“So,” I say, tapping my fingers against my cup. “Tell me what happened.”
He shifts, gaze dropping to the table for a second before meeting mine again. “It was… just a fight.”
“A fight,” I repeat. “Like an argument? Or like a ‘my face met someone’s fist’ fight?”
“The second one.” His tone is calm, too calm, like this is a common occurrence for him. “Underground fighting ring. Nothing official.”
I blink. “You—wait, you really werefighting?”
“I do it sometimes. It helps clear my head. Didn’t plan on catching one to the jaw, but…,” He shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “It happens.”
I stare at him. “You fought someone. Like… for real, to clear your head?”
“For real,” he echoes, eyes glinting.
“And you won?”
He gives me a look that should be illegal. It’s full of amusement mixed with confidence and a little danger. “Of course, I won.”
Oh. Wow. Okay.
My stomach does that stupid swoopy thing it hasn’t done since I was fifteen.
“Well, that explains the whole Tyson vibe.”
“And here I thought you liked it.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You implied it.”
“Not necessarily,” I counter. “I was strictly making an observation.”
He leans forward, forearms resting on the table. “And when your breath hitched just now, what was that?”
I shift nervously. “You are way too observant.”
He grins. “Only with you.”
My breath catches at that, which is ridiculous since we’ve only met once. He rescued me from a creep, and we had one small conversation. Against my better judgment, my insides warm at the thought that he also felt that instant connection.
“So you fight in underground rings,” I say, trying to sound cool and failing. “Then you end up here, in a coffee shop, on a Tuesday afternoon?”
“Needed somewhere quiet to think. Somewhere that wasn’t the club.” He shrugs. “Besides, I was hoping to run into the beautiful woman I met on Saturday.”
Questions prick at the back of my tongue, but I swallow them. He’s already given me more than he meant to. I can tell.
“Well,” I say, “I’m glad you came here.”
His eyes soften. “Yeah. Me too.”
My mouth picks this moment to stop listening to my brain. “Are you hungry?”
His brows lift. “Hungry?”
“Yeah. You know, dinner?” My heart hammers. “I, um… I was going to head home soon and cook something. You could join me, if you want. I mean, if you don’t have to go meet your friends again.”
Frost stills as if the offer freezes him in place. His eyes search mine, slow and careful. It’s almost like he’s trying to figure out if my offer is sincere. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and rough. “You’re inviting me to your place?”
