Owen smiles. “Something funny, Miss Riley?”
Shaking my head, I side-step him and make my way into the office. “Was it a long ride? A good one?” I can’t help myself, though I know the words are highly inappropriate for an employee.
He laughs. The kind of laugh that makes you want to hear it over and over again. One that energizes the whole room.
I turn. He’s leaned against the door frame, arms crossed. Shirtless, of course.
“You didn’t list sense of humor on your resume, Miss Riley.”
Shrugging, I drop my bag on my office chair and scan the room again. At least they were neat, except for the bar, which is littered with more dirty glasses and empty alcohol bottles.
“You don’t look ready for a fight, Mr. Mills,” I comment, returning my attention to him.
He pushes off the door, stopping at the space in the middle of all the gym equipment. He sweeps his hands around. “Never been more ready, Miss Riley.”
Reaching into my bag, I pull out a cloth to wrap my raw knuckles, hopefully preventing them from ripping open again.
Owen watches me. “No need to fear. Only a light sparring session to get the blood flowing this morning.”
“You didn’t just do that?” I ask, trying to sound genuine, but my smile gives me away.
“I didn’t know I’d have to dodge your bad jokes when I hired you,” he says, but the grin gives him away, too.
I step in front of him. Whether I want to admit it or not, fighting is my happy place. It’s the only thing that keeps me sane. “We warm up first. Take turns with practice jabs and hooks, then we can play.”
He grins back at me and nods. “Ladies first.”
Ignoring the tone of his voice and the insinuation, I start moving, bouncing on the balls of my feet. I raise my arms. He does the same, splaying his hands so I can aim for them.
I hit his palms over and over again, and everything else falls away. Even my rage lowers to a light simmer as sweat begins to pour down my chest.
Owen doesn’t speak when it’s his turn, clearly lost in the same trance. His hits are practiced. Perfect. Beautiful even.
Of course, I’d never admit that to him.
Owen suddenly stops and pulls back. He’s breathing hard and staring at me.
I drop my arms.
“You ready, Miss Riley?” he asks, recovering his breath shockingly fast.
“As I’ll ever be. What are the rules?”
“The only rule is we can’t knock each other out, and no swollen faces. I have meetings I need to look pretty for.” He smirks.
“Meetings? Or beautiful women?”
“Both?”
Rolling my eyes, I raise my arms again, anxious to finish this. “Let’s go. I won’t damage your pretty face, don’t worry.”
“You think I’m pretty?” The words are barely out of his mouth when I swing my fist toward his so-called pretty face. He ducks at the last second, backing up.
The bastard has the nerve to smile.
I don’t give him time to recover, swinging with my left arm. He blocks it, and I come up with my right, making contact with his jaw.
It is hard enough for him to feel, but it shouldn’t leave a mark.
