Page 11 of Falling for the Forbidden Fighter
I don’t say a word. How do you convince someone that you’re telling the truth?
Outside, one of those dudes on the couch throws a bottle, shattering it.
Catherine scans the parking lot before holding out her hand.
“I believe you, Louis.” She narrows her eyes. “I don’t exactly know why, but I do. Stay at my place. Buy groceries. Trainhard. Don’t quit when it starts to feel like an uphill fight that’s never gonna end. And keep your mouth shut about staying with me. Deal?”
I gently take her hand, afraid of how soft it is.
“Deal.”
“Then go get your stuff and check out of his shithole,” she says, snapping her fingers. “Let’s go. Don’t make me late for my afternoon patients. I still need to eat lunch, and you’re buying.”
New Mexico magic.
CHAPTER 3
CATHERINE
I must be crazy.
No,crazyis too soft a word. I’ve lost my mind.
Not because I’ve invited a total stranger to sleep on my couch for more than a month. Not because if my family finds out, they’ll kill him.
IwantLouis to stay with me.
The entire drive to his motel, I was searching for excuses to keep him in my car. It made no sense; itstillmakes no sense. This feeling that I want him near me is incessant, nagging.
I do not want a fighter.
It’s illogical. Why would I be with someone who gets their brain cells killed for a living? The guys who make this their life… they’ve got something to prove to themselves, or the world.
Louis isn’t like them.
I can tell by the way he strikes. When he hits the bag, it’s like there’s an enemy at the other end. His fists hit like his life depends on it. There’s no flair or pomp or pride. To him, boxing is a necessity, an obligation.
Why?
Even as we walk into my apartment, I’m screaming inside. There’s no way this ends well, but I can’t stop myself from doing it. Besides, I couldn’t let him sleep in that awful motel.
“Shoes off,” I say, throwing my keys on the kitchen counter. “Make yourself at home.”
Louis treads carefully. The way he looks at my place, you’d think he was bleeding and didn’t want to drip all over the floor. He looks cautious, careful.
“What’s wrong?”
His shoulders do that little shrug they’re so accustomed to. “Nice place.”
“Like my car?”
He nods.
Were things really that bad for him growing up? My car isn’t anything fancy, and while my apartment is in a new building, it’s pretty small.
Louis gets his shoes off and wanders into the living room toward the balcony.
“I keep the AC on,” I say, already getting my espresso machine warmed up. “So make sure the windows stay closed. Andnosmoking.”
