by JB Salsbury
I say good-bye at his truck and head back into the house, only to find the place spotless and Bug gone. In the roughly forty-five minutes I was outside with Axel, she managed to clean our coffee mugs, write little notes about today’s meals, and when I jog upstairs to throw on my workout gear, I see she also made my bed.
Frozen, I stare at the multi-colored quilt, which is pulled up tightly and folded back for easy entry. I imagine her hands all over my sheets, her long, lithe body bending at the waist in those shorts as she smoothed her palms over the—fuck! I blink and rub my eyes. “Fighting. I’m here to focus on fighting.”
I give myself a quick slap on both cheeks, dig my work-out clothes out from my bag, and head to the bathroom to change.
I’ve got exactly twenty days to perfect the training I started in England. Cam said he’d send some guys out soon to grapple with. That leaves me only a few days of solitude. A quick run along the lake, and then I’ll check out what’s set up for me in the garage.
No more thoughts of the feisty blonde.
~~~
I’m walking with my hands on my head, trying to catch my damn breath after my warm-up jog. The altitude up here might kill me. Hopefully, it won’t take too long to get used to it. Right now, it feels like I’m trying to fill my lungs by sucking through a cocktail straw.
Walking toward the garage that looks more like a barn, I flip up the keypad and punch in the four-digit code Axel gave me. The door opens and the scent of new equipment hits me seconds before the visual does.
“Holy shit!” I duck under the door before it’s fully up and take in the state-of-the-art training gym for one. Everything’s here from free weights to a multi-purpose machine, a bench, a heavy bag, and a large padded corner for grappling. There are resistance bands on the walls, gloves, pads—every single thing I’d find in any UFL training center, including a mini-fridge full of cold water.
I grab some gloves and slide them on to start with some combinations on the heavy bag. The air from the open door is warm and wet, but two industrial fans are located on opposite sides of the room. I flip the switch and the place immediately cools.
“A guy could get used to this.” I take the first few punches, warming up my muscles. “Yeah, this’ll do.”
Working my body to exhaustion is my best bet to not only win my fight, but to exorcise all images of the beautiful little Bug from my thoughts.
Three
Caleb
It’s almost dark by the time I make it back to the house for the night. Four solid days of training, and I’ve worked through every possible drill I could on my own and can’t do much more until I get some training partners out here.
I stomp up the stairs and go directly to the shower, tossing my sweat-soaked clothes into the dirty-clothes hamper.
The cold water hits my over-heated skin, and my mind turns over my jiu-jitsu holds and submissions. Graham Butler is known for his ground game. If he takes me down, I’m going to have to know my way around his go-to maneuvers or I’ll be done for. After a quick soap and rinse and a quick shampoo, I feel my stomach demanding to be fed. I slide on a pair of soft shorts and a white T-shirt and head down to the kitchen where the scent of butter and fried meat hits me square in the stomach.
I’ve never been so excited to eat in my entire life.
One thing I never knew about Bug is the woman is a fantastic cook. She’s prepared breakfast, lunch, and dinner and made herself practically invisible doing it. She must be keeping a very close eye on when I leave because I never see her fixing food. I only get the benefit of eating the outcome.
I clap and rub my hands together when I see the handwritten note stuck to the oven. “What’s for dinner tonight, Bug?” I pull it off and stare at the neat handwriting, “Fried chicken, grits, and cornbread. Fuck. Me.”
I pop open the oven, which has been kept on warm, and see covered dishes. I grab a hand towel and pull them out, laying them on the stovetop. There’s enough food for an army.
My mouth waters, and my stomach screams to be fed, but guilt fills my gut.
This girl has been working her ass off to feed me. My eyes are drawn to the front door. Doesn’t feel right eating all this alone.
~*~
Honor
I’m draped in cats and dozing in front of the television when the pounding on my front door sends me to my feet.
It takes a few seconds to place myself. I was having a wonderful dream where I was walking the beaches of Greece with a big, strong, faceless man, but my rundown wood floors and broken window blinds slam me back to reality.
There’s another pound on the door.
“Who is it!” I can only think of one person who would have the nerve to stop by like this, and God knows I—
“It’s me! Caleb.”
Shit. I look down at myself in a pair of Mickey Mouse pajama bottoms I’ve had since high school and a baggy T-shirt. These last few days have kept me busier than usual. To add cooking three meals a day to my already full list of daily duties had me settling in early for the night. “What, uh . . . what is it?”
“Can you open up?”
I step to the door, placing my hand against it and leaning in. “Is there a problem?”
“Are we really gonna do this? Talk with a door between us?” He sounds more amused than annoyed.
“Maybe. Depends on what you want.”
A few seconds of silence tick by, and I wonder if he gave up, but I hear a dull thump as if he’s leaning his back against the door. “I need to talk to you about tonight’s dinner.”
I tuck my chin, slightly offended that he’s not satisfied with the meal I spent most of the afternoon preparing. “No one has ever complained about my cooking before.”
More silence. Anger and frustration build in my veins. I swing open the door just in time to see Caleb turning around in surprise.
His lips curl up in a soft grin. “Hey.”
Dammit to shit, why does he have to look so good?
He’s dressed in the male version of pajamas, shorts that look like they’re made from sweatpants material and a white T-shirt. His hair is darker and spiky on the ends like he just jumped out of the shower and came right over. His light brown eyes take me in from head to toe.
A sexy grin tips up the corner of his mouth. “Did I interrupt a sleepover?”
Damn him. Damn him and his charm to hell. “You don’t like my cooking?”
His smile falls and he blinks. “No, actually, I love your cooking. Whoa, how many cats do you have now?” He’s looking past me and into my home.
“Three.”
“Huh . . . is that the cat from the lake that day?”
My shoulders tense at the memory of catching that prick Roy trying to drown my kitten. I’ll never forget how grateful I was that Caleb saved him, and then how equally hurt I was after he walked me home. “No. Ulysses disappeared about seven years later.”
He clears his throat. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It happens.” The lifespan of a cat is short out here in the woods, which is why I do my best to make sure they don’t get out.
“So, uh . . . who are these guys?”
Some things never change. I almost laugh, but it’s not fucking funny.
I turn back to see the cats sprawled on different sections of the couch. “The black one is Audie, calico is Teddy, and Harriet is the gray one—why are you here?”
“I, uh . . .” He pushes his hands from his hips to his thighs as if he forgot his shorts don’t have pockets. “I came to invite you to have dinner with me.”
“No.”
He tilts his head. “No?”
“I can spell it out for you if you need me to.” I don’t owe him an explanation, so I shrug.
“Hmm . . .” He shakes his head but keeps his eyes on mine. “Did I do something to upset you?”
Now I actually do laugh. How could he be this clueless?
“Okay, well, here’s the deal. See, there’s enough food over there to feed fiv
e dudes my size. Now I’m hungry and the smell is . . . Let’s just say I could easily stomach what you put out, but I really shouldn’t, not while I’m training. So, please, come have dinner with me. My future depends on your answer; my career hangs in the balance—”
“Training for what?”
He holds out a hand. “Come have dinner with me and I’ll tell you.”
I stare at his big palm, calluses dotting the base of each finger, but I take a retreating step. Why would Caleb VIP want to have dinner with me?
I’m reminded of the days when I was a teenager and boys would dare me to touch my elbows behind my back swearing I couldn’t do it. I’d try until I was red-faced only to realize they were all staring and laughing at my chest. The girls at school would invite me to meet them at the mall to go shopping. I’d walk five miles and catch two different busses to get there only to be stood up and laughed at the next day. Being the granddaughter of Colonel Cartwright, the crazy man of Hope Town, slapped a big red target on my back.
I don’t have any reason to trust a man like Caleb. “Is this a joke?”
His dark brows drop low above eyes that shine with sincerity. “No. I . . .” He looks over his shoulder back at the house, and I follow his gaze, expecting to see a gaggle of giggling boys behind him, but there’s nothing but still, dark night and fireflies. His eyes come back to me, and he fidgets nervously. “Look. It’s cool. Probably stupid to ask, I just wanted the company.” He points over his shoulder. “I should go. You worked hard, and no way am I letting that food go to waste.”
I nod once.
“Goodnight, Bug.”
I cringe at the sound of that name but notice not a hint of malice in his voice. Not a sliver in his expression. I don’t think he’s been back to Hope Town since that summer he rescued my kitten, and even though I lumped him in with Roy’s ragtag group of untrustworthy assholes, Caleb has never given me a reason not to trust him.
The word comes bubbling up from my throat before I can catch it. “Wait!”
He’s at the bottom stair and turns to look up at me through kind eyes and a genuine smile. “I’ll come. Just, um . . . let me go change.”
“No, please, what you’re wearing is fine. If you change, I’ll feel like I have to change, and I’m not only starving, but I’m exhausted, and the food is getting cold, so . . .”
“Fine. Um . . .” I search the floor for my flip-flops. “Let’s go.” I push out the door and move ahead of him toward the road.
“Aren’t you going to lock it?”
“City boy.” I shake my head and keep moving. “No one locks their doors out here.”
He scurries up beside me. “That can’t be true. I spent over an hour this morning with a dude who makes a pretty decent living up here, hooking people up with a million different ways to lock their doors.”
We make it to the street where I look both ways and cross. “Well, I’m not one of those people. I’ve lived here my whole life, never locked a door, and been fine.”
When he doesn’t immediately respond, I look over at him only to find his expression pinched in either disbelief or concern.
Moving the rest of the way in silence, we get to the kitchen, and I start pulling dishes down from the cabinet when I feel his big looming presence behind me. He stills my hand. “Please, let me.”
I whirl around with my back pressed to the counter.
He steps back, eyeing me like I’m a spooked kitten who might run. He’s going to call me out, ask me what my problem is. I can see the question burning in his eyes.
“What do you want to drink?”
Huh . . . not what I expected.
He opens the fridge. “There’s, um . . . sparkling water, regular water, OJ—”
“Sweet tea.”
He stands back, trying to see deeper into the fridge.
“It’s in the door, in the carafe.”
He pulls it out and pours me a glass, adding ice before handing it to me. “Why don’t you take this to the deck and I’ll bring dinner out.”
“Why are you doing this?” In my experience, no one is this nice for no reason. They always want something.
He swallows hard and looks around before shrugging. “You act like I have some sinister plan. I don’t. I feel like I know you, but I don’t really know you at all.” His caramel-colored eyes seem to melt into mine. “I get the feeling you can’t stand me, and yet you’re making all my meals—”
“It’s my job.” I shove my chin out and straighten my shoulders.
“Right.” He stares at the ground; then his eyes come back to mine. “Go grab a seat. I’ll be there in a minute.”
Fine. He wants to feed me and tell me why the hell he’s a VIP, that’s cool.
My granddaddy raised me to be polite and never to turn down a free meal.
The air is a little thick with humidity, but thankfully a breeze off the lake cools my skin. I sip my tea and wonder why, if I’m cool on the outside, I feel so damn hot on the inside?
I swear it’s the way Caleb looks at me as if he has no idea how badly he hurt me. Even now, every single time he calls me Bug it’s like another swift kick straight to the gut.
Hey, what’s his name anyway?
That he would think to ask the kitten’s name and not mine still burns today as it did all those years ago.
A small voice in my head says I shouldn’t be surprised. The name the local kids gave me fits me well enough. Bug. Glasses that magnify my already bulbous eyes. Small, insignificant, annoying.
I turn to the sound of the sliding glass door being opened, and Caleb manages to squeeze through with two plates in one hand along with silverware, napkins, and a tall glass of water in the other. I move to stand, but he stops me with a firm shake of his head and a grunted, “I got it.”
He sets my plate down in front of me before moving to the opposite side of the four-person table and setting his down. “I’m going to have to apologize in advance for what you’re about to see. I’ve been away from good southern cooking for years and have been living off English pasties and bangers. I’ll try to contain myself but”—he rests his elbows on either side of his plate— “this could get ugly.”
“I don’t mind.” I break apart the brick of cornbread, and sweet buttery steam fills my nose.
We eat in silence, except for the occasional moan that comes from Caleb and his mumbled, “Hot damn, woman, you can fry a bird,” and “Good Lord, I could live inside these grits.” I curse the way my cheeks flame at his approval and have to bite the inside of my cheek every time I let my eyes drift to his perfect mouth while he chews and swallows.
After he has seconds and the eating slows, he finally drops back in his chair. “Ugh . . . I’m going to pay for that tomorrow.”
“Because of the training you were talking about?”
He seems almost surprised to hear me speak. “Yeah. I have a fight in Atlanta.”
That would explain his size. The guy looks like he’s nothing but concrete and skin, rock hard and swollen everywhere. And why the hell does that make my cheeks burn? I press my cold tea glass to my forehead.
“You okay? Want to head inside?”
“No, I’m fine.” I set down my glass. “So, you’re a boxer?”
“Mixed martial artist. I fight for the Universal Fighting League. Ever heard of us?”
“Yeah, I think so. You, um . . . fight in a . . .” I make the shape with my finger in the air.
He watches and smiles. “Octagon. Have you ever seen a fight?”
“I’ve seen bits on TV, but never really paid attention.”
“You want to come to mine?”
“You mean in person?”
“Yeah, I’ll get you a few tickets. Bring some friends. It should be a good time.”
Now it’s my neck and chest that heat up. “I, uh . . . no, I don’t think so.”
“Why not? It’s the first UFL fight in Atlanta. Tickets sold out in twelve hours. It’s kind of a big deal. I can get
you more than four if you want.”
Uncomfortable with this conversation, I start clearing the table to take the dishes inside.
“Hey . . .”
I pretend I don’t hear him until his big hands come down on my forearms, stilling me.
“Bug.”
I jerk my arms away and take a step back from the table to keep from tossing the dishes into his pretty face. “Don’t call me that!”
“I’m sorry.” He’s calm, stands slowly, but keeps his eyes on me. “I thought that was your name.”
“You thought my name was Bug?” My voice screeches embarrassingly. But really, how stupid could he be?
“No. I assumed it was a nickname.” His eyes turn to slits. “I didn’t know you didn’t like it or I never would’ve called you that.”
“What would you have called me?”
He seems confused. “Your name.”
“And what’s that?”
His expression falls, and he winces ever so slightly. “Ah. I get it.” He rubs the back of his neck and meets my eyes with compassion. “I’m sorry.”
I should feel triumphant. I should be doing backflips over the fact that I just threw up a mirror in front of the great VIP Caleb Dean and made him take a long hard look at himself, but instead I just feel sad.
He stares out at the lake, and I figure it’s time for me to get the hell gone when he surprises me by asking, “You feel like taking a walk by the water?”
The words “fuck no” are on the tip of my tongue, but there’s something about the way he asked, as if he didn’t expect me to even answer, as if he doesn’t even feel like he deserves an answer, that makes me want to give him another chance.
~*~
Caleb
I am such an all-encompassing, full-fledged, certifiable prick.
I don’t know her name!
How could I not know her real name?
Of course Bug isn’t her real name, but I didn’t know she hated it.
Because what woman wouldn’t love being named after a creepy crawly?
No wonder she looked at me as if she wanted to watch me being eaten alive by wild animals. She was insulted every time I called her by that stupid nickname.
And now, I want nothing more than to know what her real name is. But asking seems like a violation. I need to earn it.