Page 145 of Rebel Hawke

She frowns. “You can’t do that—starve yourself seven days before a title fight.”

A grin pulls at my lips.

“You sound like your grandfather right now.”

Warmth floods her gaze, and she gives me the tiniest smile. “I hope so.”

“I’ll eat. I promise.” I scan her face, scouring for any signs of her still feeling weak or sick to her stomach. “How are you doing? My mom said she stopped by and checked on you.”

She nods. “She did. I’m actually really good.” The smile she gives me reaches deep into my chest and warms it from the inside out. “She made some sort of soup that she swears is your grandmother’s cure for stomach aches and nausea.”

I chuckle at her description. “Penicillin soup?”

If anyone asked, I couldn’t even count the number of times I’ve eaten that over my thirty-plus years on the planet. Everytime I got a sniffle, had tummy trouble, or was just feeling down, a bowl of it always appeared—either on Nana’s table or Mom’s.

The ultimate remedy for anything that ails anyone—according to Nana.

Wren grins. “I was terrified of the name, but it was delicious. I kept it down, and I’ve honestly felt great since then.”

I want to be relieved at that, to take her at her word, but I brush my fingers under her puffy, red eyes and the thin streaks I can still see on her cheeks. “But you’ve been crying, Little Bird.”

She sniffles, her bottom lip trembling, letting her eyes close for a moment, like she’s trying to gather her thoughts or stop herself from crying again. “Sometimes, I’m fine. And then other times…I just…” A heavy sigh fills the air between us. “I can’t believe he’s gone.”

“Me, either.”

And being back in the gym training every day makes that so much worse.

It would be so easy to give in to the pain and loss, to stay here, wrapped up with Wren every day, wallowing in those heavy feelings. But it isn’t what Jenkins would want.

Not for me when he put so much work into training me for this fight.

Not forherwhen she’s just started her business and it’s thriving.

Wren’s fingers curl into my T-shirt, and she stares at the fabric without really focusing on it. “Before you got home, I was thinking about going to his place and cleaning it out…”

She hiccups a little sob.

“You don’t have to worry about that, Wren. We can pay people to do it. We’ll have everything boxed up and put in storage until you’re ready to go through it. There’s nothing in there that can’t wait.”

Other than going into his place to grab a few things for the funeral, we’ve stayed away. Mostly because the thought of being there, surrounded by everything he owned in the world, made both of us want to break down even harder.

Neither of us was up for it then—nor do I think we could handle it now.

Her wet eyes flick up to meet mine. “You don’t know that. What if—”

“I knew your grandfather, Little Bird. He was a simple man. My guess is he didn’t even have a will. You’re his only living relative, so whatever’s in there belongs to you. There’s nothing that can’t wait until after the opening and fight and after the wedding, when life hopefully calms down.”

Another lie.

This one almost more painful than the last.

Things are not going to calm down.

A cataclysmic explosion will go off when everybody realizes what Coen’s done, the position he’s put me in, and what I’ve done to protect him.

I tighten my grip on her, wishing the bastard would call me back so I could tear him a new fucking asshole and find out what the fuck is going on with him that he would place a bet like that—let aloneagainstme.

But his phone keeps going to voicemail.

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