I don’t tell him that the commute is my reason for it. That even though it’s common for fighters all over the Northeast to drive hours to train at the world-renowned Renzo Gracie’s in New York City, it has nothing to do with my decision.
That’s determined solely by a certain beautiful blonde.
I take the train up on Thursday morning, just in time for an afternoon training session. I’ve been here plenty of times, so the coaches and athletes welcome me the same as they always do. They’re excited to hear I might be coming up here more often.
By 8 p.m., I’ve eaten, showered, and downed one of the drinks from the mini bar to settle my nerves. I don’t even feel this way before my fights. Why am I nervous? This is a transaction. I know exactly what I’m putting into it and getting out of it.
All thoughts about this being a business arrangement fly out of my head the moment I hear a knock.
And just like it did last time, my breath escapes me when I open the door to Daisy.
Christ, what’s her real name? I wish I knew.
I wish I could put a name to the goddess standing in front of me.
She looks gorgeous tonight. It’s not just her physical appearance—although it would be insane to say she’s not the most stunning woman I’ve ever seen. She’s wearing a skintight dark green dress today, nothing too short or revealing, but the lace covering her neckline and arms is an enticing detail. Her hair is curlier than last time, but her lips are the same shade of red.
I’m just as desperate to taste her as last time.
“Hi, Red,” I greet softly.
Do I imagine the way she lights up at the nickname?“Hi,” she breathes, wearing a soft smile of her own.
I step aside and gesture her into the room. As she moves past me, her aura is every bit as commanding as it was last time. And when she speaks, she sounds every bit the seductress I remember.
“It’s nice to see you again,” she says over her shoulder. “I’m glad you called me.”
I lock the door and follow behind her into the suite. “I told you I would.”
When she reaches the couch, she turns and sits with the most demure movement. “And now I know you’re an honest man, Nico.”
A shiver runs through me at hearing her say my name.Fuck.She’s turning it on early tonight.
I canfeelthe spell she’s weaving around me. With every word, every look, all I want to do is sink to the floor in front of her and bask in her presence.
“So, how’s your week been?” she asks. “Are we relieving any stress tonight?”
This is far more stressful than anything that happened this week.
I don’t tell her that. I just pour us two glasses of water and walk over to where she’s sitting. “My week was good. Busy. More training sessions than I can count.”
When I hand her the glass of water, she looks surprised. Hoping I’m misreading the expression, I say, “I can get you an unopened bottle of water if you’d prefer that.”
Her gaze shoots to mine. “Oh. No, that’s not—” The faintest bit of color touches her cheeks. She takes the glass from my hand and says softly, “Thank you. That was sweet of you.”
Getting a drink of water is sweet?
“How wasyourweek?” I ask as I sit on the couch across from her.
Last time I saw her, I got the sense that she tries to stay away from personal questions. I don’t blame her for not being an open book with a stranger, but I’m also intrigued enough to want to know more about her. I’m just hoping if I stay away from personal details, that she’ll be willing to make this more of a conversation.
Sure enough, she studies me before answering the question. Her answer is slow and calculated when she says, “It was like every other week.”
She might believe that’s a non-answer, but it tells me more than she thinks. Her days are structured, maybe even monotonous.
“What does your average day look like?” I press. And then, because I suspect she’s constantly trying to remind me of what she does, I add, “Before…this.”
She’s trying to read me, trying to distance herself so she can make it all about me. “I work out, run errands, scroll social media. Same as most people’s, I suspect.”
