Page 1 of My Little Secret

Chapter 1

SADIE

I’d been waitingto get to Denver for months. Looking forward to it like a teenybopper waiting for a One Direction concert. Because that’s what it was going to be for me. I was going to be within a mile radius of my MMA crush, Hawk Romano.

I figured I’d probably have some sort of sonar system that let me know he was near. A year of using his image as masturbatory fodder probably gave us a certain type of connection. Even if he had no idea that I was alive and probably would have no interest in me anyway, since he was one of MMA’s top five sexiest fighters on every poll ever.

I stepped into a trendy bar down the street from our hotel. It was pure high industrial ceilings and exposed brick, the type of place that couldn’t decide if it was retro or cutting edge modern. The drinks menu came on a piece of reclaimed driftwood or something and featured cacao nibs and jalapeno-watermelon concoctions. Hell yeah.

I sat facing the story-tall display of glittering bottles of liquors you only see in movies. The bartender brought me an exotic mint julep, and I nursed it, contemplating the display, relishing the murmur of conversation around me. Nobody sat on the stools beside me. Maybe the other bar patrons could tell it was a quiet “that lady must be taking herself out on a date” night for me. Or maybe I looked every inch the weary working modern woman that I felt today.

One drink turned into two. By the time I was ordering a third, I felt sufficiently sauced but needed just a little bit more of this tantalizing tonic. I mean, I was gonna spend the next two weeks in Denver. It deserved a celebration. Alone. On a chilly weeknight, where the snow was already starting to coat the streets outside.

I tipped the bartender for the third time when he brought me my drink. As I brought it to my lips, my sip turned into a sharp inhale as I noticed the front doors swing open. I sputtered, trying not to choke, my cheeks instantly igniting. I set the drink down but couldn’t look away.

Maybe my eyes were deceiving me.

Maybe these juleps were psychedelic.

Or maybe that was actually Hawk Romano sauntering into the bar by himself looking approximately a billion times hotter than in any of his TV spots.

I tried not to gawk. I really did. But I couldn’t help it. I was a Hawk Gawker. He moved with the subtle confidence of a world-renowned fighter, a cocky saunter that begged people to say something. Just looking at him, you could tell he would kill a man if he had to.

Enormous biceps flexed in a simple black T-shirt, the short sleeves straining around the muscles. His dark hair was cropped close to his head, and those famous namesake bird tats were just visible on his skull. I’d been studying him long enough to know he didn’t often buzz his hair down so that they showed. This felt like an exotic bird sighting. And this exotic bird was also the subject of my wet dreams.

Hawk eased onto a stool catty-corner from me. Too far away to shout at. I took a perfunctory sip of my drink. He’d come alone. The bartender took his order immediately—of course. I had to crane a bit to keep my line of vision over the heads of the other bar patrons lining the bar. Judging from the looks of that glass, he’d ordered water.

Or maybe a gin and tonic. But two weeks before the big fight, that seemed odd. Unless Hawk didn’t play by the conventional rules.

Hawk’s gaze flicked my way, and I froze, a deer in headlights. I mustered what felt like a smile and then forced my gaze to the shiny wood of the bar. Just play it cool.

But what would that entail? Sitting here, rigid with indecision, until he wandered off and I was left to mourn my cowardice? No. I needed to talk to him. Say something, at least. Introduce myself as a fan. Get an autograph that I’d hide in a vault, away from my parents’ and brother’s prying eyes.

Courage licked through me, probably aided by the gulp of alcohol I’d just taken. Why not just say hi to him and see what happened? Suddenly warm, I tugged my coat off and cursed my lackluster preparation for meeting my celebrity crush. My blonde fly-aways felt like impossible tentacles after the snowmelt dried. I rummaged through my purse—no lipstick, no lip gloss. Nothing but my exhausted face after a work day and a flight to Colorado.

The bartender flitted past, the dark uniform snagging my attention. I raised my hand in a jerking motion and blurted out, “Excuse me!”

He glanced my way while he held the drink nozzle over a glass tumbler, filling it with sprite. “Yeah?”

“I need to…” I licked my lips, glancing back at Hawk. His gaze moved, but—had he been looking this way? My breath caught in my throat. “I want to buy another drink.”

The bartender nodded, popping a cherry into the drink. “One second.”

I measured my breaths while the bartender finished up an order. A moment later he was in front of me, looking unamused.

Leaning forward, I whispered, “I want to buy a drink for Hawk.”

“What?”

“That guy over there.” I nodded his way, describing where he sat. “That’s his name. His fighting name, I mean. I want to buy him a whiskey, neat. Top shelf.”

He nodded, lifting a brow. Maybe that was too much info. I tended to over-talk. “Sure.”

I watched as he prepared the tumbler, my mouth dry. What was I doing buying alcohol for an actively training fighter? When he headed toward Hawk, I gnawed at the inside of my lip. The bartender handed the tumbler off; Hawk sat raptly, squinting a little as he listened, his jawline impossibly square. The bartender jerked his head over his shoulder in my direction. Hawk’s gaze immediately followed it.

And our eyes met.

Fuck!I tried to smile again but couldn’t do it. I downed the rest of my drink, looking anywhere but to my right. Why did I do these things? I knew enough about fighters to know they had entourages of women behind them. A guy like Hawk was no exception. He’d probably take one look at me and return the drink. He didn’t need a tipsy barfly in garish leggings and day-old mascara buying him whiskey.

---