Chapter 18 Scarlett
EIGHTEEN
SCARLETT
Fifteen minutes later, I’m standing ten feet from a giant target with an axe in my hand.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I say in the driest tone possible.
Nico’s laugh booms behind me. His hands go to my hips, and I find myself melting back into him.
“Just try it,” he says. “It’s fun, I promise. Grab it with two hands”—he gently guides my grip to the handle—“lift it over your head, and chuck it as hard as you can. We’ll tweak your technique after.”
“Nico, I can’t do this,” I whine.
“Of course, you can. You’re strong. And haven’t you ever wanted to throw something at a wall? This is like that.”
I shoot him a confused frown over my shoulder. “That might just be the fighter in you talking.”
“Doubtful,” he retorts, nipping at my shoulder. His playfulness warms me up inside. “Everyone has a beast in them. Now come on, throw it.”
“If I take your eye out, you still owe me two thousand,” I grumble.
And then I throw the axe, the sound of Nico’s laugh loud behind me.
I’m shocked to see it hit the board head-on, even if it’s nowhere near the target circle, before bouncing off and dropping to the ground.
Nico whistles and passes by me to grab it. “Good throw, Red. Now try it again, but let it go a little later. I think it’ll stick then.”
Taking the axe from him, I scrunch up my face in concentration, get into the stance he showed me, and throw it again.
This time, it burrows into the board.
I let out a shriek of excitement. When I spin to jump on him, Nico is already there with open arms.
“Good throw, baby,” he says fondly into my hair. “How did that feel?”
“Exhilarating,” I breathe, sliding down his body. “I want to do it again.”
He gestures at the table of axes. “Have at it.”
Twenty minutes later, I’ve fine-tuned my technique to the point of landing four out of five throws in a five-inch diameter on the board. I’m almost as good as Nico.
“Well, that didn’t take long to get good at,” he says with a chuckle. He’s been leaning against the high top at our section, looking way too sexy in a casual stance and with a water in his hand.
I want to jump him.
The thought isn’t a surprising one, but it’s definitely a unique one. I’ve never had a client I’ve wanted to have sex with before.
“Do they do this with knives, too?” I wonder out loud in an effort to distract myself. “Or just axes?”
Nico’s eyes go wide with surprise. Then he lets out a laugh. “You sure you’re a piano-playing good girl? Between this and the self-defense lesson, I’m starting to think you’re a Russian spy just playing the part.”
I grin and skip over to him. “Hardly. You just bring out the Russian spy in me, I guess.”
His smile softens. “I’ll take anything I can bring out of you, baby.”
I don’t pull away when he nuzzles into my neck. I might even close my eyes and lean into it. “Smooth talker,” I murmur.
He just hums in answer. “Do you want to keep playing? Or are you ready for a break?”
I look around and try to guess what he might have in mind next. “What’s a break for you?”
He tugs me over to the high tops in the bar area in answer. “Just some food. Figured I’d feed you before I have to take you back.”
I follow behind him, albeit begrudgingly.
This looks like the kind of place that only serves greasy, calorie-filled bar snacks.
“I’m…uh, I’m not really hungry,” I lie. In reality, the only reason he hasn’t heard my stomach growl is because it’s so loud in here.
“But I’ll take a water if you want to eat something. ”
His frown deepens. “There’s no way throwing axes for an hour didn’t make you hungry. Come on, we’ll just get an appetizer or something.”
I don’t know how to argue without making him suspicious, so I let him tug me along.
“Looks like they have the usuals,” he says once we’re seated with a menu. “What do you want? Pretzels? Nachos? Sliders?”
Carbs. Carbs. Carbs.
As I look over the menu, the only thing I can think about is my mother calling me chunky when I was thirteen and asked for pizza for dinner. “Uh, I’m really not that hungry,” I argue weakly.
Nico notices. Of course, he notices.
He doesn’t press, like I thought he would. He doesn’t judge, like I knew he wouldn’t.
And whether he guesses the reason or not, he asks gently, “How about some chicken wings? We can get them plain, if you want.”
So…protein. I can do protein.
I give him a careful nod. “Okay. Wings would be good.”
I stay at our table, sipping my water, as Nico puts our order in. When he comes back, he smiles and asks, “So, what’s your favorite food?”
For a moment, all I can think is, this shouldn’t be a hard question.
But the truth is, I can’t remember the last time I ate something I wanted instead of the low-calorie diet that was drilled into me. I can’t say eggs are my favorite food, that’s ridiculous.
I shrug and give him a small smile. “I don’t know, it changes constantly,” I lie. “Maybe pizza?”
“Oh, yeah? What’s your favorite New York pizza spot?”
Shoot.
I can’t think of a single pizza place name.
“I haven’t found a spot that’s better than my hometown pizza.” Another lie. My mother never would’ve allowed pizza in the house. “It was a little hole-in-the-wall spot.”
He nods, spinning his beer bottle on the table. “I feel that. Philly has some great undiscovered spots.” His eyes meet mine. “You should come visit me. We could plan a date there.”
I’ve never before agreed to an overnight date with a client, but with Nico, I know I would break that rule.
“Would we stay at a hotel?” I tease.
“Are you kidding me?” he asks incredulously. “I would kill to see you sleeping in my bed.”
“Possessive,” I purr, naturally trying to seduce the conversation. “Would you like to fuck me in it too?”
I watch his throat move on a rough swallow. His gaze drops to my lips, the same way they always do when he’s turned on.
“I said sleeping, not fucking,” he says. But his voice is deep and gravelly, like he had to force it out.
We’ll see about that.
I don’t believe Nico that he’s not interested in sex anymore. I felt our connection during our previous dates; I know how good the sex is. No man is capable of not wanting more of that.
I don’t know why he’s started fighting that part of our arrangement—especially since he’s still paying me—but I fully intend on making him reconsider. Not just because I’m made for sex and need it to make sense of my dates, but also because I want it, too.
Just then, our food arrives at the table. Plain chicken wings, and…a giant pretzel?
I gape at Nico as he rips off a pretzel chunk and dips it in whatever yellow sauce came with it. He makes a sound of enjoyment and rips off another piece.
“Are you even allowed to eat that?” I ask bluntly. “Don’t you have to lose weight for fighting or something?”
He lets out a huff of laughter and reaches for a napkin to wipe his mouth. “Did you just fat shame me?”
My eyes widen. “What? No! I just thought— I mean, all the videos I watched said you have to make weight or something—”
Chuckling, he pulls my chair closer to him and presses a kiss to my shoulder. The touch makes electricity spark over my skin. “Relax, Red, I’m teasing. Yes, fighting involves weight cuts.”
“Then why…” I stare at his plate. “How are you eating carbs right now?”
“Two reasons,” he explains, tearing off another piece of the pretzel. “For one: I always time my rest days for the days I’m with you.”
I bite down on my bottom lip in an attempt to hide my giddy smile, but I don’t think it works. He plans his week around me?
“For another, you should always have carbs in your diet.”
The comment is so ridiculous that a snort bursts out of me.
Mortified, I slap my hand over my mouth. “Oh my gosh, forget that just happened.”
His lips curl into an adoring smile. “Not a chance. That was adorable.” But he sobers just as quickly. “But also, I have questions. You don’t eat carbs?”
I don’t answer, but he reads the truth on my face anyway.
“You work out,” he says, eyes traveling over my shoulders and down my body. “A lot, if your muscle tone is any indication. How could you keep your energy level up if not with carbs?”
I laugh without humor. “Sheer will and fear of my mother?”
Shoot. That wasn’t supposed to come out.
We both stare at each other, eyes wide.
“Scarlett…you can’t not eat carbs. That’s unhealthy.” He hesitates, then adds, “The old-school ‘carbs are bad’ way of thinking has been debunked. It’s not true. Obviously, some carbs are better for you than others, but you need something to fuel you properly.”
I quirk an eyebrow and try to deflect. “Are you seriously telling a woman what she should and shouldn’t be eating?”
He exhales a heavy breath and drops his head between his shoulders. “No, of course not,” he grumbles. “I’m sorry, it’s just the athlete in me. I’m pretty sure my nutritionist has burrowed his way into my psyche or something.”
I huff a laugh at that. He’s adorable.
He takes that as a sign to say more, I guess.
“Okay, let me just say one more thing, and then I’ll shut up,” he blurts out.
I roll my eyes but don’t answer. “If you’re going to add any carbs to your diet—and I strongly recommend it, for everyone, not just you—do it in the morning.
Whole grains, fruit, that type of thing.
Do a parfait or oatmeal or something. Your body needs it.
And then it can burn it for whatever workouts you’re doing. ”
“Pretty sure the point of a workout is to burn fat, not food,” I say with a quirked eyebrow.
His eyes widen again. “Uh…what fat? You have none.”
“Then I’m doing it right,” I say proudly. I point at the pretzel. “Because I don’t eat things like that.”
He doesn’t look like he knows how to respond to that.
Fine by me.
Unrolling the silverware I snagged from a passing server, I place the paper napkin in my lap and grip the utensils in my hands.
“Please tell me you’re not about to eat wings with a knife and fork…”
I try to ignore the way my cheeks heat. I know this isn’t how people eat wings, but I have a better chance of sprouting my own wings than I do ignoring the manners that were instilled in me.
“What’s wrong with that?” I challenge, stabbing my fork into one of the wings and delicately placing it on my plate.
“What’s wrong with—? Scarlett, I’m pretty sure there’s a commandment about this.”
I laugh despite myself. “Don’t judge me just because I like to keep my hands clean when I eat.”
“They’re wings. It’s pretty much a rule that you have to get your hands dirty. Face, too, if we’re being honest.”
Without any hesitation, I dip a finger in the ranch that came with the wings and swipe it across Nico’s cheek. “There, we’ve covered the dirty part.”
His expression goes from shocked to heated in half a second.
“The fuck we have,” he growls. Then he’s grabbing my finger and sucking it into his mouth.
A tingle ripples through my body, and I squirm in my seat, unable to take my eyes off him. “Do you—” I clear my throat and try again. “Are we walking back to the hotel after this?”
He stares at me in a way that makes me think he knows exactly why I’m asking.
“Yes,” he says carefully. “But not yet. Eat your wings first.”
“Bossy,” I grumble.
“Hey, you’re the one with the habit of ordering me around.”
I shrug, looking down at my plate. “And you’re the one who listens and pays me for it.”
I can feel him studying me again, but I’m not sure if it’s because of my comment or the way I’m reaching for my knife and fork again.
“Here,” he finally says, grabbing a wing with his hands. “If we take the finger-dirtying aspect out of it, will you eat it?” And then he holds it in front of my mouth.
My eyes lock on his. I shouldn’t. I wasn’t raised like this. And what if I get grease or something on my face? No man wants to see that.
Maybe it’s the sound of mother’s voice that makes me open my mouth. Or maybe it’s just Nico’s presence.
Either way, with my eyes still on his, I lean forward and take a bite of the wing, gently ripping the meat off the bone.
He seems weirdly thrilled. “Atta girl,” he says with a grin.
Flavor explodes on my tongue. Even without sauce, the wing is delicious, so much better than the barely seasoned chicken breasts I typically make for myself.
I cover my mouth with my napkin as I chew so that as soon as I’ve swallowed, I can say, “That’s delicious.”
“See? I know my bar food. Now eat up, I might order another batch.”
But suddenly, I’m not as interested in food.
Holding Nico’s eyes, I place my hand on his thigh under the table and slide it up the slightest bit. “Are you ready to leave soon?” I ask in a silky voice. “I’m kind of dying to get you back to the hotel.”
I see the flash of desire in his eyes, confirmation that I’m still in control here. Thank God.
“Yeah, let’s—” He clears his throat. “Let’s get out of here.”