Page 172 of Fighting the Forbidden

“Yours is the tastiest step of the process, so it’s important.” She pours buffalo sauce over the enchiladas, sprinkles more shredded cheese, and drizzles blue cheese dressing over the whole thing.

“It looks good just like that,” I say.

She wiggles her fingers over the top of the dish like she’s the prettiest witch, casting a delicious spell. “But we want the cheese to get all melty, gooey, and bubbly.”

“That does sound better.” The dish has to be heavy, so I grab it before she does. She lowers the oven door and heat blasts over us. “Huh. Who knew the oven actually works?” I slide the pan onto the middle rack.

“I’m as shocked as you are.” She pats the top of the stove like it’s a dog she’s rewarding for sitting on command.

“How long?”

She taps her watch. “I’m setting my timer for fifteen minutes.”

Good. That gives us time to clear up a few things. “Let’s talk.” I wrap my hand around hers and tug her over to the table.

She chooses the chair wedged into a spot between the stacked washer/dryer combo in the corner and a window that looks out onto the parking lot. I grab the empty laundry basket in the middle of the table, set it on the floor, then sit across from her.

She’s so solemn as she rests her elbows on the table and clasps her hands in front of her. “I’m sorry I cut you off earlier.”

I hold up one hand to stop her apology. “I’m sorry.” I reach across the table and rest my hand over hers. “You are so important to me, Molly. Please, don’t doubt that.” I blow out a long breath, trying to arrange my words in the right order. “I didn’t mean to make the decision without talking to you about it. I…I’m not used to asking permission?—”

“You don’t need my permission.” She squeezes my hand and rubs her thumb over my knuckles. “But I wish you’d told me sooner.”

So do I. She’s the first person I should’ve told. But thank fuck she’s willing to listen now. “There’s a cash prize if I make it to the final four. That’s the main reason I said yes. The only reason, really.”

“You don’t want to get a manager to book big fights for you and turn into a professional UFC fighter?”

Is that what I want? “Not really.”

Disappointment slides over her face. Was she hoping for a yes or a no to that question?

“I learned to fight out of necessity,” I explain, without diving into gory details. “I’ve had some formal training here and there?—”

“Griff, I can count on one hand how many fights you’ve lost.”

“Yeah, that’s here. Backwoods New York. Against little punks with more money than motor skills.”

“You’re selling yourself short,” she argues. “You’re disciplined. Quick on your feet. Strategic.”

“You want to be my manager?” I tease.

“No.” She taps my hand. “Go on.”

“I’d like to see what I can do against other skilled fighters.”

“Remy’s not enough of a challenge?”

A huff of exasperation eases out of me. “We’re too aware of each other’s weaknesses. Besides, I hate…he’s my best friend. Even when he has it coming, making him bleed kinda sucks.”

“Aww,” she sighs.

“Don’t tell him I said that.” I turn serious again. “I want the money for our future, Molly. Yours and mine.”

Her lips slowly curve. “What kind of future?”

“Any one you want.” I already know what I want. Her.

She seems to turn that over in her mind. “I’ll have that internship this summer. When I’m done with school, I should be able to find a decent job.”

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