“No. Fightme,” she says. “I want to work on blocking.”
I drop my arms. “I’m not gonna punch you, Kate.”
She advances with a few of her own strikes, forcing my gloves back up to protect my face.
“Fight me. You know you want to,” she pants.
I swallow the frustrated growl climbing my throat.
Her second and third punches are stronger, but I block them easily. She aims a flurry, forcing me to react, to dodge, to weave. My mind grows quiet. She throws an uppercut with her right, which I deflect, but I onlyjustmiss the sneaking left hook she aims toward my ribcage.
And I’m grateful for the forced reprieve. I don’t want to be alone with my thoughts tonight any more than I suspect she does. So we fill the gym with heavy breathing and the sound of leather on leather.
After what feels like hours, I break the silence with a single word.
“Better.”
She watches me, limbs heavy, but has yet to speak. Yet to break this tension building like fire between us.
I skate my eyes over her, and that indiscernible emotion has returned to her expression. It’s like she wants to say something, but can’t.
Or won’t.
That thought makes anger churn hot in my belly again. Because even though she’s here, she’s still not allowing herself to be vulnerable. Then again, why would she? I’m the one that left her on the beach. I’m the one her parents hate. The one not worthy enough for her to love.
Without another word, I swing myself under the ropes and drop to the floor. I’m halfway across the room when she finally disrupts the silence.
“Are you done?”
Those three words are laced with so many things.
A question. A challenge. A fear.
I let out a hard laugh and turn back.
“Done? I don’t think I’ll ever be done, and you know it. But I deserve better, Kate. I deserve someone who can be open with me. Someone who willloveme.”
She bites her lip, again restraining her words.
“What do you want from me, Kate?” I ask tiredly, tossing my gloves onto the bench. “You wanted to spar, and I did. You wanted a fake boyfriend to get your parents off your back, and I showed up.” I’m getting heated now, my chest rising and falling.
But she stays mute. Annoyingly, frustratingly, purposefully mute.
And now I’m pissed.
I stride back toward the ring, swinging a leg and hoisting myself up. I don’t stop until I’m close enough to count the caramel flecks in her wide eyes.
Her face is tight, expression filled with that damn indiscernible emotion.
“I’d ask again what you want from me,” I whisper, “but I don’t think you even know yourself.”
The tension in this sleeping gym is pulled taut like the ropes surrounding us, and I fear they could snap. That I could snap.
She visibly swallows before a hoarse whisper edges out.
“You’re wrong.”
A glove flies toward my face, but I catch her sloppy punch with my ungloved hand and push it away. She tries again, but I block it with a forearm.
