His neck cracks, and he rubs it, but his slate gray eyes catch on mine. There’s something dark and unfathomable in their depths, and I can’t look away. “If not for those grants, I’d probably be in jail by now.”
Oh.This man gets more fascinating with every tidbit I tease out of him. “Why?”
He shrugs those massive shoulders, and glances behind me. A moment later, the waitress deposits a number of bowls in front of us. Each of Jase’s meals is twice the size of mine, but I’m not surprised he can tuck away food like no one’s business. He must burn through thousands of calories each day, and maintaining that muscle mass can’t be easy. He grabs a fork and shovels lean beef and quinoa into his mouth while I wait patiently for him to answer.
“I grew up dirt poor,” he mutters, looking like he’d rather be having any other conversation. He’s much more confident when he’s on the offensive, especially if that involves suggestive comments and glances hot enough to burn. “Went through the foster system. Never stayed anywhere long, but one of my foster fathers ran an MMA gym, and I picked it up easy. Got one of those grants so I could carry on after I moved. At my second fight, I met Seth, who runs Crown MMA. He was a big name at the time, and he took me under his wing. When I aged out of the system, I lived with him until I could afford my own place.” He looks up and stares at me, as though daring me to look away. I don’t. “There you have it. The sad story of Jase Rawlins.”
“Not so sad,” I say, taking a bite of chicken. “It’s a rags to riches success story. America’s favorite.” When his eyes narrow, I add, “I’m sorry for how you grew up, though. That can’t have been easy. For some reason, I pictured you as a spoiled rich kid.”
This time, he laughs, and breaks away from our stare-down. “You probably saw me that way because it suited you.”
I can’t disagree, and for a while, we eat in companionable silence. When he finishes his beef salad, he takes a break before moving onto the next bowl.
“So what about you? What’s your story, Lena?”
The way he says my name like a caress drives me crazy, and I resist the urge to shiver. “We’re not talking about me.”
He grins. “Maybe we should be. It’s only fair that you spill all your secrets if you want to know mine.”
I shake my head. “It’s not an interesting story. The opposite of yours, actually. Grew up rich, refused to settle down with a nice boy like my parents wanted, paid my own way through college, and now I live in a tiny apartment I can hardly afford because I’m drowning in student debt.”
“Huh.” His brows draw together. This clearly isn’t the story he expected, either. “But you look so”—he waves a hand at me—“put together.”
A laugh-snort escapes me, and I bury my face in my hands. “Oh, my God.” I can’t believe I just made that sound in front of him. I might actually die of humiliation. “I onlylookput together.” I keep my face in my hands. “It’s my job to appear that way.”
“So others trust you to make them look good, too?”
“Exactly.”
“Lena.” He touches my chin with a slight but firm pressure. “Look at me.”
I raise my head and find him watching me intently, hunched forward so his gorgeous eyes aren’t far from mine. “Yeah?”
“Your laugh is fucking cute.”
I laugh-snort again—a nervous reaction—then groan. “It is not.”
“Is too.”
Straightening, I try to preserve what’s left of my dignity. “We should stop arguing like kindergartners over something that doesn’t matter.”
His gaze pins me to the spot, and I’m unable to move. Hardly able to breathe. “I know you’re not a kindergartner, Lena.”
Why does he keep saying my name? Does he know how crazy it drives me?
Danger zone. Get back to business.
Shaking off the effect of his statement, I raise my glass, only remembering when it touches my lips and his pupils dilate that he’s just been drinking from it himself. Forget danger zone, I’m heading into the territory of screwed beyond redemption.
“So…” I say slowly, gathering my wits from a puddle on the floor. “What else do you do with your spare time? Is there anything I need to worry about coming out of the woodwork?”
Jase draws back and continues eating his second salad. I’d think he was ignoring me, except his brow is furrowed in thought. “You shouldn’t have anything to worry about.” He polishes off the salad in a few massive mouthfuls and moves to the third, which looks like a mound of seasoned potatoes. “I used to be a party boy, can’t deny that, but I didn’t get to where I am by being that guy. I rarely drink anymore, don’t do drugs, and don’t fuck around indiscriminately. Haven’t done that for a couple years.”
My mind catches on that last part. “I thought all MMA fighters fucked around. Isn’t that part of the code, or something? All those hot girls throwing themselves at you must be hard to resist.”
His gaze flickers up and locks on mine as he chews. When he’s finished, he swipes my water and drinks, his throat pulsing. “Didn’t say I always resist, but I don’t jump into bed with just anyone.”
I have a feeling I won’t like hearing what comes next, but I need to know anyway. “Elaborate.”
