Page 8 of Rebel Hawke

VeryHawke.

They’ve always been in another league, on a completely different level from how I grew up, handed and given the best of everything and afforded opportunities I never could have dreamed of. The Hawke Hotel will be no exception, and it will undoubtedly make them billions like the clubs, restaurants, and all their other businesses already do.

Once, I was brought into their fold, treated like one of them while under Gramps’ wings, but once I was snatched away, I knew there would be no coming back without it being incredibly painful.

Gramps nods. “Been building it for a while now. Opening night is scheduled for three months.” He motions back toward the gym. “Atlas is supposed to have a title fight that night.”

“Really?”

That must be a relatively new development, because I somehow didn’t see it during the time I’ve been packing and planning this move.

He nods, his brow furrowing in a way that makes my gut tighten.

“Is he…ready for it?”

Gramps’ shoulders stiffen.

Shit, I know that look.

Something is off—wrong—and it’s bothering him more than he’s willing to let on. Maybe related to the shooting a few months back.Thatnews was impossible to miss, the way the story was plastered all over the newspapers and gossip sites across the Gulf Coast.

He clears his throat and gives me a tight smile. “Hopefully, he will be.”

“Isn’t that your job?”

Sadness flashes across his pale green gaze. “There’s only so much I can do, Birdie. You, of all people, should understand that sometimes, physically, people just aren’t capable of doing what they may want to in their head.”

His words make tears prick in my eyes again, and I reach out and throw my arms around him, hugging him tightly. “I’m so happy to be home.”

He squeezes me back. “I’m happy to have you here, Wren, but you can’t avoid the Hawkes forever. You know that, right?”

Goddamn him for knowing exactly what’s going on in my head.

I knew what I was getting myself into when I decided to come back to New Orleans.

Take the good with the bad.

The Hawkes may have been some of my closest playmates as a child, but a lot has changed. Things that won’t be easy to face, but I’ve spent years preparing myself for peoples’ reactions and learning to brush them off. I just have to do the same with my old friends.

Gramps releases me, then limps back toward the door. “I need to go take care of some stuff. You staying or leaving?”

I gaze longingly at the Cadillac. “I think I’m going to stay, stretch out a bit. All that moving boxes and driving…”

“All right, sweetheart.” He turns the knob and tugs open the door separating the spaces. “I will leave the key when I take off so you can lock up when you’re done. You’ll be back tomorrow?”

“Of course.” I grin at him and scan the space, bringing up that vision that had formed in my head earlier. “I have to start getting everything set up.”

He nods. “I’ll see you then.”

The door clicks shut behind him, and I kick off my shoes and bend over, trying to stretch a little before I move into a full-on flow on the reformer.

Tight muscles scream in protest after not doing a workout for a full week, and I arch and raise onto my tiptoes to release my lower back. A groan falls from my lips as it finally does, and I lower my heels, ass in the air, as the door opens behind me again.

I freeze, and the air around me crackles with an energy that doesn’t belong to Gramps. Even after so long, I recognize it instantly.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Slowly, I rise to my full height, keeping my back to the new visitor to my future studio space—who needs absolutely no introduction. He has lived rent-free in my head for so long, him entering the room almost feels like one of my fantasies coming to life.

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