“Not half bad, Little Thief,” he muses. I don’t miss the tenderness in his voice. “Let’s go again.”
So we do. Within twenty minutes, I’m drenched in sweat from head to toe, and I’m pretty sure I’ve never been more sore in my entire life. Okay, that’s a lie. Having the shit kicked out of you by your father is worse, but from an actual workout? Yup. Boxing definitely takes the cake.
“Here.” Jagger tosses me a water bottle, and I manage to catch it in spite of my gloves. Talk about a miracle. As I take asip, my chest heaves from exertion. Seriously, I am so freaking tired.
Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I twist on the cap and set it at the edge of the room. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” He kisses me, then smacks my ass. “All right, now, let’s go to the mat.”
My eyes bulge. “Are you serious?”
“What? You think we’re done?” he challenges.
With a groan, I limp over to the mat and drop onto it like a heavy sack of potatoes, spreading out like a corpse. “How’s this?”
His low chuckle echoes through the room. “I mean, personally, I like a little more fire in my opponents, but…”
Ripping off my gloves, I blindly throw them at him, one after the other.
“That’s better.” The same low chuckle greets me as he sits on the mat. I’m not sure how it happens, maybe it’s the way his amusement fades, but the air shifts into something more somber, but it’s light, too. Not relief, per se. I don’t know. I can’t put my finger on it. It’s not bad, though. Simply…hesitant?
Still on my back, I glance over at him, finding his eyes on me. “What is it?” I ask.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
Resting his elbow on his bent knee, he scratches the edge of his jaw, lost in thought. “For not pushing me to tell you what happened.”
My chest swells with something I’d rather not name. “It’s your business,” I remind him.
“I know. And with anyone else, I’d be happy with that, but…”
My body might feel like it was hit by a truck, but I force myself to sit anyway and scoot beside him. “But what?” I prod.
“But I’m kind of thinking…” He nudges his knee against mine. “I might want to make it your business.”
My lips curve up toward the ceiling, and I fight the urge to beam at him like a little kid who just received a gold star in class.
“There’s a banquet,” he continues. “It’s going to be a shitty, over-the-top event with every ass-kissing associate my dad connects with on a yearly basis, but, uh, I’m forced to go, and I’m curious if…” He lifts his hand and tucks my sweaty hair behind my ear. His gaze softens. “I want you to go with me.”
“What?”
“I want you to come,” he repeats.
“You want me to come to your father’s banquet?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” I ask. “It’s not that I don’t want to go, it’s just…are you sure?”
“I want you there because you make shit easier, remember? And if there’s anything I know about being around my dad, it’s that he’s very good at making shit hard.”
I look down at my hands, twisting them in my lap. Is it weird that I’m kind of flattered? And confused. So freaking confused. Why would Jagger want me there? In a room full of people I have nothing in common with. Hell, I’ve probably served most of them coffee, but I doubt any would recognize me. Not if I go as Jagger’s plus-one. Am I really attending a fancy banquet as Jagger’s plus-one? And if I do, what will the infamous Titas Harden do when he sees me on his oldest son’s arm? I bet the guy will have a heart attack despite being a bajillionaire marathon runner who spends half his money on alternative medicine and fancy physical trainers in hopes of helping him become immortal. Well, if the rumors are true, anyway.
“What are you thinking, Vi?” Jagger prods, proving I’ve been lost in my own head for a beat too long.
“It’s just…” My nose scrunches. “From what I’ve heard, your dad’s kind of a pretentious asshole, and…”
