Page 25 of Rebel Hawke

He slowly lowers himself onto his ass, his legs crossed in front of him, and shakes his head, motioning over his shoulder with his thumb. “Done with my workout for the day.”

“Oh.”

So, no excuse to tell him to get out of here.

It also means I’ve been sitting here, lost in thought and borderline panicking, for far longer than I thought.

“You know”—he dips his head until his eyes meet mine—“asking for help isn’t a bad thing, Wren.”

I lock gazes with him, staring into the icy-blue waters I could drown in so easily if I let myself fall in. They hold so muchpromise but also that hint of uncertainty and pain I caught in them the other day. I amnotthe only one struggling.

Atlas puts on a brave front, but he’s suffering and can’t hide it under all that ink and attitude.

“Iknow that, Atlas, doyou?”

He recoils slightly as if I’ve slapped him, the humor fading from his face. It takes him a second to recover and get that impenetrable façade back in place, and then he climbs to his feet, brushing off the back of his jeans with his hands. “Just tell me what you want me to do, and I’m yours.”

I’m yours.

God, why do those words sound so good?

Why do I want them to be true?

I barely know Atlas anymore, and he certainly isn’t the kid he was at eight when I left. We’ve both been through things that have changed us immensely. Yet that same feeling lingers that consumed me back then when he kissed me at the “wedding”—desperation for him to press his lips to mine again.

It was my first kiss. From the first boy I ever had a crush on. And now, at nearly thirty, my heart still beats erratically every time he looks at me. After hearing him say he’s mine, it’s almost blasting straight out of my breastbone. And I want him to kiss me.

I want to know what he feels like against me, what he tastes like, if he’s as brutal and unyielding when he kisses as he is in life and the ring.

But now isn’t the time to obsess over things far out of my reach.

There’s enough to worry about.

“I’m trying to get these reformers together, but all the other boxes are in the way. I don’t have enough room. There isn’t anywhere to put them all, though.”

He examines the various piles, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck. “There is. I’ll move them into the gym long enough for us to get the machines up. Then we can empty them out of there, where there is much more workspace.”

“Are you sure Gramps won’t mind?”

Atlas barks out a laugh. “I think your grandfather would let you commit murder over there and wouldn’t give a shit. Plus”—he winks—“I own the place.”

Crap.

I somehow forgot that little tidbit…and now I look like an idiot. “Shit, I’m sorry, Atlas. I didn’t mean to suggest that—”

One of his blond brows lifts. “That your grandfather runs the place with an iron fist?” He grins. “He does, regardless of whose name is on the deed. But seriously, Little Bird, it won’t be a problem.”

But you will be for me.

It’s so obvious now how stupid I was to think that I could come back, that this would ever be easy or okay. That seeing him every day wouldn’t affect me the same way it did two decades ago. “Should you really be doing that? Lifting boxes while you’re training for a title fight?”

He raises his brows. “If lifting a few boxes hurts me, then I shouldn’t be in a goddamn title fight now, should I?”

It’s said as a joke, but there’s a slight edge to his tone that makes me bristle. That man is teetering on the edge of collapse, and it won’t take much to push him over it.

One well-placed blow.

He turns away and stalks back over to the door that’s mostly blocked by the boxes. I climb to my feet and brush off my ass as he disappears into the gym, then returns with something to prop open the path between the spaces.

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