It doesn’t make any sense. I’m a newly single mom and the idea of getting close to another man is petrifying, but August isn’t just another man. August is something else. I just can’t put my finger on what.
Feelings of want, fear and anger tumble over each other in my gut. I need to find him, if only for my own peace of mind. If he’s with someone, maybe I can negotiate an early departure clause—leave and still get the money. My heart drops a little at the thought, because I don’t really want to leave.
But where could he be? The retreat is huge. There are outbuildings all around the lodge, and the land extends for miles and miles. And it’s dark and I don’t have a map of any kind. Maybe the navigation on my phone would help. I reach for my cell then remember the tracker August put on it.
Genius!
I pull open the app, locate his name and click the option to find his location. A small red dot hovers over a map and I zoom in on the exact location. He’s on the premises still, and inside a building by the looks of things. What kind of building? Some other woman’s hotel room?
I drop a pin at the main house and look at the route to get to where he is. It’s not far away, but it will involve a walk through woodland and it’s dark. A shiver runs across my shoulders, but I climb out of bed anyway.
My shirt is long enough that it covers the tops of my thighs, so I pull on a coat and a pair of ankle boots, then quietly leave the room.
Augusto
The breeze rustles through the pine trees, reminding me we’re a long way from New York City. But as the door closes, I no longer hear it, and I may as well be down in the bowels of the old hospital.
Gian stands across from me, already braced for it. He flew in from New York on my order, no questions asked. That’s why I called him. Loyalty like that is rare, and it comes with the understanding that sometimes you show up not knowing what you’re walking into, but knowing you’ll walk into it anyway.
He’s stripped down to a black tee and jeans, knuckles taped out of habit more than necessity. The tape catches the light, stark and clean against skin that’s already seen its share of damage.
“Boss,” he says, with a nod of acknowledgment as opposed to greeting.
I tilt my head slightly toward his hands. “Take it off.”
He glances down at the tape, then back at me, just a flicker of hesitation crossing his face. “I thought we were?—”
“We’re not.” My voice stays level, but there’s no room in it for negotiation. “Not tonight.”
He studies me for a second longer, trying to read beneath my words. Gian doesn’t scare easily, but he’s smart enough to recognize when something’s off—when this isn’t training, or routine, orcontrolled. Still, he nods, because that’s what I need him to do.
He unwinds the tape slowly, letting it fall to the floor in loose strips.
We square off without another word. No audience and no rules. Just space between us and the understanding that he’s going to walk out of here worse than when he came in.
“Ready?” he asks.
I nod once.
The first hit lands clean to my jaw, jarring my head back slightly. A second catches my right cheekbone and I emit a grunt at the impact. He hesitates before landing a third blow to my body, because three is all they get. A three-strike head start, and then I move in.
He sucks in a breath and lands a kick to my ribs, almost winding me. Clever move. I straighten with a grin.
“Show’s over,” I grit out low.
His eyes widen for a beat when I drive three fast punches to his torso, catching his abdomen, collar and ribcage in quick succession. Gian recovers fast, rolling with it the way he’s been trained to.
He comes back at me with a strike aimed for my ribs. I take it, letting it connect just enough to feel the force, a dull thud spreading through my side.
We circle each other, my feet dancing lightly across the concrete floor, my breath already starting to deepen. Gianmoves in again, faster this time, throwing a combination—body, head, body. I block the first, slip the second, and let the third glance just enough to register. Then I step inside his guard and drive my fist into his sternum. Oxygen leaves him in a noisy rush, his shoulders hitching as he fights to pull it back in.
“You’re slow,” I say. Feedback is a gift.
He grins, even with blood starting to gather at the corner of his mouth. “You’re distracted.”
The word lands harder than any punch he could throw.
Distracted.
