Tyson turned to Grace. “Help me out here before your fiancé gets knocked out.”
She shook her head, her gaze glued to the event happening around them, making sure everything was going according to plan. “Sorry, Tys, I’m just as shocked as Walker. I thought I was the only woman you could successfully keep in the friend zone.”
He looked away. He hadn’t said anything about a friend zone.
“Ah, there’s the look,” Walker said.
“What look?”
“That guilty-as-shit look. She’s not in the friend zone. You already had sex with her.”
“So? I’ve had sex with a lot of women. Sorry, Grace,” he said, but she was barely listening anymore.
Walker grinned. “Yes, but the difference is, this time you’ve had sex with her and now you’re hanging out with her . . .”
His cell phone chimed with a text message in his pocket and, retrieving it, he grinned as he read it. He was being summoned to the women’s restroom.
* * *
Parker woke to the sound of her cell phone ringing far too early the next morning. Struggling to see through tired eyes, she rolled across the bed and glanced at the call display. Her grandmother. She looked at the time. Seven thirty-eight.
She answered quickly, sitting up and shaking off the sleep. “Grandma?”
Abigail sighed. “Okay, I guess we’re going with Grandma . . .”
“Are you okay?”
“My face is still swollen and wrapped in bandages and I’m sure I terrified the life out of all of the children who came to my door last night . . .”
Parker cringed, feeling guilty for bailing on the older woman the night before, but seriously—three face-lifts? Enough was enough. She was almost eighty; it was time to look old.
“But actually I was calling to ask if you were okay.”
Parker frowned, collapsing back against her pillows, streaked with the airbrush makeup she’d been too tired to wash off the night before. Her grandmother would throw a fit if she knew Parker didn’t always wash her makeup off before bed. “I’m fine.” Exhausted, not having made it to bed until midnight . . . and not getting to sleep until hours after that, once Tyson slipped away in the night. She pushed the annoying thought of his late-night exit aside. “Why do you ask?”
“I take it you haven’t seen today’s paper yet.”
She bolted upright. “No . . .” she said slowly, getting out of bed, tossing on her robe and hurrying down the stairs to the front door.
Her cell chimed with an incoming call and she glanced at it quickly. Her agent? It was six thirty on the coast. What did he want so early? Her stomach knotted—she suspected it had to be the same reason her grandmother was calling. “Can you hang on just a sec, Grandma?” she said before clicking over. “Ian?”
“Are you trying to sink your career?” he asked.
Shit. What the hell was in that paper? “I have no idea what you’re talking about . . . Give me a minute to catch up. I’m going to get my paper now,” she mumbled, opening the door and retrieving that day’s paper from her step.
“Let me know when you see it,” he grumbled.
Laying it on her kitchen table, she was relieved to see whatever it was hadn’t made the front page at least. “Help me out here. What section?”
“Entertainment.”
She quickly flipped to it. Her stomach took a dive. First page news of that section was the headline “Is Parker Hamilton’s career that bad?” above a picture of her in the Zombie Burlesque costume inside the nightclub. She groaned and buried her face in her hand. “Damn it!” She should have known press would be there—a new club opening in Vegas was a big deal. She just hadn’t expected this spin to be put on her good-natured attempt at making the best of last night’s costume mixup. So much for people not recognizing her.
Remembering her grandmother on the other line, she said, “Hold a sec, Ian.” She switched to the other line. “Grandma, I see the article and it was all just a misunderstanding. I thought it was a costume party.” She shook her head as her eyes skimmed the article. Career over . . . washed-up child actress . . . Oh, crap.
“Not exactly a great way to keep a low profile until your new movie is announced,” Abigail said.
“I know . . .” Damn Tyson! Or Walker or whoever was to blame for this.
Herself.
Tyson had suggested they leave. She’d been the one who’d offered to stay. This was her own fault. “I wasn’t expecting any media attention. I haven’t had any in so long,” she mumbled. Of course the paparazzi preferred to strike when the story could be twisted to stir up drama and controversy.
“They always find you on your worst days, sweetheart. Chin up. It will blow over,” Abigail said.
She doubted she would get the same reaction from her agent. “Thanks, Grandma . . . I’ll talk to you later.” Clicking back over to Ian, she said, “Look, this was supposed to be a costume party, that’s all. I’m not the newest member of the . . .” She scanned the article. “Sexy Zombie Squad.” She slumped in her chair. “How do we fix this?” Her head hurt. It was too early and she was just a little too hung-over to be dealing with this right now.
“I’ll call Marsha.”
Her publicist. If anyone could fix this, she could.
“We’ll release a statement. Unfortunately, I think we will have to announce the movie role in an attempt to try to steal the focus away from this.”
She frowned, taking another look at the picture she barely remembered posing for with the sexy zombie squad. She was laughing and she looked relaxed. “Do you think it’s really that bad?” Maybe her grandmother was right—it would all just blow over in a few days. Who really cared about this stuff anyway? she thought, but her stomach was queasy.
“Let me quote—‘Ms. Hamilton’s desperate attempt to remain in the spotlight and out of her grandmother’s shadow knows no bounds.’ What do you think?” Ian said.
Shit. “Okay. Release a statement about the new movie.”
* * *
Is MFL Light-Heavyweight champ, Tyson Reed headed for Hollywood or heartbreak?
Fuck.
Tyson leaned closer to the screen as he read the article on the MMA Fanatics website—one of the biggest and most popular Mixed Martial Arts online news center. He always started his morning reading the latest MMA news on the site, and he’d been the hot topic before, but not like this.
He groaned as he scrolled through the article about him and Parker at the Zombie Burlesque party the evening before. Whoever had taken these shots of them together had been pretty close. Pictures of them laughing, dancing, kissing . . . filled the screen and his gut tightened.
Should we expect to see the champ in Parker Hamilton’s next movie or has the playboy of the MFL finally fallen in love?
No. And no. Fuck me, he thought, leaning back in his chair. This was the last thing he needed. Press about his upcoming fight was great, but not when it was framed like this.
He stared at the picture of the two of them in the hallway outside the club’s restrooms. She was leaning against the wall and he had his hands on her hips, his lips just inches from hers. She was smiling . . . but it was the look on his own face that made him ill—the intensely intimate way he was staring at her.
He sighed, resting his head against the seat and closing his eyes, though the attempt to block out the image was unsuccessful. He’d never looked at a woman like that before. He knew it, the press knew it . . . he wondered if Parker knew it?
He couldn’t let this get out of hand any more than it already had. Relationships were not his thing. Getting hurt inside the cage he could handle. Getting his heart broken was a different story. He’d never let himself get close enough to a woman to find out the damage it could have on his heart and he wasn’t about to. Not this close to a fight that mattered more to him than anything.
His cell phone chimed with a new message and, picking his phone up, he hesitated, seeing Parker’s name on the screen.
He was getting in over his head with this woman and it had to stop. Telling her they’d have to cool things wasn’t going to be easy and he couldn’t help but think it might be harder on him than it would be on her . . .
Opening the message, he saw a link to a TMZ article and below it, he read.
Paparazzi strikes again. My publicist advises that we cool things . . . at least for now, until the movie starts filming . . .
He blinked. Good. This was good. They were on the same page. And her publicist had done the dirty work for them. One less complication he needed to deal with. He should be relieved.
He wasn’t.
Chapter 8
Two weeks later, Parker bit her lip as she walked back and forth in front of the scale at the gym, not sure what result she was hoping for. After all the food she’d been stuffing into her face twenty-four-seven the last two weeks, there better be a difference . . . but she was terrified to see it. “Why don’t we weigh in tomorrow?”
“Get on the scale,” Tyson said.
“Why are you so bossy and rude all the time?” She placed her hands on her hips and glared at him.
“If you’re trying to start an argument to procrastinate, it’s not going to work. Now, either step on willingly or I’ll pick you up and put you on there myself.”
She swallowed hard, half tempted to let him, if only to have those hands on her. The last two weeks, they’d cooled things a little . . . After the fiasco with the paparazzi, the last thing either of them needed was unwanted media attention. It made sense—he had a fight coming up, she had the movie to think about.
It was smart. It was the right thing to do.
It sucked.
Seeing him every day at the gym—training with him, feeling his hands on her body to correct her form but lingering just a little too long and then leaving him at the end of the day—had been tough. He still looked at her with open attraction, yet his restraint was off the charts. It annoyed her to no end, especially when she lay in bed fantasizing about him every night.
“Parker!”
Her cheeks flushed at the path her thoughts had taken and she stepped onto the scale.
He moved the lever along the bar. He smiled. “Ten pounds in two weeks. Great job.”
She wasn’t listening as she stared in disbelief and panic at the number.
“You can get off now,” he said behind her, but she was frozen in place.
She hadn’t weighed that much since junior high, since her grandmother had put her on her first diet. Her chest hurt and her breath caught. So this was what an anxiety attack felt like.
“Parker, you okay?” Tyson asked, coming closer.
She nodded, then shook her head, then nodded again.
She felt his hand on her arm, helping her off the scale. “It’s ten pounds, not a hundred. Breathe.”
Ha! Obviously he had no idea how hard it was for someone with her body shape to lose ten pounds. Oh God . . . Why had she listened to him? “I can’t gain anymore, Tyson,” she said, knowing she sounded ridiculous, but unable to stop the words or the panicked feeling from creeping across her chest.
“Just five or six more and you should be good.”
“No!”
Her yell caught his attention and just about everyone else’s in the gym. He stood in front of her and stooped lower to look into her eyes. “What is it?”
“I haven’t weighed this much in years. You have no idea what I’ve gone through in the past to lose weight . . .” Breathing became difficult again.
He took her shoulders and led her to the full-length mirror across the room in front of the free weights. Standing behind her, he lifted the edge of her shirt, revealing her stomach, which had gone from flat to the definite appearance of abdominals, giving her a new shape. “Look at those,” he said, gently running his finger along the new ridges in and around her belly button.
Her breath caught again, but this time it was from his touch—so intimate, so soft, so unlike any other touch from him. So unlike him.
She stared at his hand on her stomach and swallowed hard. Her stomach did look better—different, but better.
He moved his hands down the length of her arms, taking her wrists, lifting them, and bending them at the elbows. “Biceps . . .” Next he turned her arms to the side and a V-shape appeared in her shoulders above a muscle she hadn’t known existed. “Triceps.” He leaned closer and whispered, “Much sexier than noodle arms.”
She shivered as his breath blew the tendrils of hair at her neck, tickling her skin.
When he turned her back to the mirror, she tensed. His hands came around her body and cupped her tight ass. “Look behind you in the mirror. Better . . . hotter . . . more distracting than before, if that’s possible,” he whispered against her cheek.
Her breath hitched. His body so close to hers, his words echoing in her mind, and his hands touching her—gently, but with purpose. God, she was mesmerized. But it was his intent to show her how beautiful she was—how strong, how sexy—that was really the most intoxicating part. “Is this part of your coaching?” she asked, her breath steadying as she turned to look at him.
His hands released her, but he didn’t go anywhere, his gaze burning into hers. “I may be going a little above and beyond the job description.”
She could tell his actions had affected him as well. Weeks of no physical contact outside of the cage, it was a miracle they both still had clothes on right now. “So, this is just for me?”
“This is just for you.”
* * *
“Damn!” he muttered, pacing his office moments later. “Why did I touch her like that?”
He’d been doing so well the last couple weeks keeping things professional between them, keeping the focus on her training and his own, even if it was driving him completely insane. He hadn’t given in to a single temptation to kiss her or hold her or back her up against the cage . . .
Shit.
But moments ago, she’d been freaking out—on the verge of an anxiety attack over ten pounds. What choice did he have?
Lots of choices, actually. None of which involved giving in to the intense urge to touch her new body—her strong, sexy, lean body that still held the feminine curves that could make a man temporarily lose his mind.
That’s all it was. Temporary insanity caused by the hotness of one woman.
He’d experienced this before. All the time. He got hard just walking into a strip club. He liked sex. He was a man. Feeling attracted to a sexy as all hell woman was a perfectly acceptable reaction.
Feeling this insatiable attraction to a woman he’d already nailed before was a different story.
He sat in the chair and caught sight of her leaving the locker room in a pair of jeans and white tank top, her blonde hair, still wet from her shower, piled on top of her head. God, she was beautiful. Only now, it wasn’t her ass or her breasts he was staring at, it was her face and that amazing smile of hers he suddenly looked forward to seeing every morning. The one that made even the shittiest day seem bearable . . .
Damn. He suspected this feeling in his chest would be harder to explain away than the one in his gym shorts moments before.
* * *
“Grandma, where are you?” Parker called, carrying their chai tea lattes, which of course she would tell her grandmother were fat-free and sugar-free, and something she wouldn’t be telling Tyson about at all, into her grandmother’s house. Though knowing the man, he could probably smell it on her three days from now. The guy was intense. Especially the way he looked at her, watched her train, touched her earlier that day . . .
Her cheeks flushed at the memory. They were doing this protracted dance around each other again and it was driving her crazy. They’d agreed to cool things but he was obviously still attracted to her and she was . . . She paused. She was what? To say attracted to him would be an understatement, yet she wasn’t sure it went beyond a lust-filled intrigue with her bad-ass coach. At least she hoped it didn’t. Since ending thi
ngs with Brantley, she wasn’t in any rush to get involved with yet another Mr. Wrong, and Tyson had been brutally honest when he’d told her where he stood regarding relationships. A commitment-phobe who was dedicated to one thing—his fighting career—wasn’t exactly Mr. Right either. Still, she wasn’t sure she cared.
“I’m out by the pool,” she heard her grandmother call as she entered the open-concept, white marble kitchen her grandmother had spent more than $100,000 remodeling the year before. She squinted as she walked through, the glaring sun against the white nearly blinding her. She’d never tell Abigail, but the older woman had gone way overboard with the white—floors, cupboards, appliances, and backsplashes. She felt sorry for her grandmother’s housecleaner. No amount of obsessive scrubbing could keep the kitchen sparkling.
The rest of the five-bedroom, four-bath bungalow-style home looked similar to the kitchen. Every room was professionally designed and decorated, with the furnishings and décor swapped out every couple of years as styles changed. Her grandmother’s home was always camera-ready for a spread in Modern Homes Magazine. But it was never comfortable and inviting. As a child, she’d felt as though she were living in a museum—not allowed to touch anything or make a mess.
She stepped through the patio door and saw Abigail lounging in the sun, wearing a large brimmed sunhat that covered the top half of her body, a towel around her lower half, and an oversized umbrella covering it all. Okay, so lounging in the sun wasn’t the best description. “Hi, I brought you your favorite nonfat, no-sugar latte.” She set the cup down and her grandmother reached for it instantly.
She took a sip and said, “I can’t believe these are healthy. They don’t taste healthy.”
“Starbucks—a modern miracle,” Parker said, kicking off her flip-flops and reclining in a chair beside her grandmother. This was one little white lie she had no trouble telling. The weekly latte was probably the only thing her grandmother had ever consumed that she enjoyed in her entire life. She still had the same thin shape she’d had at thirty, and Parker thought it was kind of sad that even after her acting career ended, her grandmother hadn’t relaxed enough to start enjoying things like sugar.
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