Page 32 of The Boss and the Wedding Mess
“Hey,” I say to the two musclebound guys at the entrance. They give me a short nod.
“Haven’t seen you in a while, Princess,” one of them calls out. “You’ve lost some muscle. Need training help?” He laughs suggestively, and I roll my eyes.
“I need a punching bag,” I answer promptly. “Can you take a few kicks and punches, or are you gonna cry if I hit you in the wrong spot?”
He’s left speechless while his buddy bursts out laughing.
“Let me know if you really want to help.” I smile and head into the locker room.
There’s one for women, though I’ve often been “invited” to change with the men. As long as the boss isn’t around, some of the guys act like rats when the cat’s away.
After changing, I step into the main room. Three boxing rings, bags hanging from the walls, mats spread out. People are training hard to blasting music. The bass thumps through the floor.
Looks like I’m the only woman here today. Most of the guys just want to burn off energy, and the ones who get a little sassyusually mean well—they’re the first to step in if someone needs help. But when they’re just with each other, their mouths run nonstop. Still, there’s something solid behind all the talk.
I head to an empty corner to train in peace. I set my towel, water bottle, and gloves on the bench, then stretch and warm up before starting with light exercises. A minute with the jump rope, then I slide on my gloves, my fingers peeking through. They fit snugly, the wraps protecting my joints.
After just a few punches, I feel how out of practice I am. That’s what I get. It’s been at least six weeks, even though I meant to come for an hour once a week. That has to change from now on.
I work the bag hard, and it instantly feels so good to take my frustration out on it.
“What’d it ever do to you?” a male voice says from behind me.
“Are you talking to me?” I ask, still focused on the punching bag. I want to finish my set before taking a break, and he’s distracting me.
“Of course. You’ve got quite a punch. Not bad,” he says. Hopefully that’s all it is—I’m not here to flirt. “Want me to hold it steady, or…” He steps closer, and my eyes nearly pop out when I seewhojust spoke.
“Alex?” I immediately stop, and he looks just as surprised.
“Uh… or are you going to hit me instead?” he finishes with a laugh. “What are you doing here?”
“I should be asking you that!” He’s only wearing a tight muscle shirt, and I can see every line of his toned arms. Damn. Were those hidden under that suit? I force myself to meet his eyes, silently praying he doesn’t sneak a glance at my neckline. He’d better not!
“Small world, huh?” He grips the bag with one hand. “I know the owner from way back. He invited me to train here again. I haven’t been in London in five years.”
I let out a quiet sigh. Great. So, he’s not going anywhere anytime soon.
“You know Carlos?” I ask, throwing another punch. Alex holds the bag casually, but his arm keeps flexing. I keep at it until he finally has to use both hands.
“Started coming here when I was seventeen, just to blow off steam. So you’re the ‘princess’ he always talks about, I take it?”
“They call every woman here that. Except Manuela. She’s got more muscle than half the guys. She’s the queen.”
“Alright, Princess. Hit harder, I can barely feel it,” he teases. That makes me stop.
“I haven’t been here in weeks,” I protest, already out of breath.
“Yeah, I can tell. Want to try holding it?” One punch from him and I’d probably fly into the wall.
“Alex, you can’t make our princess hold the bag,” a deep voice rumbles. I’d know Carlos’s voice anywhere.
The massive Greek towers even over Alex by a few inches. He’s got more chest hair than I have hair on my head, but his dark, tattooed look is misleading—despite the face tattoos, the thick black bears and all the ink, he’s the gentlest of them all.
“I’ll hold it.”
He plants himself behind the bag like a rock so Alex can punch, while I step aside and try to catch my breath.
That gives me a chance to sneak a look at Alex. Black muscle shirt, athletic shorts, that reveal that even his calves are cut. His punches land precise and powerful. Even Carlos actually struggles to hold the bag. I’d definitely have flown into the nearest wall.
