Page 151 of Rebel Hawke

Which is why my knee had been going non-stop since we got picked up at the condo. Moving more rapidly the closer we got to this place, where his entire career will be decided in one night.

Maybe I should ask him again.

I’ve bitten my tongue. Done my best to justbe therefor him in whatever way he’s needed me. I haven’t pushed or pried. Merely offered my support whenever he’d take it. But it became very clear that Atlas isn’t used to having anyone in his personal space pre-fight.

He’s shut down.

There but not really.

Blocking out everything except whatever rattles around his own head—his internal preparations.

By the time I’ve gotten home from the studio the last few days, he’s already checked out mentally. Resting and vegging. But I can tell it’s only physically. Mentally, he’s running miles, lost in his own head, somewhere I can’t find him.

And other than offering mypersonalstyle of relaxation, there isn’t anything else I can do unless I’m ready for a potential fight with him when he should be focusing on his fight with the man we’re about to see inside.

I can’t do that.

Pulling my lip under my teeth to keep the words from falling out, I watch the driver come around to the back and open my door, offering me his hand. Accepting his proffered help, I step out onto the curb in the moon-shaped driveway under the awning.

Atlas climbs out behind me, his hand instantly settling on the small of my back. The warmth permeates through my shirt andheats my skin, washing away some of the unease. So does seeing a completely empty walkway in front of us.

Thank God we arrived early enough that there isn’t a gaggle of reporters or fans waiting outside.

It’s just a matter of time, though.

With the hotel still not officially open until tomorrow, the only people who will be here tonight are the employees getting it ready and the few reporters invited for the weigh-in and press conference.

The man at my back may be used to being swarmed and under the spotlight, but I would rather stay in the background—for as long as that’s humanly possible. Which likely isn’t long, being with a man like Atlas, who is constantly under a microscope and fodder for the tabloids.

Atlas takes my hand and squeezes it gently as he leads me toward the front doors with firm pressure on my lower back.

A man dressed in an immaculate black suit holds one glass panel open for us, sweeping his arm wide with a genuine smile. “Welcome, Mr. Hawke. Good luck tomorrow night.”

Luck.

If this is left to luck, then Gramps and I didn’t do our jobs.

He needs to be ready—one hundred percent.

Atlas inclines his head in recognition of the doorman and steps in, ushering me into a lobby that steals my breath in the best way possible.

“Oh, my God, Atlas.”

I don’t know where to look first.

The massive crystal chandelier that must be at least twenty-feet tall dangling over the center of the vast space.

The check-in desk, with its ornate hand-carved glossy wood and polished brass.

The inlaid Italian marble floors.

The art deco details in every single inch of the space.

It’s all too much to take in at once.

I glance up at Atlas to see him examining everything himself. “Is this really the first time you’ve seen it?”

He rubs the back of his neck with his free hand. “Like this, yes. I was here a few times during construction, but not since anything’s been finished. All I’ve seen are the artist’s renderings.” Eyes wide, he releases a little huff of a laugh. “They really outdid themselves, didn’t they?”

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