Page 24 of Rebel Hawke

Why did I think this would be quick and easy?

It’s the same question I’ve asked a dozen times in the past few days, and the same answers always seem to come.

Because I’m deluding myself.

And I need it to be.

I don’t have the time or money for this not to work. If I can’t get the studio open and running—and actually turn a profit within a month, maybe two—I’m going to be in big trouble.

Every single dollar I’ve managed to save over the last ten years has gone into my move and setting up this place. Every credit card is maxed out on top of that. If Gramps’ apartment complex wasn’t for seniors only, I would be crashing on his couch as long as I could to save both of us money. As it stands, my shitty one-bedroom apartment is at least somewhere to lay my head at night. It’s better than nothing, but it isn’t ideal by any means.

So that means this daunting task has to be ready in six days, and I have to figure out how the hell I’m going to get clients in here, or I’ll have a beautiful studio and equipment but no one to use it.

And I’ll end up in bankruptcy court.

That vise that constantly threatens to cut off my airways anytime I let anxiety take control tightens around my chestagain, and I slam my fists against the floor as I sit between rows of boxes. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—”

“Everything okay?”

I jerk upright and peek over the box to my left at Atlas standing over it, concern furrowing his brow. “Shit, you scared the crap out of me. I didn’t even hear you come in.”

He smirks. “Float like a butterfly…”

A laugh bubbles up my throat. “Oh, and I already know how you sting.”

His brows wing up. “Really?”

Shit.

Way to go, Wren.

I might as well have just explicitlyadmittedI’ve been internet stalking him and following his career. Clearing my throat, I avert my gaze and pretend to scan the boxes before peeking up at him again. “Uh, yeah. I’ve caught a few of your fights on TV.”

He leans a shoulder against a stack of boxes next to him that thankfully doesn’t topple with his weight pressed against it. “Have you now?”

Shiiiiiiit.

Underlying that playful tone is the smug realization of the thing I so desperately wanted to hide—that even though I may have left New Orleans such a long time ago, I definitely never left Atlas behind.

He has occupied my dreams and remained in my heart, despite my best efforts to vanquish him.

I refocus on the instructions laid out on the floor in front of me rather than meet his penetrating gaze that heats my skin. “This should be easy. Simply clicking a few pieces together, and I worked with these machines all the time at the old studio—”

“Wren…” He doesn’t say anything else, just waits until I lift my gaze to meet his again, a smug smirk curling his lips. “You were watching my fights?”

I swallow thickly and nod because, at this point, denying it would only make thingsmoreawkward. “I couldn’t be there to support you, but…”

He squats in front of me, the movement sending a rush of air floating across the tight space between us that carries that mix of clean shower and the gym that will always cling to him. “That’s all it was, huh? Trying to support me?”

“Yep!”

I nod, hating how fast that answer came and how ridiculous it sounded. Thankfully, he doesn’t press any further. He merely continues to grin before his gaze drops to what’s in front of me.

“It looks like you could use some help.”

You have no fucking idea.

I wanted so badly to do this quickly and on my own, to not have to rely on the Hawkes to make it happen. But looking around, that would be impossible. Plus, not accepting help would make me the assholeandget me nowhere. “Yeah, it’s a lot to do, but don’t you need to be in the gym?”

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