Page 50 of Regards, Mia

Leading up to Fight Night, I split my hours between guarding Mia and training Thatcher.

Our relationship moved solidly into the professional category. No more dinners or sleepovers, and our time together was often spent driving across town to work or the gym. Mia attended some self-defense classes, which she was obviously not in need of, and I balanced my books from her kitchen table using my laptop.

We are surprisingly alike, in that we are devoted to our jobs, and neither one of us has much in the way of a social life. Also, neither one of us owns a television.

There have been no more threats on Mia’s life through email, the website, or in letter form, but that doesn’t mean I feel comfortable leaving her alone.

The day of the fight, Cassandra is in town to help on the media end, and I am so busy, I’ve had to call in reinforcements. Since George owes me big time, I’ve subcontracted him to keep an eye on Mia while I focus on getting Out of the Box ready for its premier Fight Night.

George might only be sixteen, but he is smart and strong. He hooked up her security without a glitch. I trust him to keep her safe.

As the first fight of the evening begins, I spot Mia at a VIP table with her book club friends. George hovers nearby, ready to take action if anyone gets too close to her.

She looks so gorgeous; I have to drag my gaze away from her. Taking a page out of my book, Mia is wearing all black. Her platinum blonde hair is scraped back from her face in a tight ponytail, and her eyes are made up with dark eyeliner. She looks badass. Like she belongs in a rock video.

Cassandra approaches me, taking my arm to steer me out of the shadows. “You should say hello to the guests,” she says.

I roll my eyes, and she stabs me in the ribs with a sharp elbow.

“I’m no good at public relations,” I say. “That’s your job.”

She tugs me onto the main floor. “It won’t kill you to say thank you for coming. Try it out,” she urges.

“Thank you for coming,” I tell a table of guests who have purchased an eight-person VIP table. The cost of the table will fund an entire month of Champion’s Corner, so my appreciation sounds sincere.

Cassandra smiles encouragingly at me. “Very nice,” she says in her silky voice. “Next time, try smiling.”

We make our way to several more tables before the announcer gets on the stage to introduce the next amateur fighters—two women who have only fought a few times.

As they face each other for the first round, I duck into the men’s locker room to check on Thatcher. He dutifully pedals a stationary bike, looking unnaturally calm.

“Are you ready?” I ask, handing him a water bottle.

He pushes it away. “Doesn’t matter.”

His gaze is trained on the far wall of the locker room where a poster of him and “The Hitman” is tacked to the wall, and he pedals rhythmically as if in a trance.

In the image, Thatcher looks like his nickname, “Pretty Boy.” He is classically handsome, with golden brown hair, and a lean physique. Jake “The Hitman” Malone, on the other hand, looks like a beast.

His bare chest is thick with muscles, and his face is set in a permanent grimace. A nose that has been broken too many times dominates his face, and the ferocious gleam in his eye leaps off the poster.

“You’re the underdog,” I say. “Use that to your advantage.”

He gives me the side-eye. “Are you trying to motivate me?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s not working.”

“Don’t worry about winning,” I say. “Just do your best.”

Thatcher stops pedaling for a second and stares at me. “You’re the worst at pep talks,” he says.

I huff out a breath of frustration. “Maybe I’m no good at this,” I say. “But you are. You’ve put in the training, made weight, stepped up when we needed you. Go out there and do your thing. You might not be favored to win, but we both know you’re fully capable of beating him.”

Thatcher starts pedaling again. “Is she here?”

“Who?”

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