He crosses his legs knee to ankle and fights a grin back.
I fight the urge to lick the side of his mouth back as it twitches deliciously.
“No. I am not stalking you,” he says. “I just text you when I finish my workout. The TV show is just a coincidence.” He smirks. “Or is it? Maybe it’s proof that we’re soul mates.”
It’s my turn to howl in laughter. The thought of being soul mates with anyone is a bit of a stretch. Much less with a guy I’ve only recently come to like.
Holy shit, do I actually like him?
Once I finally get my laughter under control, I tell him, “I think it’s more likely you’re stalking me than we’re soul mates.”
He settles into the couch. “So, Shameless it is.”
I cut my gaze to him. “One episode.”
He smiles and nods, turning the show on and ending our conversation.
I use the silence between us to try and figure out what the hell happened tonight. I am attracted to him in a way I haven’t been with any other man. When I embarrassingly thought he was leaning in to kiss me, I wanted it. Craved it, even. And, when he whispered in my ear instead, the disappointment I felt was greater than even the embarrassment.
Somehow, I let my guard down with him and let him charm his way into my house. I promise myself that I’ll hold him to our one-episode agreement and then politely ask him to leave. I also decide to stop answering his texts. Obviously, I’ve been giving him the wrong idea.
And maybe even giving myself the wrong idea too.
My eyelids flutter open as sunlight filters through the curtains. I squint at the brightness.
Sitting up, I push the blanket off me and glance around. I’m still in my living room. Checking the clock, I see that it’s six a.m.
With a yawn, I stretch, accidentally kicking Prince in the process. “Sorry, buddy,” I tell him.
He lets out a sigh before closing his eyes and going back to snoring.
A tumbler of ice water has replaced my wine glass, and a bottle of ibuprofen is next to it.
“I don’t remember putting that there,” I say aloud to no one. I’m still trying to figure out why I slept on the couch last night when it all comes rushing back to me.
Ryker.
Sushi.
TV.
“Ugh!” I let out a loud groan and cover my face with my hands.
Wine is not always your friend, Rebecca!
I stand up and snatch the water from the table, both irritated and grateful that Ryker left it for me. Woozy from the change in position, I orient myself for a minute before popping the lid off the ibuprofen and dumping a couple in my mouth.
I pad into the kitchen and freeze when I notice that the empty wine bottle’s been put in the recycle bin and my wine glass is clean, drying on the counter.
My kitchen is pristine, in better shape than I usually keep it. I shuffle to the front door only to find that both the knob and the deadbolt are already locked.
How the hell did he manage that?
My phone sounds, so I make my way back to the living room to see what I missed while I was asleep.
I’m not the least bit surprised that it’s a text from Ryker. Forgetting my vow from the night before, I quickly open the thread.
Ryker: Morning, doll. Hope you’re feeling okay. You didn’t even make it through a whole episode. Looks like we’ll have to finish it tonight. Didn’t want to leave without locking up though, so your key’s under the blue flowerpot. You’re cute when you sleep. Especially when you say my name.
I’m horrified at the thought of having been caught talking in my sleep. There’s no way I’m letting him back in my house tonight. I read the message one more time before sending him a short response.
Me: Thanks. See you Monday.
Groaning at Old Man Hangover splitting my head, I toss my phone on the couch and then shuffle to my room. I need to crawl into bed and recover from what was supposed to have been my quiet night in.
Chapter Eight
Ryker
“You’ve got a goofy grin on your face this morning, Barney,” Gram says, squeezing my shoulder before coming to sit in the chair across from me.
The table, designed to seat six, is too big for the kitchen, but it was a family heirloom, so I lugged the fucker with us when we moved. Twice.
I stand up once she’s settled in her chair and fix her bowl of Cream of Wheat. After adding a teaspoon of brown sugar and a splash of milk, I set it, her spoon. and her pillbox in front of her. She taps her cheek in the familiar request, so I oblige her and lean over, pressing my lips to her wrinkled skin.
“You’re such a good boy.” She smiles and flips the Saturday slot on her pillbox open. After shaking the contents out, she scoops them up with her arthritic fingers and then looks up at me. “What’s her name?”
The corner of my mouth tips up in a smile. “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ ’bout, Gram.”
Turning my back to her, I get busy washing the dishes from breakfast, hoping that she’ll drop it. I have my arms buried to the elbow in soapy water, scrubbing the remnants of my eggs off the cheap pan, when I see movement out of the corner of my eye.
“Just leave it on the table. I’ll get it,” I tell her as she slowly makes her way to the sink, her hands full of dishes.
“My God, Barney. I’m old, but I ain’t crippled,” she snaps.
I glance at her swollen knees and pointedly raise my eyebrows.
She waves me off and continues. “Now, tell me. And don’t think I don’t know what time you got in last night.” She waggles a bent finger in my direction, a smile playing on her face. “Or this morning, rather.”
I hoped to keep whatever it is between Rebecca and me quiet, but it seems Gram’s perceptiveness has struck again. I should have known I wouldn’t be able to keep it a secret for long. My parents weren’t around, so it had fallen on Gram to raise me. Her husband, my grandfather, Barnabus, had died before I was born, so it was just the two of us.
Growing up with her, I never got away with anything. As a child, when I stole candy from the store, she knew before we’d even made it home. She turned her vintage Cadillac around and taken me right back to apologize before tanning my hide in front of the manager and everyone in the store.
In high school, the one night I came home drunk out of my mind, she wasn’t waiting up on me. I smiled to myself as I passed out, thinking I’d finally gotten one over on her. But, when I woken up the next day with the worst hangover of my life, she tortured me by giving me a list of chores a mile long––all of them outside in the blazing heat.
Even as an adult, the few times I’d had a one-night stand, Gram called me on it. She wasn’t even living in the same town back then, but still, as if she had a sixth sense for my shenanigans, she knew. I tried avoiding her call the first time, but that just proved to be a mistake. She showed up on my doorstep and refused to leave until she came in and gave me a tongue lashing. Try explaining that to the half-naked chick who is making coffee in your kitchen.
Sighing, I pull my hands from the sink and grab a towel to dry them. After turning in her direction, I prop a hip on the counter, crossing my feet at the ankle. “Her name’s Rebecca. And it’s nothing right now. She doesn’t even like me.” I chuckle and sway my head from side to side. “Well, she says she doesn’t like me. She’s lying to herself though. She likes me alright, it’s plain with the way she stares at me all day that she’s attracted to me.”
Gram nods, rapt with attention. When I don’t elaborate, she blinks twice and says, “That’s it? You were out till the wee hours of the morning, served me cold Cream of Wheat with a cat-that-got-the-canary look on your face, and all you can tell me is that she doesn’t like you?” She smacks me on the arm.
“Owe!” I shout, rubbing my arm.
For someone with arthritis in every joint of her body, her slaps sting.
“You get punched for a living, Barnabus. Don’t act like that hurt. Now, I’m gonna
go sit in my chair over there, and you’re going to tell me more about this Rebecca.” She doesn’t wait for me to agree, knowing I wouldn’t tell her no even if I wanted to.
Rolling my eyes at her back, I drop the dish towel on the counter and follow her in to the living room.
“I saw that,” she scolds over her shoulder.
I stick my tongue out at her back.
She says, “Saw that one too, mister.”
After she settles into the recliner that takes up at least three-quarters of the living room, I hand her the remotes and cover her with her favorite pink afghan. I sit on the only other piece of furniture in the room, a wingback chair made in the 1800s––when comfort was obviously not a priority––and begin filling her in. She listens attentively, never once interrupting.
When I finish, I hold both hands up in surrender and say, “So that’s everything. Promise.”
She nods, more to herself than to me, and stays silent for a moment. Finally, she speaks. “This is what you’re going to do. You’ll bring her for Sunday dinner tomorrow. I’ll get to know her a little bit, and then I’ll tell you what I think.”
I shake my head at her and glance around the pathetic excuse for an apartment we live in. “No way, Gram. Not a chance.”
“Well, why in the hell not?” she questions. “You ashamed of me?”
“What? No, of course not.”
“Then I don’t see what the issue is. You’ll bring her for dinner. How about pot roast?” she asks, breaking out the big guns because it’s my favorite. One we haven’t had in months because the cut of meat she likes to use is never on sale.
My mouth waters at the thought of the tender meat and the savory vegetables, but I swallow and push the mental image of devouring an entire pot to the back of my mind. “For starters, this place isn’t big enough for the two of us, much less three people. But, more importantly, roast isn’t on sale this week. And I don’t get paid again until next Friday.”
She studies me again, and her scrutiny makes me squirm in my seat. She was wrong to assume I was ashamed of her. But she wasn’t far from the mark. There is no way I am bringing Rebecca to this shithole.
I flash my gaze around the room again, avoiding Gram’s gaze. The recliner Gram loves is so aged that I’m almost certain it belonged to her during the Depression. It’s been patched so many times that the patches’ patches are threadbare.
Our TV was made in the late ’90s when flat screens were only imagined in the Jetsons or Back to the Future. The carpet is in desperate need of being torn up—and then set on fire—and the coffee table slopes to the left because I had to repair a broken leg with a two-by-four that wasn’t quite the same length as the other legs. You can’t even set a drink on it because it will topple over and spill everywhere. Although, now that I think about it, pouring soda on the carpet would probably make it smell a little better in here.
No, there is absolutely no way in hell I am bringing Rebecca back to this apartment. My pride barely allowed me to rent it in the first place, and showing it to Gram when we moved in had damn near killed me. She promised that she doesn’t give a shit, but I do.
She was used to living in a fancy retirement community and traveling the world with me to all of my fights. My suspension from fighting was a blow to both of us.
She clears her throat, and I snap my attention back to her.
“Okay, then. We’ll go out,” she states bluntly.
I begin to object, knowing we can’t afford that, either. Like a fool, I spent most of my pocket money on sushi and wine.
But she puts a hand up and silences my protests before I even get them out of my mouth. “That’s enough arguing with me. I’m an old lady. My heart can’t take stress.”
I roll my eyes at her. She may in fact be an old lady, but her heart’s probably healthier than mine. She uses that excuse any time she wants to get her way with me. And, because she’s always been the most important person in my life, I usually let her get away with it. But not this time.
“I don’t have the money,” I tell her, ashamed to admit it, even to her.
“Who said anything about you paying?” She quips. “This is my date. I did the askin’, so I’ll do the payin’.”
“Absolutely not. Have you lost your mind? Taken too many pills?” I’m offended that she would even so much as suggest paying.
I may be down on my luck, and we may currently be living below the poverty level, but there’s not a chance in hell I’m letting my seventy-six-year-old grandmother pay for my date.
Gram pushes to her feet, and her afghan falls to the floor. She angrily kicks it out of the way before stomping over to me and again smacking me, this time upside the head. “Barnabus Sundance Hawke. How dare you speak to me that way.” She wags her finger in my face as I rub the back of my head.
“Gram––” I protest.
“You hush.”
I clamp my jaw shut, but not before grumbling, “That hurt.”
“Don’t be a wussy.” She moves directly in front of me, her hands on her hips, and I’m forced to tilt my head back to see her face.
My mind flashes back to the million or so times growing up that I was in this exact same position, her standing over me, pretending to be outraged, and me sitting, pretending to be ashamed.
I smile to myself, the depth of my love for this woman who gave up her life to raise me hitting me in the gut, and watch a slow smile spread across her face.
“Don’t you go usin’ that smile on me.” She tries sounding stern but fails.
Even so, I nod at her and say, “Yes’m,” before biting the inside of my cheek.
“Now, what was I over here fussin’ at you about again? Oh, yeah. Sunday supper.” She takes one hand off her hip and reaches out to pat my cheek. “Call your lady friend and tell her we’ll pick her up after church. We can have lunch at the cafeteria.”
I groan at her choice but nod.
“Tell her she doesn’t have to get too fancy. You’ll be in your Sunday best, of course, but she shouldn’t go to too much trouble tryin’ to get all gussied up for me.”
I nod again. She pats my head twice and then turns away from me, shuffling back to her seat.
My shoulders sag in relief, and I’m glad that the interrogation and the subsequent scolding are over. I get up and follow her to the chair before bending down to get the abused blanket from the floor. She settles back in to the chair, and I once again cover her lap with the blanket.
“All right. I’m gonna finish cleaning up the kitchen and then head to the gym for a bit,” I tell her once she’s gotten comfortable. After retrieving her glass from the kitchen and filling it with tea, I place it on the TV tray that serves as an end table beside her chair. “Can I get you anything else before I go?”
She looks up at me and smiles, shaking her head. “I love you, my sweet boy,” she says, squeezing my fingers.
I keep my grip on her fingers and squeeze her hand in return. “Not as much as I love you, Gram.”
She releases my hand and reaches for the remote. “Now, move over. Your mama wasn’t a glassmaker.”
Chuckling at her outdated joke, I move to the side. After I’ve finished getting Gran set up for the day, I throw some gym shorts and a t-shirt on and bolt to my car.
Twenty minutes later, I pull up to my destination. I sit in my car and let it idle, wasting gas I don’t have to waste while debating how to approach the situation. Hey, Rebecca. I’m sure your dates usually take you to lavish restaurants, but wanna go to a cafeteria so you can meet my nosy, overprotect grandma. Yes?
Fuck my life.
Taking a deep breath, I finally turn the car off and then head to her front door. I ring the doorbell, causing the dog to bark, and chuckle to myself when I hear her muffled shout on the other side of the door.
The door flies open, and Rebecca stands on the other side, still in her seasonally inappropriate pajamas from the night before.
Her eyes light, but she immediat
ely locks it away. “You again?” she grumbles.
“Mornin’, doll. How ya feelin’?” I ask.
After the amount of wine she put away last night, I’m actually surprised to see her standing upright.
“Fine. I’m fine.”
“You gonna let me in?” I ask with a smile.
Her eyes narrow on my lips. Sighing, she doesn’t reply, just swings the door open and steps aside.
As I move into the house, Prince trots up to greet me, so I bend over and give his ears a good scratch, which causes his butt to wiggle.
“For such a big, intimidating-looking dog, he sure is a lover,” I say, looking up at her.
Her face softens and she wraps an around her waist while running the other hand through her hair. “Yeah. He’s my big baby,” she coos at the dog. “He’s probably a wuss ’cause I cut his balls off when he was a puppy.” She shrugs. “He didn’t need them though. And I’ve heard testicular cancer’s a bitch.”
I stand upright and laugh. “Oh, you’ve heard, huh?”
She giggles. “Well, not from anyone who’s actually had it.”
I stare at her makeup-free face as an unfamiliar twinge tightens my chest. “You’re beautiful when you smile like that. And that laugh—I could listen to it on repeat and never get tired of hearing it.”
Her eyes widen before flashing away. “What are you doing here?” she asks, her gaze trained to the ground.
I’m nervous. I can’t remember the last time I was nervous about anything. Not before a fight, not when the UFC president called me to his office, and certainly not before asking a woman out.
Even though I’ve been asking her out for over a week and she’s shot me down each time, I’m not nervous. It’s a game we’re playing and, eventually, she’ll relent.
But this time is different. This time, Gram is asking her out, and I need her to say yes.
“Sunday dinner tomorrow.”
She blinks at me and says, “Not this again.”
Ignoring her comment, I cross my arms over my chest. “I didn’t have any say, either. Gram’s requesting. And you don’t tell Gram no.”
The Undisputed Series Page 36