Strong and Steady Read online

  It had been almost twenty years since I’d dated. Hell, Jack and I had barely dated. We went from doing the whole college meet and hook-up thing to being surprise parents all in one year.

  Regardless of my personal failings, I didn’t need to insult Gray, to think he’d do something awful just because it happened. I was such an idiot!

  “Oh shit,” I whispered. I shifted in my chair to face away from him. Tears burned the back of my eyes as the extent of my words sank in. He’d probably roll his eyes at how weird I was, consider me a psycho chick and leave. He could find a woman who offered a large amount of cleavage and a mile of exposed thigh who could have a normal conversation and wouldn’t think twice about accepting a drink from him.

  “Hey. Hey, now,” Gray murmured, his tone almost soothing. “A beautiful woman like you is smart to have that rule.” I felt his fingers on my back, a gentle touch, and I startled.

  I covered my face with my hand, willing him to go away. “I’m a little embarrassed over here,” I muttered. “I think my foot's still stuck in my mouth.”

  A group of men, talking loud enough to indicate they’d had plenty to drink, came around the corner. I turned my head away even more, hoping none of them would notice me.

  I heard Gray’s chair scrape on the concrete floor. “Hey, guys, find somewhere else to hang,” he said as he stood in front of me, his voice calm yet powerful. The men’s voices ceased immediately, and I had to turn and see what was going on. Gray stood and faced the group, hands on hips, shielding me from them. I couldn’t see his face, but the men didn’t argue, only stared at him for a moment and retreated with a, “Sure, dude. It's cool.”

  I was able to take a brief moment and glance at Gray's butt, his broad shoulders, his entire back half I hadn’t been able to observe before. It was just as fine as his front.

  Gray turned, glanced down at me, then pulled the chair back into place, although this time when he sat, he was several inches closer.

  “Emory.” His voice made my name sound silky smooth.

  I met his eyes. His head was cocked slightly to the side as if he were trying to read me. His dark eyes looked concerned yet didn’t lack in intensity.

  “I’m sorry,” I admitted quickly, licking my lips which had suddenly become dry. “I'm such an idiot. I told you I don’t know how to do this.” My words were thick with emotion and extreme mortification.

  “You were doing just fine.” He picked up the glass of water, took a big sip to prove he had no devious plans, then offered it to me. “Take the glass, Emory. It’s safe. I’m safe. I would never hurt you. I promise. But don't just take my word for it, ask Paul. Text him.”

  “He gave me the thumbs-up sign, so I have to assume you’re not a dangerous criminal,” I replied.

  “Dangerous, maybe, but not to you. Never with you. Text him later then, after the party. I want you to, so you aren’t afraid of me.”

  Somehow, I knew he wasn’t as dangerous as he looked—tattoos, close cropped hair, scars. I was just naturally and ridiculously wary. If I were ever going to come out of my shell as Christy consistently prodded me about, I needed to start now. Gray wasn’t looking for something. Someone. He’d said as much. I’d seen him being friendly with Paul. He was just being friendly with me. I reached out and took the glass, our fingers brushing. The spark I felt at the slight touch had my eyes darting up to see if he felt it, too. For a brief moment, we both held the glass, the world around me focused solely on the smallest of connection.

  “I’m not scared of you,” I told him, just before taking a sip of the cold water.

  He cocked his brow and looked at me skeptically.

  “Really, I’m not. Not scared, but you make me… nervous.” My fingers fidgeted, and I held my hand up to show him. “See?”

  His look changed to one of surprise. “Nervous? Of me? Is it my boy-next-door good looks?” He knew he was intimidating and was mocking himself.

  “Nervous enough to accuse you of Rufi-ing my drink.”

  His broad smile had me smiling, too. How did he put me at ease when I should instead feel ridiculously embarrassed? “Can I have a chance to start over like you did?”

  He nodded and crossed his blunt fingers over his chest. “Seems fair. We both get a redo.”

  I took a deep breath, looked him straight in the eye and smiled. “Thank you, Gray, for the water.” I took a cold and refreshing sip. Stalled. He watched as I swallowed.

  He cleared his throat. “You’re welcome.”

  “How did you know I wasn’t drinking? Liquor, I mean.”

  “The first time I saw you—I got here late because of a meeting—you were talking with the bartender. Pretty as a picture and making the guy smile. He nodded at something you said and made you a gin and tonic look-alike.”

  That had been ten minutes or more before he came over and rescued me. Gray had been watching me longer than I’d thought. How had I missed seeing him earlier? He was impossible to miss; I responded to him in a way I'd never experienced before. It was almost visceral. Because of this... attraction, I didn’t know how to feel about that. Flattered?

  “I had a glass of wine when I arrived, and I have to drive home,” I explained. “I’m somewhat of a lightweight, so I didn’t need any more. If I hold a glass of water, that really looks like just water, people ask me if I’m an alcoholic or they look at my stomach and wonder if I’m pregnant.”

  His jaw clenched. “I stopped drinking when I was in training and never took it back up, but I don’t have people questioning me like that. Shitty double standard.”

  I shrugged because there was nothing to add. It was a shitty double standard, but I was pleased to see he wasn’t happy about it. “Besides, if I drink too much at night, it’s hard to work out first thing in the morning.”

  “You run?”

  I rolled my eyes at the idea of running. As if. “Only if being chased.”

  His eyes narrowed at the dark humor, clearly not amused. “The idea of you being followed is not funny.”

  “Yeah, sorry,” I said, chagrined. Wow, he was protective, too. “No. I practice yoga.”

  Interest lit his face. “Yoga? Really?”

  I was waiting for him to say something about how flexible I was, but he didn’t.

  “Yin? Vinyasa? Hot yoga?” he asked.

  My mouth fell open, a little stunned he knew the various types. “You do yoga?”

  He laughed. “I can’t even touch my toes, but we have classes at my gym. You’re a morning person then.”

  “I like to see the sun rise.” The way the sky turned from black to gray to pink and then blue, how the top of the mountains caught the first rays. The way the city was still asleep.

  “I can understand that. I run at six almost every morning. I like the quiet.” Was that why he drove those guys off—because they were too loud? Could this guy be an introvert like me?

  Something settled inside me. He knew. He liked the quiet.

  “You… you do understand then,” I replied, my voice soft. I was pleased, thrilled even and a little spurt of pleasure coursed through me.

  The corner of his mouth turned up, but he didn’t say anything, only kept looking at me. Now, when his eyes held mine, I wasn’t nervous, I was… intrigued.

  “I play flag football on Sundays through a rec league, just for fun. It’s not overly competitive, especially since there are a bunch of us older guys out there.”

  Older guys? He couldn’t be much older than me. Maybe forty or so. I doubted he had trouble keeping up with anyone younger, especially if he was a trainer. He looked more than fit to hold his own at whatever he wanted to accomplish. I just didn’t expect a cowboy to play flag football. But that was pretty judgmental, especially when I hated it when people made snap decisions about me. Like Bob/Bill and me being a candy striper.

  “The game is at eleven,” he continued. “I’d like it if you came.”

  My mouth fell open, and I didn’t know what to say. He was asking me ou
t? He held up a hand. “Don’t panic—it’s not a date.”

  My heart fluttered at the invitation nonetheless. I arched a brow. “Really? Is this how you ask all the girls out?”

  “Girls? Like the ones inside?”

  I could only nod.

  He leaned forward, eyed me closely. “I want you… to come to my game. Not as a date because I imagine if I asked you out right now, you might bolt. As I said, I don’t want you scared of me.”

  When I opened my mouth once again to speak, he put a finger over my lips. The touch was warm and gentle, and I could do nothing more than feel the tingle of it all the way to my toes… and other places.

  “Or nervous. Trust me, Emory, when I ask you out, you’ll know.”

  He said when, not if.

  “I just want to see you again.” He lowered his hand.

  “I thought you weren't trying to pick me up,” I argued.

  “This—” He waggled a finger between us. “—is different. This isn't a pick up. Those girls, those are pick-ups. You…” He let the rest of the sentence drop. While I was still processing as to why, he continued. “Don’t think of it as a date but as coincidence, both of us being at Antelope Park at the same time.”

  I eyed him, doubting his sincerity. “You really—”

  He cut me off with one simple word. “Yes.”

  Those butterflies, bees, no, hornets were back in my stomach. He wanted me to show up—otherwise, he wouldn’t have offered. He was leaving the decision to do so completely up to me, clearly aware of how nervous I was. Once again, he was setting me at ease in the hopes I’d show up. I had until Sunday morning to decide what I wanted to do. From the ridiculously brief time he knew me, he’d learned I had to make a weighted, safe choice.

  While we’d been talking, the sun had set completely. Besides little white lights strung along the railing, we were illuminated from the bar. Gray’s face was in harsh contrast, his gaze darker and more intent. He looked like a guy you wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley, but I felt… safe with him. I hadn’t had to pretend or fake a conversation, it just happened, even sticking my foot in my mouth. He’d set me at ease, and it turned out we had a lot in common. I also found him hot as hell.

  “No need to be nervous then,” I replied, poking fun at myself.

  “Nope.” He smiled warmly, easily.

  His gaze dipped to my mouth, and I had to wonder if he wanted to kiss me. I kind of wanted to kiss him, too. My heart raced at the idea. I hadn't had any interest in kissing a guy in a long time, and I had to admit it was a little scary. Fast and scary. Not Gray himself. He seemed patient and comfortable. I didn't dare tell him that. No guy wanted to be thought of as comfortable.

  “I… I should get going. It was nice meeting you, Gray, but yoga’s at six.”

  I stood although the legs of my chair didn’t scrape against the concrete. He stood as well, and I had to tilt my head back to look at him.

  “I don’t want you walking to your car by yourself, so let me escort you.”

  “Thank you. I would take you up on the offer, truly, but I valeted it.”

  Working in the ER gave me a front row seat to all of the bad stuff that happened in Brant Valley.

  He laughed easily. “Of course, you did.”

  I looked up at him through my lashes and realized he wasn’t poking fun, but he was definitely amused by me.

  “Good night,” I murmured, walking past him.

  His hand on my bare arm had me pausing, my breath catching. The touch was gentle, his skin warm and rough with callouses, yet it was like a shock to the system. “I hope to see you on Sunday, Emory.”

  His voice was quiet, almost intimate.

  I gave a little nod but didn’t look up at him, my skin where he touched tingled all the way to my car.

  3

  GRAY

  * * *

  I fucked up. That’s all I could think about as I pushed hard through a five-mile run and began my usual thirty-minute stint with a jump rope. Click. Click. Click. The sound of the plastic striking the gym mat was almost lulling, and I fell into my groove, my muscles warm from the run.

  Breathe in, breathe out.

  Click. Click. Click.

  There were a few early-morning guys getting their workout in, but it was Saturday, so most of us were here to get in and get out and not interested in talking. This suited me fine. My first client was at ten, but right now, I just went through the paces. Besides, the guys knew I was always there for them—it was my gym after all—but a guy’s workout time was sacrosanct, and everyone knew not to fuck with me during mine.

  The cleaning crew had come through overnight, and the strong scent of pine cleaner and bleach lingered. The speakers pumped out a techno beat. I hated lyrics blasting while I worked out, the voices distracting me, so I kept a playlist where the steady rhythm helped keep the mood amped. As owner, I ran the gym my way. Since my name in the industry preceded me, no one was going to question me or how I did things. And if they did, well, they could go somewhere else.

  The gym had been open a few years, and I had my regulars, plus my solid core of employees, which suited me just fine. I liked things calm. Consistent. The only fights I wanted to be involved in these days were in the ring, and usually it wasn’t me doing the fighting. Not anymore. I was done with that life now. I was just the trainer behind the ropes. Yeah, right. There was no fucking way I could ever be just a trainer behind the ropes. No one would let me. My agent, the sponsors, all of them wanted a piece of The Outlaw. And me? I just wanted… quiet. Just as Emory had said.

  With my usual early-morning opener at the front desk handling the day-to-day running of the place, I didn’t have any distractions. I gave a little chin nod to a guy heading to the locker room, not breaking my rhythm with the rope, then gave myself over to my thoughts, my mind veering directly to how much of an idiot I'd been the night before. My dinner meeting with my fighter, Reed, and the PR guys had gone long, so when I finally pulled myself free, I floored it across town to the engagement party. The way Paul looked at his fiancée, Christy, had been worth the hustle, but watching a woman charm the bartender had made my night.

  I’d been standing with two guys questioning me about the next big fight when I saw her. It was as if I’d been round-kicked to the head, and I couldn’t look away. She had brown hair, wavy and long, pulled back from her face in some magical way women tamed it. But hers didn’t look all that tame. Controlled, perhaps. Barely. As if a strong wind or a man’s hands running over the silky strands would set it all free. Her eyes had been dark but sparkling with mischief. Her full lips had been coated with something clear and shiny. Very kissable. The bartender had laughed at something she'd said. It hadn't been flirting. She hadn't touched him, hadn't leaned in to work her feminine wiles. Hadn't even batted her eyelashes. She just had a way about her I wanted focused squarely on me—not the damn guy behind the bar. When he handed her a glass of water he'd disguised as a gin and tonic, I was intrigued. And that was saying something because I was intrigued with jack shit these days.

  Her dress had been yellow with no sleeves, so her tanned, toned arms were exposed. But that was all she'd exposed because the neckline was high, like a T-shirt. There wasn’t a hint of cleavage, although the trim style showed off her obvious curves and narrow waist. And fuck, she had just the right amount of curves in all the right places. I was a man, what the hell did I know about dresses, but it reminded me of something a movie star would have worn in one of those old black and white movies. The dress had looked vintage, with a full skirt that hid her hips and her legs down to her knees. Strappy sandals with a reasonable heel made her look… feminine. Not like the over-the-top, in-your-face, fuck-me-now women in the bar area who had eyed me as if I were a piece of meat or the MMA champ they knew me to be. They wanted me to take them to the restroom, lock the door and fuck their brains out. No names, no connection. Just a quick lay with the champ.

  I was done with that shit.

&nbs
p; But this woman, this woman, Emory, she was soft and lush. Mysterious. Intriguing.

  I’d been pulled into another conversation about fighting and been forced to look away from her. I was able to get my sights on her again when I finally made my way over to Paul. She’d gotten cornered, talking to some asshole who’d been standing too close with his hand on her arm. From across the room, I had no idea what they spoke of, but it was obvious she hadn't been interested, especially when she’d moved out of his grasp. I'd watched the asshole closely; he definitely wasn’t her date. If he was, he sure as hell wasn’t getting lucky. Her gaze had kept darting out the large windows, and she took frequent deep breaths as if she’d been ready to flee or knee him in the balls. Something he'd said made her frown, a little crease forming in her smooth brow, and I’d been pissed. She shouldn’t be doing anything but smiling and not with that fucker.

  If what he'd said offended her, I had no clue why she didn’t just toss her drink in his face and walk off. Paul must have noticed as well, told me the guy was his cousin—his very handsy dumb-as-rocks cousin—and asked me to step in and rescue her. Paul couldn’t tear himself away from the group we’d been with, but I didn’t mind, not in the least. He'd said the woman was a friend of Christy’s and was too nice to give an asshole—every family had an asshole cousin—much of a brush-off. Paul had no idea I’d been watching her, but it fucking made my night that he knew her and asked for my help. It was the perfect excuse to get her to turn that brilliant smile on me without coming across as another guy who tried to pick her up. The way she looked, the way she just glowed, the men would be hounding her.

  As I'd made my way closer, I'd been able to see she wasn’t the most beautiful woman in the room. There were ladies in their twenties I’d passed who put their best assets to full advantage, trying to score. It wasn’t just the men trolling. The bar had been an equal-opportunity meat market. Cleavage, exposed thigh, stiletto heels, pouty red lips were on full display. Youth was also on their side, but youth lacked experience. Life. This mystery woman was definitely in her thirties, probably closer to forty. She wore her age well, as if she knew who she was, what she wanted from life, and told everyone else to fuck off. Except for Mr. Asshole. He’d made her frown. As I made my way across the room, the guy’s hand had moved to her waist, and I’d seen red. I'd wanted to storm over there and rip the man’s arm off for touching her. She'd stepped back, and I knew she wasn’t interested.