Page 18 of Rebel Hawke

He saw his old friend in his sons and daughters and now their children.

And that’s the sole reason the Hawkes are down here in the 7thWard. Getting my typical clientele to come to this part of town is going to be difficult but not impossible.

I’m good at what I do, and all it takes is for the right people to mention it to their friends, and I’ll have full classes and a booked schedule for private lessons.

As the glass clears and I wipe away more and more of the grime from the sill, the early morning sunlight filtering in, my hopes start to lift that maybe my little studio can actually make it.

Dear God, please let this work.

The big man upstairs hasn’t always been good to me, but He came through when it mattered the most, so I can only hope He still has more good things coming my way.

Tears start to sting my eyes as I think about what I’ll be able to do for Gramps if this place really takes off, and I swipe one final time at the grime on the window and freeze with my hand pressed against the glass as a dark-green Range Rover pulls up in front of the gym with Atlas behind the wheel.

He parks and climbs from it with an easy grace that makes my knees wobble.

God, why does he have to be so hot?

Sunglasses slid over his eyes, blond hair spiked up, lips pressed together in a firm line, looking determined and ready for whatever awaits him inside. He slams his door, walks to the trunk, pops it, and pulls out a bag, throwing it over his right shoulder casually.

He slams the trunk closed, then rolls his left shoulder, wincing as he does.

Shit.

I could tell something was off when we talked yesterday and I asked him about the upcoming match, but he definitely shouldn’t be in that much pain just loosening it up.

It’s been months since the shooting. He had to have gone through physical therapy and all sorts of doctor-recommended treatments to get cleared to fight.

My gut churns, worry eating away at it for him as he faces the building and approaches. Even with the sunglasses covering his eyes, I can tell when they find me. His steps falter slightly, and the corner of his mouth tips up into a lopsided grin that makes something dangerous flutter in my chest.

Atlas Hawke is a big no-go.

The man is a boxing god who has women throwing themselves at him at every fight and every public appearance—and probably anywhere else he steps foot.

Don’t let your fantasies skew your sense of reality, Wren.

I swallow that thought, then avert my gaze and step back from the window, making my way to the small office and storage area tucked at the back of the studio so I can throw away the damp paper towels and try to regain a bit of composure.

Before I can even toss them into the garbage, the door separating the gym from the studio opens, the sound of the faintly squeaky hinge cutting through the otherwise silent air.

I freeze and squeeze my eyes closed.

Maybe I can hide in here and he won’t find me.

His heavy, sure footsteps echo across the wood, and I sense the moment he hits the doorframe, my entire body coming alive as my hair stands on end and heat floods my cheeks. “Good morning, Wren.”

The way he says my name sends a little shiver through me.

It’s still there—that same swagger and confidence.

Even as a child, he exuded that energy, and he always knew how to get me to smile. He always lifted me up and took my mind off the things in life I couldn’t control.

He was an incredible best friend back then, always checking to make sure I was okay, always protecting me from anyone and anything, whenever I needed it…until he couldn’t anymore. So, I have to get over whatever this is, or I’m going to risk losing that friendship I so desperately want back.

Swallowing my pride, I turn and face him, forcing a smile. “Good morning.”

He scans the small office—the old desk Gramps put in here for me, the stack of cleaning supplies on it, the wall of still-empty shelves that will soon hold everything I need to run the studio. “Well, isn’t it cozy back here?”

I fight a grin. “It doesn’t have to be big to make an impression, right?”

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