He shook his head. “That name’s already been taken.”
“Grayson Green, The Outlaw. Yeah, never heard of you.” I grinned, but it slipped. “Does it bother you that I didn’t recognize you?” Had I hurt his feelings? I fiddled with the leather strap of my purse. I’d never met a famous person before.
“Hell, no.” His vehemence had me looking up at him. “I’m glad actually. A lot of people try to get close to me because of what I did not who I am.”
I bit my lip and thought about how that must feel. “That must be pretty annoying.”
He clenched his jaw. “You have no idea.”
I didn’t know much about him but definitely wanted to know more. “So. About that lunch? I’m starved.”
It was Gray’s turn to grin. “I still want to have lunch with a woman who has a kid, and you still want to have lunch with a famous guy.”
I nodded. “Exactly.”
Something flared in his eyes, bright and hot. “I’d like for you to be within five feet of me today, maybe even hold your hand again, so I need to shower. I stink.” He tugged at the front of his sweaty T-shirt. “Would you mind if we stopped at my gym, so I can get cleaned up first?”
6
GRAY
* * *
Holy shit. The woman had a son. A grown son who went to the Naval Academy, which was one of the hardest schools to get into in the country, which meant the kid was fucking smart. Not only that, the kid was willing to dedicate his life to the service of the country. This wasn’t some kid with an undecided major joining a fraternity at a state school, so he could party his four years away. Emory had made a man. A man who was most likely going to go off to war. She was here, calm as could be, knowing that could easily be in his future. I knew what it was like to be the kid on deployment, but I’d never thought of it from a mother’s perspective. She was fucking brave, and that had me admiring her so much. I’d be shitting a brick if my child broke a finger, let alone shipped off to some desert battle.
I’d joined the Marines right out of high school to escape my father, the ranch and the hell he’d made my life and did enough tours to see evil and knew what her son would see—and live—firsthand. How it changed you. Scarred you. Made you hard. Because of this, but especially my dad, I’d learned how to fight well enough—and started at a young age—to become a professional when I got out. Won world
championships. Built an empire around my name. Then, retiring, I used all that to build a gym of my own, to create new champions. I’d done a lot, accomplished a lot. Was famous for it. Made a shitload of money. Still did from fighters and sponsors. But that was fuck-all compared to what Emory had done, and for part of it, it seemed, alone. And she was worried I’d not be interested in her? The opposite in fact. My interest in her only grew. The question was, when would she realize I was just The Outlaw, a fuck-up from a ranch in Wyoming, and decide to walk away?
I opened the truck door for her, admiring her long, tanned legs as she slid into the seat. Once the engine was on, I rolled down the windows. “Might be better with a little fresh air, so I don’t scare you off. I’m pretty ripe.” I picked a blade of grass off my dirty shirt and tossed it out the window.
She looked me up and down in a way that had me shifting in my seat. It wasn’t blatant, but she’d scoped me out, and I couldn’t tell if her cheeks were pink from being caught or from the heat of the car.
“Flag football, huh? I pictured you more on the back of a bull or something.”
I grinned. “Picked up that I was a cowboy, huh?”
“Snap shirts don’t lie,” she replied with a smile.
I’d grown up on a ranch in Wyoming, one of the biggest in the state, but I never wanted to step foot on the property again. My job, my life, was in Brant Valley now, but I had my ranch, my own land to go to whenever I needed to get away from it all. I could work the land, fix fences, do cowboy shit all fucking day long if I wanted. Without the nightmare of my dad.
“I can ride a horse, but I prefer to stay on it,” I replied instead of sharing all that. “As for flag football, it’s fun.” I looked over my shoulder and pulled out into traffic.
“I’m an expert on soccer, basketball and track, not so much football.”
“Your son?”
“Yes. His name is Chris. Sorry, I don’t mean to talk about him.” She tucked a curl behind her ear as the wind picked up.
I stopped at a red light and turned to look at her. Even with the windows open, I could pick up her scent. Something flowery or fruity, maybe coconut. Shampoo? Whatever the hell it was, it was going to drive me insane when I switched to air conditioning. I just hoped she didn’t smell me just as easily. “Why? He’s your son.”
“Yeah, but most guys aren’t interested in hearing about kids.”
I gripped the wheel. “Now you’re hurting my feelings. I’m not most guys, Emory.”
Even with the heat, I could see her blush this time. She bit her lip but met my gaze. “Wow, you’re right. I’m sorry.” I saw her throat work as she swallowed. “I told you I wasn’t good at this. It’s been a long time… a really long time.”
“How long is really long?” Six months? A year?