Chapter 2
2
WREN
H e doesn’t sound the same as he did when we were kids, even if my body still reacts to him identically to how it always did back then. Gone is that youthful sweetness in his tone that comes from living a sheltered life with things handed to him on a silver platter, never experiencing the darker sides of life. Deep and gravelly now, there’s an edge in his voice that wasn’t there before. Something that says, “ I’ve seen things and been places that have changed me .”
We both have.
Over twenty years have passed since we last saw each other…
Two long decades that have included some of the worst experiences of my life—and given what I know, some of the worst of his, too.
I thought I had primed myself for coming home and seeing the Hawkes—and specifically Atlas—again, but I was wrong. Absolutely nothing could have prepared me to hear him call me his wife .
Every nerve ending in my body seems to flare to life, warming me from the inside out until it feels like my skin is on fire.
But they aren’t the same flames that have burned me before.
This heat is different.
Pleasant and familiar.
Comforting almost, in spite of my anxiety about seeing him again.
Like being wrapped in strong arms and held protectively.
All with that single word.
I swallow through my dry throat, images of the wedding ceremony flashing through my head as if it were yesterday instead of what feels like a lifetime ago. And as much as I’d love to read into what he said, I know better. “Atlas, I see you haven’t lost your sense of humor…”
Atlas chuckles, the sound low and sultry, carrying across the studio and settling right between my legs with a dull ache I haven’t felt in a long time.
Damn, this is harder than I anticipated it would be.
I press my thighs together, trying not to give away how my body has reacted to his arrival.
His footsteps echo slightly as he crosses the floor toward me. My back stiffens, every muscle tensing in anticipation of the moment I’ve known has been coming since Gramps first suggested I return home.
I keep my back to him, adjusting the straps on the Cadillac machine, ensuring my hair falls over the left side of my face so he doesn’t catch my reflection in the mirror if he looks in that direction. But if he comes around to stand at the side of the reformer, there won’t be any more hiding.
He stops somewhere behind me, allowing me to release a tiny breath of relief. “Did you ever think I’d stop being a smartass, Wren?”
I grin, even though he can’t see it, and shake my head. “I think that would be impossible.”
He was born a smartass.
Even as children, he was constantly making jokes and wisecracks, starting games of tag or hide-and-seek, keeping things fun and lighthearted. And somehow, he always managed to get me to smile, even if I was having a bad day.
There were a lot of those once Mom started using again. Far too many, though Gramps tried to shelter me from it the best he could. There are some things you can’t protect a child from, and that was one of them.
Which meant I needed the Hawkes—and Atlas—even more. And he was always there, doing exactly what a best friend should do. What he’s trying to do now…
“You know, when Jimmy told me this place was finally going to get some use, I had no idea it was going to be by you .” The sliver of hurt in his voice makes me wince. “Was that intentional?”
I chew on my lip.
Of course, it was.
I didn’t want anyone to know I was coming back. Didn’t want to deal with the expectations they’d all hold—especially where Atlas was concerned. And now that we’re here together, the space that always seemed so small feels beyond tiny and confining.
Downright suffocating.
My chest tightens, like dozens of bands wrapping around my ribcage and squeezing the air right out of my lungs—a feeling I am all too familiar with. If I don’t calm myself down and manage my reaction to him, I’m going to end up needing my inhaler from just standing in this man’s presence.
Embarrassing as hell.
When I don’t answer his question, don’t admit my motives for keeping my return a secret, he moves closer, until I can smell crisp soap and something else so familiar—Atlas himself.
Leather and coconut…
From his boxing gloves and the polish he and Gramps use on them.
How can I still remember that when I haven’t seen him since I was eight?
I struggle to breathe it in while keeping my attention focused away from him, but my body so badly wants to turn and lean into it. To give myself over to the comfort that scent has always provided.
“Were you trying to avoid me, Wren?” He takes another step closer, his shoes squeaking on the wood planks. “Because, when you abandon your husband and leave town, you can’t just come back and pretend everything’s all right.”
I finally crack a smile and glance at him out of the corner of my eye.
Fuck, I shouldn’t have done that.
He stands only a few feet away, grinning, one sandy-blond eyebrow raised playfully. Humor dances in his blue eyes, warming them like Caribbean waters, making me want to dive straight in. With his chest bare save for a simple silver chain and a string of black beads hanging around his neck and tattoos on display, he crosses his arms, making his biceps bulge even more.
And he looks every bit the vicious fighter Gramps trained him to be.
Sweet mother of God …
Atlas is even more beautiful in person.
An inked-up, brutal Adonis.
A gift to women.
A curse to me.
An infatuation I haven’t been able to shake even after all these years.
The boy who was my best friend, first crush, and first kiss has grown into a stunningly lethal man, but my gaze can’t help but drift to the massive scar marring his left shoulder.
Red, raised, puckered, still fresh-looking even months after his surgery.
A constant reminder of what he went through and undoubtedly wants to forget.
I know what it’s like to have people stare, so I quickly avert my eyes back to his and shake my head. “Not avoiding you, Atlas, just have a lot to do to get set up and didn’t want any distractions.”
Like you coming in here and short-circuiting my ability to think.
His lips press together in a firm line, like he doesn’t quite buy my dismissal of his accusation. “When do you plan on opening?”
Turning fully away from him, I finish adjusting all the straps and no longer have anything to occupy my hands or attention without being obvious. “Hopefully by next Monday.”
“You’re going to do all this in just over a week?”
The disbelief in his voice makes my hackles rise. “That’s the plan.”
My machines have been ordered, along with everything else I’ll need. I’ve already received my business license, and now, it’s a matter of putting in a little sweat equity.
“Why the rush?”
Besides the fact that I need the money and so does Gramps?
“I need something to occupy my time.”
Otherwise, I’ll be tempted to sit in the gym and watch you train.
I shrug as nonchalantly as I can. “Just trying to keep myself busy, that’s all.”
“You’ll tell me if you need any help?” The genuine concern in his question tugs at something deep in my chest. “You know I have access to plenty of sets of hands willing to come and assist with literally anything.”
Dozens of faces pop into my head—mostly as they looked twenty years ago when I left rather than the more recent pictures of the Hawkes I’ve found in the news.
“How are the Hawkes?”
He releases a heavy sigh, and I peek at him again to watch him run his hand through his bleached-blond hair. The tightness in his shoulders keeps them stiff, and worry crinkles the edges of his eyes. “That’s a bit of a loaded question. You’ve been gone for a long time.”
I nod slowly. “I have. Though, Gramps has kept me up to date on a few things, like the hotel. You’re supposed to be fighting at the opening, right?”
His jaw hardens, and a muscle there tics.
Unease radiates off him, and I quickly avert my gaze again.
“Yeah, I’m supposed to be.”
The emphasis he puts on the word makes me freeze. “You’re not going to?”
Tension thickens the air around us, and the playful reunion mood dissipates almost instantly. “I’m planning to.”
A simple answer that doesn’t sound so simple at all.
“Well, I wish you luck…”
It’s a brush-off, and he knows it, not to mention a real asshole move on my part to try to get him to leave before I have to face him.
“Are you pissed at me about something, Wren?” He shifts closer, his jeans rustling and that scent enveloping me even more. “Can’t even look me in the eye?”
Fuck, I should have known I wouldn’t get away with it.
I don’t want my reunion with Atlas to start on the wrong foot when I’m likely going to have to see him every day around here. He hasn’t done anything to deserve my reticence, and it isn’t as if I can hide from him forever…
Don’t make it any more awkward than it already is.
Swallowing my pride, I prepare to do something that’s never been an issue before. In all the years since the fire, I’ve never hidden myself or the injuries I suffered. I’ve never pretended to be something I’m not, and I’ve done my damnedest to turn my scars into something that can be inspiring for people. A visual representation of how I literally rose from the ashes to rebuild a life after mine went up in flames.
But I know what his reaction is going to be.
And I may not be ready for it.
Pity.
From strangers?
I can accept it.
From the first boy I ever kissed?
That’s something completely different.
I shake my head, my hair falling over my face even more, allowing me to hide for one more second. “I’m not mad at you, Atlas. It’s just…a lot has changed.”
ATLAS
The pain and uncertainty in her soft, sweet voice takes me aback, making me retreat a step. As far as I can remember, we left things on good terms—or as good as they could have been under those circumstances. We never truly got a chance to say goodbye. She was here one day, gone the next. But there isn’t any reason she should be uneasy around me or be acting so strange.
An undeniable urge to reassure her tugs at my gut. “I doubt that very much, Wren.”
Time has passed—a lot of it—but that doesn’t change anything between us.
At least, it shouldn’t.
Seeing her again has brought back a flood of memories—of chasing each other around the gym, heated games of hide-and-seek when I wasn’t in the ring with her grandfather, playful teasing and camaraderie with her and the other Hawke kids.
Even sometimes consoling her through tears when things with her mom got rough again. But she won’t even look at me now, keeping her back toward me while she fiddles endlessly with the contraption in front of her that clearly doesn’t need it.
Her thick, dark hair hangs down to her mid-back, like it did when we were children, and I’d tug on it to get her to react. Only now, Wren isn’t the playful little girl.
She’s all grown up.
Perfect curves in an athletic, toned body, displayed in skin-tight yoga pants that hug her ass and a long sleeve shirt that forms to well-muscled arms.
While she never liked being in the ring herself, she was always racing around the gym with me and the rest of the kids and verbally sparring with me…
Something she clearly isn’t afraid to still do. Yet she won’t just turn around and talk to me face-to-face, almost like she’s hiding from me after all these years.
Wren inhales deeply, her shoulders rising and falling before she finally turns to face me slowly. “A lot has changed, Atlas.”
My eyes meet her uneasy caramel-coffee-colored ones. Surrounded by long, thick, dark lashes and set on one of the most stunningly beautiful faces I’ve ever seen, I could so easily get lost in them.
But I allow my gaze to drift over her, landing on the scars running across the left side of her jaw and down her neck to disappear under the collar of her shirt.
Some raised and puckered.
Some smooth and shiny.
Unlike the one on my shoulder, these are older and well-healed, and they’re clearly the reason she was reluctant to see me—or, more accurately, let me see her .
The fire…
Imagining the pain she must have suffered hits me like a jab straight to the stomach. Worse even, because at least I’ve trained to take those and brush away any pain. But one thing I can never easily ignore or handle is seeing anyone hurt—at least, not anyone who hasn’t voluntarily put themselves into the ring.
And Wren has clearly lived through an agony I can’t even imagine.
One Mom, Dad, and Wren’s grandfather all downplayed for us when they told us she had been caught in a house fire that injured her and killed her father a few years after her move to Texas.
They were undoubtedly trying to protect all the kids from the reality of what had happened to our friend, but anger that they didn’t tell us how bad it was quickly replaces the sympathy I momentarily feel for her.
She doesn’t need or want that, just like I don’t.
It doesn’t do anyone any good.
I shake my head, reconnecting my eyes with hers and offering a grin I hope covers my reaction to knowing what she went through after she left us. “Nothing’s changed, Wren…”
She gives me a forced smile that doesn’t reach her gaze. “You’re sweet.”
No one has ever called me that.
Atlas “Sweet” Hawke doesn’t have the same ring as “The Hurricane” and wouldn’t strike fear into the hearts of my opponents the way I need it to. But I don’t want Wren to be afraid of me.
Far from it.
I yearn to say more, to assure her that she’s stunningly beautiful and still the same girl I had such a huge crush on. Confirm there isn’t any reason for her to try to shy away from me. But she turns away and fiddles with the machine yet again.
An awkward silence settles over us, something I never remember experiencing with her when we were kids.
“Well…” I clear my throat, rubbing at the back of my neck. “You’ll let me know if I can help in any way with any setup, right?”
She peeks back and gives me another taut smile. “Of course.”
I motion to the gym. “I’m here every day with your grandpa, and Isaac and Bishop spend a lot of time in the ring or on the bags, too. The rest of the family comes and goes to watch me train, so I’m sure you’ll see everyone and be able to catch up soon.” I smile at her, hoping she can see how sincerely happy I am to see her. More than happy, actually. After a shit morning, having Wren back has suddenly given me something to look forward to besides pain and having the family up my ass about my shoulder. “The girls will be thrilled you’re back.”
Her lips curl into the first genuine smile I’ve seen since I came in here. “I’ve missed them.”
“They’ve missed you, too. A couple of weeks ago, Astrid was asking Jimmy when you were going to come visit. He was a little cagey about it, and now I get why. You were already planning to come back?”
She glances down at her feet in her pink slides that match her outfit. “Yeah. Well, I kind of wanted to get settled first before I dove into the Hawke swimming pool again. So, it was my fault he didn’t say anything.”
Fighting a laugh, I grin at her. “Are we all that bad?”
Her head snaps up, and she meets my gaze with wide, concerned eyes. “No, I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I’m just fucking with you, Wren.” I chuckle. “Relax. I know how it can be when we’re all hovering, but having all the extra manpower can really be useful. Jimmy says they’re delivering the machines soon.”
She nods, examining the empty space. “Yeah, I think I’m going to paint my logo on that wall over there by the door to the gym and do the window cling for the front to try to keep the sun out and prevent it from getting too hot in here. A few other things like a basic deep scrubbing, but honestly”—she sighs and kind of throws out a hand—“I don’t really have to do that much except find clients.”
I follow her gaze, trying to imagine what this might look like when she’s done. “I’ll be honest. I don’t know a thing about Pilates.”
Wren laughs, the sound light and airy, shattering that tension that had formed between us. “Most people don’t, unless you’re a suburban housewife.”
Huffing a chuckle, I shake my head. “Definitely not that. It’s like yoga, right?”
She scowls at me, the move so adorable in the way it takes her soft features and tries to morph them. My fingers actually itch to reach out and touch her lips, to wipe it away and return the smile there, but I fight the urge.
“No, it isn’t like yoga, Atlas. What I teach is reformer Pilates. It’s a lot different.”
There’s the feisty girl I knew.
Wren was never afraid to stand her ground or speak up for herself, and I’m glad to see whatever uneasiness she had around me seems to have dissipated.
“This is what you went to school for, to teach Pilates?”
She shakes her head. “No, I’m actually a physical therapist. I started teaching Pilates because it’s really great in combination with that training.” Her slender shoulders rise and fall. “And I love it.”
Physical therapists have never done anything for me.
The constant ache in my shoulder after today’s session proves it.
Countless hours spent rehabbing it, and it still feels like absolute shit anytime I move—and especially when I land a punch. But I’m confident I wouldn’t have hated my time with my P.T. if it had been with Wren.
She’s exactly what I imagined she would be like when I thought about her over the years—strong, resilient, fucking beautiful…
There isn’t a doubt in my mind that she’ll make this work.
“I’m sure your studio is going to do great, Wren. My family knows plenty of suburban housewives to send your way…”
She laughs again. “I would greatly appreciate that.”
I grin at her, letting my eyes rake over the woman who was once my bride—even if it was a fake wedding. “You know…you looked so cute in that little white dress.”
A smile plays on her lips without me even having to explain what I’m talking about. “I still can’t believe they found you a tuxedo.”
I raise a brow. “You really think I didn’t have to wear a tuxedo at least a dozen times by the time I turned eight?”
She points a finger at me, fully returning to the light humor reminiscing brings. “True.”
“Planning that wedding was the highlight of Kennedy’s life at that age. I think she thought it was real.”
Her laughter floats over me again, making warmth bloom in my chest. “I know. She was obsessed.”
I was, too.
With Wren.
I didn’t know it was possible to be in love with someone at eight, but if the effect of seeing her now is any indication, what I felt for my best friend the moment our lips touched during that ceremony was very real.
“You know”—I take a little half-step closer to her, risking a retreat she doesn’t make—“I’m never quite sure how to answer when people ask if I’m married…”
Her pale cheeks pinken, and she ducks her head, suddenly very interested in the hem of her shirt. “Me either.”
I can’t even count the number of times I thought about Wren and our wedding over the years, wondering what her life was like and if I ever crossed her mind the way she did mine. But her grandfather always seemed reluctant to discuss much of her life in Texas.
All I got was “she’s doing well” after he returned from spending a few weeks with her post-fire, and everyone accepted him at his word. But seeing her now, I’m not so sure that was ever true once she left New Orleans.
I run a hand through my hair, glancing back toward the gym where I left my bag—and shirt—after Jenkins came in and told me she was here. “Well, I’ll let you get back to it. I just wanted to come say hi. It’s good to see you.”
Her eyes flick up to meet mine again.
“ Really …more than good.”
My Little Bird has flown home.
Wren Michaels was always the beautiful little dark-haired girl running around the gym. An honorary Hawke who spent the first eight years of her life with us.
When her mom died and she had to leave, it felt like a gaping hole had been torn in our lives, especially mine, but it was nothing compared to what she apparently suffered once her father took custody of her.
Seeing the scars, knowing what she must have gone through, makes what happened to me seem like nothing.