And she was walking and talking and hadn’t suffered any of the cognitive impairments that I’d been warned about on repeat for the entire duration of her medically induced coma.

  I tightened my grip, swallowing the familiar lump that challenged me to breathe when I thought of the first time I’d looked into those green eyes that we’d both inherited from my father, when her lashes had finally fluttered open after the accident. There was nothing in this world that could possibly supersede the joy and agony mingled within that moment.

  “Ty-ler!” She wiggled in my lap and I relaxed my hold. Lolli leaned back within the circle of my arms and the light in her eyes dimmed. She cradled my face with her downy soft hands. “They hurt you. Again.”

  White-hot rage surged through me afresh. More than what those assholes had done to me, I hated that they affected my baby sister, even indirectly. I managed to bank the anger enough to offer a smile. “It’s all good, Lolli. There’s nothing to worry your pretty little head about.”

  She dropped her hands and laid her head against my shoulder. “It isn’t, Tyler. It isn’t good.”

  I pressed my lips against the ash-colored hair my stepmother had gifted her only child with. “It really is. They may be stronger but I’m smarter. I’ve got a plan, Lolli.”

  Never in my life had I ever been as grateful for my nearly insatiable appetite to flare with a loud rumbling of my stomach. Lolli dissolved into giggles at the sound and—at least temporarily—my latest beating was forgotten. I held her small body against me as I stood and carried her into the kitchen. “What does my Lollipop want for dinner tonight?”

  Dropping her onto one of the high bar stools, I leaned against the counter and affected as enthralled an expression as I could muster. She asked for the same thing damn nearly every night. Even though I didn’t give in every time, I certainly caved far more often than I should.

  The random thought struck again, wonder at what it would feel like to experience this with a partner, someone who would love Lolli as much as I did. Her nanny was a gift to have as backup and I knew the woman cared for Lolli, but I craved having someone lie next to me at night who I could spill my concerns out to and who would cheer with me over every step that she took toward recovery from the accident that had robbed us both of parents.

  Why the hell did I see a flash of that gym rat grinning at me from the pillow beside mine? Absurd. I shook my head, pouring all my focus back where it belonged.

  She tapped a finger against her pale chin, searching the ceiling as if for an answer. “Umm, I think…” Tap, tap, tap. She was so lucky that I worshiped the ground she walked on. “I think I want macaroni and cheese.”

  I pressed my palm into my chest. “No-o-o! You don’t say!” As always, my heart melted when the gold flecks in her eyes sparkled, matching her tinkling laughter. “Spoon or fork?”

  Another round of faux consideration ensued before she settled on a fork. I repeated the familiar dance of boiling macaroni and grating cheese.

  One day I’d regret indulging her every whim, when she was a spoiled rotten teenager who wouldn’t listen and ran off with some asshole jock who was only interested in—

  “Fuck!” I had become so distracted by hypothetical future boyfriends that I burned my hand pulling the dish from the oven.

  Lolli shot her head up from the coloring book she’d produced from who-knew-where and pursed her lips for a moment. “That’s a bad word, Tyler.”

  I sat an ambitiously full bowl of the gooey dish in front of her, taking a seat beside her with my own over-full plate. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Lolli.”

  We fell into our evening routine of reviewing whatever therapy appointments she’d had that day and cleaning up our dishes before I tucked her into her frothy pink bedding, the one that matched the walls and the curtains and damn near every piece of clothing in the massive walk-in closet that could put Zsa Zsa Gabor’s to shame.

  All the little mundane things we did were the exact reason I’d changed her nanny’s schedule when I’d taken over custody. The woman clearly adored Lolli, but I wanted my time with her too. I needed it. We needed it. So now Rachel handled morning detail and filled in when I had a nighttime study session or like this evening, when I had been at the gym. But, for the most part, the evenings remained ours.

  “Can you sing my song, Ty?” Her sleepy voice matched the heavy lids she was so valiantly trying to keep open.

  She was the only human on this planet who I allowed to get away with calling me ‘Ty’. I launched into her bedtime lullaby of lollipops, bon-bons, lemonade stands and Cracker Jack bands. It was dated, unusual and one of the most treasured things in my life.

  I closed the door on her softly snoring form and headed down the hall to my room. With much more effort than I’d like to admit, I peeled my favorite nerdtastic shirt from my body and stepped out of my jeans, leaving a trail of clothes between my bed and my bathroom. My reflected image hurt worse than the mottled pigment it displayed. The scalding water burned the scratches on my back that had been created by the pavement I’d been dropped against, but it soothed the aching muscles bunched beneath.

  “Fucking assholes.” My growled expletive echoed in the solitary space and I slammed my fist into the beige-tiled wall.

  Many long minutes later, I finally dragged my shriveled self from the warmth and comfort of my shower. I tugged on loose sweats and a tank top before settling into bed with my laptop.

  I fit every mold for a loser, including programming. But there was a sort of comfort I found in the sequences of letters and numbers that eased the anxiety in my soul when my fingers were flying across the keyboard, creating predictable and useful lines of code.

  After an hour of my personal version of therapy, I decided to give my numb digits a break by pulling up my personal email. Ads and reminders from Lolli’s physical therapist were normally all I encountered. Normally. Today held something that made me sit up a little straighter.

  From: Clayton James

  Subject: Training Program

  It looked like it would be hard as hell, but it wasn’t the plan that made my mouth fall open. It was my instructor.

  So Mr. Studly himself is handling my training? I was fucked—and not in the good way. There was little-to-no chance that I’d be able to concentrate on anything with tall, tattooed and sexy guiding my every move. The brief glimpse of his well-defined body would fuel my masturbatory fantasies for at least the next six months.

  There was no way this would work. But there was also no way in hell I’d want anyone else. I closed my laptop and wiggled down the bed, sighing as I sank my head into the downy-soft pillows.

  The next morning I pretended that I hadn’t spent the entire night having dreams about Clayton James—ones that most definitely involved sex, but were more jarring because of the heavy romantic themes. They were everything I wanted and envisioned with a man I’d only seen once and knew would never look twice at me.

  Chapter Three

  Clayton

  It hadn’t been my brightest idea—and a daunting workout regimen tacked onto a severely restrictive diet was the best way for Tyler to get the body and skills he desired—but my notion of deterring Tyler with an exhaustive schedule had failed. His response was exactly the level of snark I’d expected.

  Sounds like it’ll be a blast, big boy. I’ll bring extra grass for you to graze on with me.

  That was it. I both wanted him to show up for his first training session and desperately hoped he wouldn’t. Admiration warred with irritation when he loped through the door the following Monday.

  Why the hell does the first guy I’m attracted to in longer than I care to admit have to be a smartass kid? One far too young to be ready for anything resembling commitment.

  He dropped his duffel bag on the ground in front of the reception desk, crossed his arms and propped a hip against the wooden surface. “Nice directive there, big boy.”

  The dripping sarcasm absolutely should not have made me want to grin. “Are you sure that”—I pointed at the still-purple-tinged eye—“didn’t have more to do with your mouth and less to do with your stature or sexual preference?”

  Tyler narrowed his gaze. “I get that life has probably been a cakewalk for someone built like a Greek god with the legacy of a championship career to back them up, but for the rest of us, we survive the best way we know how.”

  In a completely inappropriate response, a frisson of excitement shot through me when he called me a Greek god. That made my dick twitch. I might not be as cocky as Joey, but I owned a mirror and I was damn proud of everything I’d accomplished.

  Where he couldn’t have been more wrong was his implication that my life had been easy. It had been anything but. I had been a poor kid who’d grown up in low income housing and ticked every cliched box that went along with that.

  Single mom working three jobs? Check.

  Clothes too worn for thrift stores to take them? Check.

  The constant sound of sirens from either police or ambulances ringing in my ears? Check.

  My saving grace had been Joey. The arrogant son of a bitch also happened to be the son of a prominent Seattle attorney who, for some reason that I’ll never understand, thought hanging with the kid from the projects was cool. We’d become best friends in fifth grade and the ritual of going to his house for meals his family worried I was missing had begun.’

  It was how I’d met Joey’s uncle Terrence Jackson—damn near boxing royalty. The man had won the Golden Gloves and had then been catapulted into one of the most successful fighting careers in history, as evidenced by the ridiculously ostentatious home he owned in Las Vegas. My mild hero worship of the man had been what had paved the way to my own life in the ring.

  As much as Joey annoyed the shit out of me, I could never repay him for that—even if I was giving him more than any other gym manager in the state of Washington.

  For now at least. If my facility went under? Hell, I didn’t have a backup plan.

  A familiar churning hit my stomach just as Tyler snapped two long fingers in front of my face. “Hey there, Hulk. Care to join the land of the living and start this fucking training regimen?” He pressed his lips together. “It looks absolutely delightful.”

  The image of stacks of bills piling up on my desk vanished when his startling emerald gaze collided with mine. I’d always had a special affinity for guys a bit more on the thin side, but more than anything, it was a very specific personality type that drew me in. And damned if Tyler didn’t scream that loud and clear. A sliver of ice ran down my spine as I imagined him standing over me…

  “Dude, seriously, are you okay?” The snark evaporated from his tone and he frowned. “I’m pretty sure you just turned about thirty different shades of red in under ten seconds.”

  Pull your shit together, I commanded silently. “Yeah, yeah, I’m good. Why don’t you put your bag in the locker room and start with some free weights? Grab a pair of the eight-pound ones and I’ll be over in a minute to show you what to do to keep you from hurting yourself.”

  He rolled his eyes and offered a mock salute. “Sure thing, big boy.”

  I retreated to my office to grab the training plan I’d created for Tyler—the one Joey had given me endless hours of grief about simply because I’d insisted on handling it myself. He wasn’t buying my assertion that I wanted to make sure the kid didn’t do anything stupid and that the best way to do that was to keep close tabs on him.

  Joey was my best friend for a reason and completely saw through the lie. Hell, he knew my type better than I did.

  And he chose that exact moment to stick his head into my office. A deep V sat between his brows above his stormy gaze. “You’ve got a call. Line two.”

  “Is it your mom? Because that’s usually the only person who can create that level of fear.” I meant it as a quip, but his expression didn’t soften. “Seriously, J, who is it?”

  He ran a hand over his short, dark, wiry hair. “It’s Neil.”

  My manager. Ex manager, I corrected myself. I picked up the receiver and punched the flashing red light beside the number two on the phone. “Long time, no chat.”

  Joey had never fully trusted that Neil Montrose had my best interests at heart during my career and, apparently, he still didn’t like the man. Neil was a little slimy, but I’d come to expect that from anyone earning a percentage off my hard work. Neil had managed to get me some pretty lucrative endorsements that funded my gym, so I had some respect for the guy.

  His over-the-top guffaw made me roll my eyes. “How are things out in the private sector?”

  Neil wasn’t someone I ever hung out with on a personal level and he had been pretty pissed when I ended my career, even though he knew my medical issues. There was a less-than-zero chance he would call to shoot the shit. “Pretty good. What’s up?”

  “You mean your pit bull didn’t tell you?”

  I ran my tongue along the back of my teeth. “All he said was that I had a call. Listen… I’ve got a new client here who I need to start training. Can we make this quick?”

  His chronic smoker’s cough barked across the line before his words. “I heard you’ve been having a less than ideal turnout at the gym lately.” Silence hung in the air between us for so long that I thought we had been disconnected before the rustling of papers on his desk confirmed his presence on the other end. “I’ve got an offer for you that’ll make everything better.”

  Chapter Four

  Tyler

  What did the jolly green giant think I was going to do, hurt myself? I grabbed the eight-pound weight he had indicated and stood in front of the mirror, slowly curling the steel dumbbell toward my body then lowering it again.

  I snorted. Yeah, this would take a rocket scientist to figure out how to do it right.

  “You have trouble listening, don’t you?” The exhausted sigh that punctuated his question almost made me feel bad for the big guy. Almost.

  I pulled the weight to my chest again and released it. “It’s been more than forty-five minutes since I last ate. I think I’ll be safe.”

  Clayton shook his head, mouth agape. “That’s swimming, kid, not weightlifting. Have you ever done any physical exercise in your life? In any capacity?”

  “First”—I switched arms and tried to look like I somewhat knew what I was doing—“that was called a joke, big boy. Learn to laugh a little. Second, I have an indoor pool and swim three times a week so, yeah, I get physical exercise.”

  My arms might not bulge in all the right places like his, but I wasn’t a total shrimp. I whipped my shirt over my head and tossed it across the weight bench. I tensed my muscles to make them stand out as much as I could and tried desperately not to question why I cared what tall, sexy and serious thought of my body.

  It certainly wasn’t because I was desperate to touch every inch of his. No. Hell, no.

  His expression didn’t falter and he didn’t speak for so long that the false bravado I’d tried to show nearly faltered. “You, uh”—he cleared his throat—“yeah.”

  I tried, and miserably failed, to keep what I knew was bound to be a far-too-cocky-for-my-appearance smirk from plastering itself across my face. “I might not be able to deadlift two-fifty, but I can carry forty-seven-and-a-half pounds for over an hour and up the stairs without breaking a sweat.”

  Clayton tilted his head and handed me a jump rope. “Three minutes, rest a minute, then repeat for five rounds. That’s a pretty specific number to lift.”

  “Hell, this shouldn’t be so hard. Frickin’ kids do this shit every day.” I was panting by the time I’d finished the first three minutes. “And that’s how much my little sister weighed at her last doctor’s appointment.” I swiped the back of my hand across my forehead. “Full disclosure… She weighed less when I carried her for an hour or more. That was a slight exaggeration on my part. But I can still carry her up the stairs to bed.”

  He handed me a water bottle. “You need to make sure you stay hydrated so you don’t hurt yourself.” He propped his hands on his waist. “How old is she? For that weight, I’d guess six or seven?”

  After I sucked down nearly half the contents of the plastic container, I glanced down at my watch. How the hell had a minute gone by that fast? I gave the bottle back to Clayton, threw the rope behind me and began rotating my wrists as I jumped with a small shake of my head. “No, ten.”

  Clayton frowned and I could’ve predicted the next words that came out of his mouth. “Isn’t she a bit…small for ten?”

  More times than I cared to acknowledge, I’d heard that same comment from countless others. I rolled my eyes and kept my pace, even though I was certain my legs would fall off before the three minutes were up. “Naturally small builds run in our family, if you couldn’t tell from me. And after the accident…” Exposing the darkness of the day that I’d lost my dad and stepmom—and the weeks following, when Lolli’s life had hung in the balance—wasn’t exactly something I enjoyed. “Well, she had a long recovery.”

  He tilted his head and casually rested his forearm on the metal support pole he was standing beside—as if I wasn’t dying a slow and painful death right before his eyes. “Accident?”

  I flicked my wrist toward me to check my watch as I jumped and let out an audible groan when I saw that I was only halfway through this set. “Yeah, she was in a car accident.” I was panting between damn near every word and knew that I still had another three rounds to go once this one was done. “My dad and stepmom died in it.”

  He blinked three times, very slowly. “Damn. I’m sorry.” He lifted his chin and frowned. “So who takes care of you two?”

 

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