Page 6 of Rebel Hawke

The faint smell of the gym next door permeates thealmost-empty space, but swept wood floors and the new wall of mirrors along the left side draw a smile on my face for the first time in months.

It’s perfect.

When Gramps said he could get it set up to be my new studio, I thought he was joking. This place has always been a dump, no matter what was here over the years. But by simply cleaning a little and installing that one simple thing, somehow, he has started to pull it off.

Probably with the help of the Hawkes.

Their loud voices carry over from the other side of the building, slipping through the closed connecting door—which I’m apparently going to have to ask Gramps to seal better.

And not just to keep out the noise and smell.

To keep the man who trains next door away for as long as possible, at least until I can gather my wits enough to face him.

I reach into my purse and pull out a notepad and pen to start jotting down a to-do list and to draw a quick sketch of the layout for all the machines. The ten reformers I’ve already ordered can definitely fit, in two rows, one on either side of the space.

Maybe even twelve…

The longer I’m here, the easier it becomes to imagine what this could be with a little work. Clean the windows. Repaint. Polish these floors. Grab a little greenery and other décor.

Maybe it won’t be so bad…

It might be wishful thinking on my part, but I’m able to block out the voices from next door and concentrate on the future—not the sounds of my past—until all that background noise starts to trail off.

The door swings open behind me, and I freeze, my pen poised over my growing list as my heart lodges in my throat.

Shit.

I hold my breath as someone approaches with heavy, uneven footsteps. “Wren, you made it.”

Oh, thank God.

Air rushes from my lungs, and I spin toward Gramps, tears returning to my eyes as soon as they land on him for the first time in almost two years. He hobbles over to me, his limp more pronounced than it was the last time I saw him, the lines and wrinkles on his face deeper.

He pulls me into a hug, his grip still strong and comforting despite his growing frailty. “Did you see what I got set up for you?”

My gaze drifts toward the Pilates Cadillac reformer already waiting in the back corner, and I pull out of his hold. “I did. Thank you.”

It looks so lonely in here right now, surrounded by vast emptiness and stale, faintly sweaty air, but it won’t be this way for long. Not with what I have planned. Soon, I’ll have new clients and classes running daily, and I can start rebuilding my life in New Orleans.

Gramps loops his arm through mine and walks us over to the beautiful machine. “I’ve already gotten calls from two or three people about making other deliveries this week. Ten reformers, chairs…” He waves his hand absently. “A bunch of other crap I don’t understand.”

I laugh and press a kiss to his rough, stubbly cheek. “I know you think Pilates is bullshit, Gramps, but I’m telling you, you should do it. It would help loosen up these old joints of yours.”

He scowls. “You know I’m not into your hippie shit.”

Grinning, I squeeze his arm. “It isn’t hippie, Gramps. Joseph Pilates was a German physical trainer, and he invented the method in the early 1900s.”

“Whatever.” He flicks his free hand dismissively. “I’ll stick to bashing people’s faces in with my fists.”

I snort. “You would.”

If his body allowed him, Gramps wouldstillbe in the ring himself instead of simply training people. Jimmy Jenkins didn’t put down his own gloves easily—or so I heard as a kid—and he’ll likely spend every waking moment of his remaining life in that gym with Atlas and his other fighters. Unable to tear himself away from the violence and thrill that the ring brings him.

Something I’ve never really understood.

I glance toward the closed door and clear my throat. “Is that what was going on in there? Someone bashing in someone else’s face? It sure sounded like it…”

His bushy white eyebrows wing up. “You should have come over and said, ‘Hello,’ if you’ve been here long enough to have heard that. Kennedy, Astrid, Gabe, and Savage were all here to watch Atlas’ spar with Bishop this morning.”

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