and ever would be. Except for those two brief exchanges that had set her insides on fire. “No,” she said quickly. “You’re absolutely right. You should speak with him.” She opened her fighter’s publicity schedule folder on her Outlook calendar and created a new one for Walker. “Okay, when and where would you like to interview him?” Other than your bedroom . . .

  “Tomorrow at the studio.”

  “You want him on the show?” That was a surprise. Usually the on-screen interviews were reserved for well-known fighters with highly anticipated championship matches coming up or controversy brewing between rivals. She’d expected Walker’s interview to be a brief pre-recording they could air on the show before they cut to commercial break.

  “Yes. Fans love an underdog story, and lately all we’ve had to report are failed drug tests,” she whispered, saying the words as if the doping was the worst case of abuse against humanity.

  How Faith had gotten mixed up with the gritty world of male sports remained a mystery. Though it probably had less to do with interest in the sports she reported on and more about her insatiable appetite for the physiques of the athletes.

  “Okay. Well, let me call his manager,” she said and cringed. Pat McHale was her least favorite manager to deal with. Not that he drove a hard bargain in negotiations—the reverse was true—and she wished the man would try harder for his clients. It really was a shame Walker had gotten him as a manager. Maria had told her about the Scratch-Stop sponsorship Pat had secured. She shuddered. Thank God the bar owner had provided another option. Though she wasn’t opposed to seeing Walker in barely there briefs . . . She shook her head, banishing the image of him naked in her bathroom from her mind. “What time tomorrow?” she asked quickly.

  “Seven if possible . . . seven thirty at the latest. We start recording at eight thirty.”

  “Okay. Leave it with me and I’ll e-mail you this afternoon to confirm.”

  “Great, thank you, Grace. And if you can make it, please come along. We could do coffee after the recording or something.”

  “Sure,” she said as politely as possible. She didn’t believe for a second that coffee would be happening the following day. Once Faith laid eyes on Walker, everyone else would be forgotten.

  She wondered if the same were true of Walker.

  ***

  “Come on, Walker!” She checked her watch, and her high heels clicked against the laminate flooring of the living room in impatience as she waited.

  “I’m ready,” he said, opening the bathroom door and stepping out into the hall.

  She tried and failed miserably to hide her surprise as she turned. Dressed in a tailored dark charcoal suit that fit perfectly across his chest and biceps and a pale blue dress shirt, he looked amazing. She’d only ever seen him in a suit twice before—at his mom’s funeral and that day in Erik’s office—and neither occasion had been the right time to ogle him. Now wasn’t exactly the right time either. In fact, never was the right time when she was in a committed relationship. With a man who’d yet to return her phone calls . . . She brushed the thought a
side—Erik was caught up in negotiations. This happened all the time whenever he traveled. He’d call when he could. Right now she had enough to deal with getting Walker to this interview on time. It was already after seven.

  Clearing her throat, she looked away. “Finally. Let’s go.”

  “Wait,” Walker said, grabbing her arm.

  She turned and he held up a silver-and-black-striped tie. “My hands are shaking like crazy. Help?”

  Oh, no fucking way. She’d seen Pretty Woman. She knew exactly where tying a man’s tie could lead. It led to arms around his neck, close face-to-face encounters, lingering gazes, and then the tie and all other clothing were abandoned. On top of the other million and three reasons why that wouldn’t be a good idea was the fact they were already running late. “Work on it in the car.”

  “Seriously?”

  “You were going to be a lawyer, you should know how to tie a tie.” She arched an eyebrow, painfully aware of his hand still wrapped around her wrist. She wondered if he could feel her thundering pulse there.

  “Why won’t you help me?” he asked, frowning at her.

  “Honestly? I don’t want to get close to you.” She tried to free her arm, but his grip tightened.

  “Why not?”

  She shook her head and wiggled her wrist free. “Because you’re dangerous. Now let’s go,” she said, heading toward the door.

  A second later, his arms were around her waist behind her. “Not so fast. Why am I dangerous, Gracie?” he whispered against her neck.

  Oh sweet baby Jesus—this was exactly why. He was dangerous for her heart, for her career, for her relationship with Erik, and at that moment the silk panties she wore. Thanks a freaking lot, Walker. She had no time to change. “Walker . . .” Her voice was barely more than a whisper as she fought against him.

  His hold tightened as he drew her closer to his body, the smell of his aftershave making her dizzy, and the feel of his solid chest and stomach against her making her want to sink against him, turn in his arms, and finally claim those lips that had taunted her for years. It was the kiss she’d fantasized about since she was fifteen, and would always be something she could never have. Especially not now.

  She exhaled deeply and removed his hands from her body. He released her and she stumbled awkwardly away from him. When she turned to face him, he wore a cocky smile, making her long-winded spiel about why the two of them together was a terrible idea die on her lips. He’d been messing with her. Testing her, maybe. That was all. “Asshole,” she mumbled, grabbing her purse and leaving the apartment.

  If he wanted to be late, that wasn’t her problem. From now on, he could worry about his own career. From now on, to her, he was just another fighter on the roster. From now on, she refused to let him mess with her mind and her heart. The flirting, the teasing, the late-night connecting had to stop. It had taken years to get over her feelings for him, if in fact she could claim she ever had. She refused to fall back into the trap of wanting something—someone—she couldn’t have.

  ***

  Just another fighter on the roster—her ass. Standing in the far end of the studio, Grace continued to torture herself as she watched Faith stand on tiptoes in her five-inch heels to tie Walker’s tie on the set of the sports show. She laughed at something Walker said and he smiled like an idiot.

  Wow, why didn’t they get a room already, she thought, burning her lip on the edge of her coffee cup, the only one she suspected she would be getting. As predicted, Faith had barely acknowledged her existence the moment Walker’s hazel eyes entered the room. The reporter was about a subtle as a grenade, and in minutes of meeting him, she’d already eye-fucked Walker. Twice.

  He didn’t seem to mind the attention. His gaze was glued on the pretty blonde, and a wide smile never left his face. God, she hated how jealous she still felt. This was a familiar scene. She’d seen Walker with dozens of girls before. How could time and maturity not have erased these persistent, unhealthy feelings she had for her best friend’s brother?

  “Hey, excuse us, we’re about to begin. Can you move to the side?” a producer asked her, moving a camera into place where she’d been standing.

  “Oh, sure . . . sorry.” She moved to the side of the studio as Faith took a seat behind the reporting desk and Walker sat in the chair next to it.

  He searched the room for her and smiled when he saw her.

  Nope, time and maturity had done nothing but increase the intensity of these unwanted feelings. She gave a small wave as the producer counted the seconds to air time.

  “Good morning and welcome to Against the Ropes. Today we will be discussing the new regulations in the women’s bantamweight division and get a sneak peek at martial artist Master Yeng’s new movie Battlecage Four, hitting box offices across America this weekend. But first we have Walker Adams, a new middleweight fighter for the MFL in the hot seat. Hi, Walker, welcome,” Faith said, turning to him.

  “Hi, Faith. Thanks for having me.”

  Oh, if Faith got her way, she’d have him all right. Probably by lunchtime, Grace mused.

  “So, Walker, you’re 6 and 0 in your semiprofessional career so far.”

  He nodded.

  “And you recently dropped out of law school to pursue a fighting career? That’s quite a change.”

  “Well, really, it’s just a different kind of battle—inside a cage instead of a courtroom. I’m just glad I realized that fighting was what I wanted to do before I wasted too much more time.”

  “That’s right—you’re twenty-eight, which makes you a little older than most fighters starting their MMA career.” But the perfect age for her, Grace thought wryly.

  Walker nodded.

  “So, this fight in two weeks is going to be a battle. You’re coming in on short notice, the underdog, one might say. Are you ready?”

  Of course not. Even a fighter with months of training and preparation for this fight would have little chance of winning against Diaz Cruz. The only chance Walker had of winning this upcoming fight would be if Cruz knocked himself out.

  “I’m ready for a shot. The short notice isn’t ideal, but I’m training with Tyson Reed and his camp at Punisher Athletics, and I’m confident.”

  Gracie cringed. Not sure Tyson would appreciate the shout-out considering the circumstances. She hoped he didn’t see this interview.

  Her phone vibrated in her hand, making her jump and spill coffee on the floor. A new text message from Tyson.

  What. The. Fuck?

  So much for him not seeing the interview. She tucked the phone away.

  “Confident you can win?” Faith was asking on set. She sounded surprised by Walker’s confidence.

  “Why not? Everyone has a bad day. Every fighter has a hole in their game plan. Maybe I’ll find Cruz’s.”

  Good luck.

  “No one has yet, but maybe you’ll be the first. Any special submission or striking techniques you’ve been working on?”

  “I’m not sure I want to reveal them, seeing as though I’m already at a disadvantage.” He laughed.

  “Fair enough,” Faith said. “Well, can you at least give us a hint of what we can expect to see from your fighting style—do you prefer to stand with your opponent or take the fight to the ground?”

  “I’m a stand-up fighter for sure. I have a boxing background, but I’ve been working on my ground game and I’m feeling good about it.” He shifted in his seat.

  Something in his voice betrayed him, and Grace wasn’t so sure he was feeling good about it, but only someone who knew him as well as she did would catch the hidden nerves.

  “I think we have time for one last question, so . . . who would you say is your biggest inspiration?”

  Walker didn’t hesitate. “Alan ‘The Steel Fist’ Reed is definitely one of them, so to be training with his son at Punisher Athletics is an honor.”

  Tyson’s text immediately appeared.

  Seriously? Twice?

  “Yes, I imagine most n
ew fighters would love that opportunity. Thanks for being here today, Walker. We wish you luck with the upcoming fight.” Faith turned her attention back to the prompter. “As we head to commercial . . .”

  ***

  On the studio platform, Faith’s hand rested on Walker’s thigh as she whispered something to him. A smile played on his lips, but he shifted in his seat looking slightly uncomfortable . . . or was that turned-on, pants-too-tight discomfort?

  A second later he caught her stare and she quickly looked away. She refused to let him see the effect he had on her, but, damn, she’d been so much better at hiding it when she was younger.

  ***

  “Be honest. How was I?” Walker asked Grace as he approached her on the other side of the studio. It might have only been a few minutes, but he felt like he’d sat there under the bright lights and heat for an hour, sweating with nerves. Faith had certainly tried to put him at ease, but her blatant flirtation made him even more uncomfortable. Her offer to meet up that evening seconds before they’d gone on air hadn’t helped. He suspected she didn’t have work in mind.

  “You did great,” she said, staring at her phone.

  “You’re lying.”

  She glanced up at him. “No I’m not.”

  “You lick your bottom lip like that when you’re lying,” he said, pointing to her tell, one she’d had for as long as he could remember. It had driven him mad years ago, watching that tongue slide innocently back and forth along the pink bottom lip, having no idea the effect it had on the men around her. The same dick-hardening effect it had right now.

  “No I don’t.”

  She was doing it again. Quickly, his hand jutted toward her mouth, capturing the tip of her tongue between his thumb and forefinger. “See?” he asked, holding it.

  She glanced downward at his hold. “AHHH . . . ET . . . O!”

  “This looks interesting,” Faith’s voice said to their right as she approached, a bright smile on her cherry-red-painted lips.

  He let go of Gracie’s tongue and turned to face Faith. “Gracie and I go way back.”

  Faith glanced between the two, a curious look in her clear blue eyes. “Are you two . . . ?”