Chapter 16
16
ONE MONTH UNTIL TITLE FIGHT
WREN
I scan the studio filled with my regular late-morning class, completing our final arm exercises of the day. The tinted film covering the front windows helps block the bright sunlight from streaming in and warming up the studio, which also makes keeping track of time harder.
Glancing at the clock, I clap my hands to signal the final rep. “All right. We have five more minutes. You’ve all worked hard today, so let’s do some feet in straps.”
A chorus of cheers goes up, like it always does when we move to everyone’s favorite Pilates exercise, and they all lie down on their beds and get their feet positioned.
What I wouldn’t give to be able to jump on one myself.
With almost all my time spent running classes or working with Atlas, I’ve barely had a chance to run through any flows myself.
My gaze drifts to the Cadillac machine, which has only been getting used with my private clients, and I can almost feel the pull and stretch it gives me even though I haven’t gotten on in several days.
Make time for yourself.
I keep trying to remind myself I need to, but there are other things that are more important right now.
Like finishing this class so I can peek in on Atlas and Gramps next door and see how he’s progressing.
Examining each student on their reformers, I check their body positions. “That’s right. Keep the lower back pressed down to the bed. Legs straight up. You all know the drill.”
They should by now, after almost six weeks of classes.
Most of these people come in at least a few times a week.
Regulars.
I still can’t believe I have them or that the studio has so quickly developed such an intense following—all thanks to the Hawkes.
Most of these people are their friends.
Referred by them and encouraged to try it out that first week.
“Let’s start up and down. Smooth motions. After ten, we’ll start leg circles counterclockwise.”
I watch them perform each action, stepping in to adjust any body positioning. As I stand, the room spins a little, my head getting foggy and my vision blurring.
Shit.
I shouldn’t have skipped lunch today.
But I wasn’t about to decline the new private client who called. Not when I’m still building this place, establishing relationships.
The Hawkes may have helped me get my initial clientele in the door, but I’m the one who has to keep them coming back, and I have to keep building if I want to have a sustainable business for longer than two months. That means sometimes skipping lunch during the day when I teach seven or eight one- hour classes, then having to head home to do a deep-tissue massage on the grump currently training next door.
“Okay, let’s switch to clockwise.” The whole class follows my instruction, and I pace between the reformers, watching everyone and keeping my eye on the clock. “Excellent. Now, let’s do some Peter Pan stretches, starting with our left leg out, right leg tucked in.”
Everyone shifts to perform the movement, and I count it off for them, keeping an eye on the clock and the door—where one of the Hawke Enterprises security team stands guard.
“All right, ladies, let’s switch sides.”
Only a few more minutes.
Atlas should be winding down, and I have a half an hour break before my next class starts to slip in there and see how he’s doing—and check on Gramps.
The old man has been avoiding me the last few days, popping in to say hello and give me a quick kiss each morning before my first class, then disappearing into the gym and always being “busy” every time I try to see how he’s doing.
“Okay, girls, that’s all we have time for.” I clap to get everyone’s attention. “Let’s wipe down our machines. Thank you for another great class.”
Everyone pulls free of their straps and starts cleaning off their reformers, a routine they know by heart now.
I make my way to the door that connects us to the gym. “I’ll be next door if anyone needs to speak to me about anything on their way out.”
They all wave goodbye, chatting amongst themselves and gathering their shoes and bags.
I tug open the door and slip to the other side.
An annoyed grunt immediately hits my ears, and my eyes dart to the ring where Atlas circles with a dark-haired man I don’t recognize, both in sparring gear.
Intensely focused on his opponent, Atlas dances around him and lets out a series of lightning-fast jabs, then lands a left hook on the man’s rib cage that makes him wince.
But this time, Atlas doesn’t .
Finally.
It undoubtedly still hurts. I think we all know it might always hurt to some degree. But one thing Atlas is good at is compartmentalizing his pain—physical and emotional.
And whether it’s from our work together or some sort of mental fortitude he found that was lacking before, Atlas seems to have come back from the brink of darkness that might have consumed him fully.
I release a breath that it feels like I’ve been holding since I first saw him the day I came back and scan the gym for Gramps.
He stands along the edge of the ring, resting his elbows on it, looking as deeply tired as I feel. His gaze follows each strike both men land—Atlas far more than his opponent.
I approach slowly, not wanting to distract Atlas, and slip up beside him. “He looks good.”
Gramps glances my way and gives me a half-smile. “He does.” For the first time since I started working with Atlas almost, I actually think Gramps believes it. “He’s getting stronger, faster. I don’t notice him pulling punches or hesitating as much.”
“Good.”
It’s what we wanted. What we’ve worked for. But it begs the ultimate question, one I’m reluctant to ask when I don’t know the answer.
This was always Gramps’ world. His domain. I never particularly liked the fighting. I’ve always found it so violent and excessive. The gym was home because Gramps was here, not because I wanted to watch his fighters train.
So, he’s the one who needs to make the call that will determine Atlas’ future.
I peek at Gramps out of the corner of my eye, swallowing my reluctance to hear the truth—either way. “Does…that mean he’s ready?”
His lips twist.
Shit.
I know that look.
I’ve seen it countless times over the years.
He’s still worried.
I nudge him with my elbow. “Does it?”
Gramps rises from his leaning position and wobbles a little as he does, pressing his hand over his chest.
I reach out and steady him with my hands on his shoulders. “You okay, Gramps?”
He nods and shakes off my hold. “Yeah, just an old man with bad balance.” He points a knobby finger at the ring. “His cardio is getting better, and he’s starting to look like his old self. But it’s only four weeks ‘til the fight. He should have been training like this the whole time.”
“I know that. So does he.”
Painfully so. It haunts him the same way the memories of the fire do me.
“Do you think he should pull out?”
Old eyes that have always seen so much glance at the ring as Atlas lands an uppercut that sends the other guy’s head flying backward.
I wince on behalf of his opponent, who staggers back but somehow seems to shake it off and get his guard back up.
“Should he be hitting him that hard in a sparring match?”
Gramps gives a low chuckle. “Carlos can take it, trust me. He fights heavyweight and has a match in six weeks.” He inclines his head to the other side of the ring where another man I don’t recognize watches. “His trainer. He’d end it if it was getting too hard. They both need this right now.”
Refocusing on Atlas, I examine his movements, their fluidity, and the ease with which he switches his tactic as Carlos changes up his own.
He truly is a master at his art.
It just involves smashing his fists into other people’s faces.
I release a heavy breath, some of the worry I’ve been harboring over his progress fading after seeing him today. “He’ll be okay.”
“I hope so.”
The distress in his voice makes me glance over at him again, and with his brow drawn low, lips pressed together, and wrinkled, arthritic hands clenched into fists at his sides, I can see what he’s thinking without him having to say the words.
That same guilt that has overwhelmed him for decades.
I wrap my arm around his shoulder. “I know you feel guilty about what happened to his grandfather, but it wasn’t your fault. Atlas was in his prime before the shooting. We’ll get him back there before the fight. He’s going to be okay.”
His eyes dart over to me. “Thanks to you…”
I give him a kiss on his weathered cheek, examining him up close, searching for any signs of what he might be keeping from me.
A strangled grunt draws both our gazes to the ring.
Atlas dodges a combination from his opponent that has him backing up almost to the ropes where we stand, but he quickly retaliates, advancing, making the man stumble back himself until he’s pressed into the corner with Atlas wailing on him.
Blow after blow.
Raining down on Carlos.
A furious flurry that seems to have no end.
“All right. All right. That’s enough.” The other trainer climbs between the ropes and moves to pull Atlas off him.
But the man’s words were enough to make him stop his attack and retreat.
Atlas steps back, his chest heaving, sweat slicking his entire body. He spits out his mouth guard and turns to look at Gramps, his eyes widening slightly when they find me watching him.
His lips quirk up, and he slowly makes his way over, leaning against the ropes to look down at us. “How long have you been here?”
“Long enough.”
He waggles his eyebrows playfully. “Want to head home?”
I know exactly what he’s suggesting we head home for , though I don’t know how he has any energy after that display. The sheer power he harnesses should intimidate anyone. It does . Everyone except me.
“As much as I’d love to accept the invitation”—I glance out of the corner of my eye at Gramps—“for a romantic dinner.” I fight a grin, and Atlas smirks. “I have two more classes tonight, and then I’ll figure out a meal.”
He nods slowly, that smirk that tells me he wants me to be his meal all too prevalent. “I’m going to head home when I’m done here. Bishop will arrive before I leave to watch the studio and bring you back after your last class.”
I want to argue with him about the need to have Bishop with me all the time, but she or one of the other Hawke security team have been glued to me like a shadow, even worse than before, since Satriano approached me at the event, so there’s no point.
It’ll only upset Atlas more and start an argument we’ve had half a dozen times already.
Instead, I force a demure smile. “Okay.”
His blond brows rise. “You’re not going to argue with me this time, Little Bird?”
I shake my head. “Nope.”
Gramps looks between the two of us. “Is it because I’m here?”
Laughing, I grin at him. “You, of all people, should know that doesn’t matter.”
He tsks. “You always were a feisty one.” His gaze cuts to his protégé. “I don’t know how you handle her.”
Atlas gives me a look that ensures he’s going to be handling me quite well tonight. “Very carefully, Old Man. Very carefully.”
ATLAS
I pick at my plate of grilled chicken, steamed broccoli and asparagus, and lightly dressed tomatoes, cucumbers, and avocado while the delicious scents of Nana’s lasagna, baked ziti, garlic bread, antipasto tray, and all the other usual Sunday dinner fixings fill the dining room, making my stomach rumble.
Each week, it gets harder and harder to choke this shit down while we sit here surrounded by my favorite food on the planet.
I should be used to it by now, after the sheer number of training camps and cuts I’ve done over the years. But there’s just something about Nana’s lasagna that gets me.
Every.
Single.
Time.
I eye it sitting in the middle of the table, my mouth watering—
“Don’t even think about it.” Isaac’s voice cuts through my longing.
Fuck.
I jerk up my head and look at him.
He smirks as he takes a monster bite of the very thing I’m craving from his own plate and chews, then points his fork at the almost-empty pan. “Jenkins would kill you if you ate that.”
My body wouldn’t be too happy about it, either, at this point, after months of eating nothing but carefully crafted, prepared meals. But all that delicious, full-fat cheese and pasta…
Only one month to go, and then I can gorge.
I look over to Nana, who sits at the head of the table, picking at her plate and taking bites when she can, while she chats with Viviana and Charlotte, who have both vacated their seats to stand near her and chatter her ears off.
Though, she doesn’t seem to mind her two oldest great-grandchildren interfering with her dinner.
“Hey, Nana…”
She glances up, as does almost everyone else at the table who had previously been engrossed in their own conversations.
“After my fight, you make me three pans of that ”—I point to the lasagna—“just for me.”
She smiles. “I always do, don’t I, dear?”
“Just reminding you.”
Dad chuckles, and Mom elbows him before he draws the wrath of the Hawke matriarch.
Nana doesn’t take orders from anyone .
Never has.
Never will.
We all know it, which is precisely why my “order” was something I knew she would do anyway.
After the fight, I can enjoy food again, like everyone else at the table.
I cut off a piece of my bland, boring chicken and shove it into my mouth, chewing more aggressively than I need to try to get it shredded up and in my stomach faster because the sooner we’re done, the sooner I can get out of here and away from temptation.
At least of the food kind.
My greatest temptation shifts in her seat next to me, that almond and cherry scent wafting with her slightest movement.
I glance over at Wren’s barely touched plate. Only a few bites are missing, practically nothing compared to what she usually eats at Sunday family dinners.
She stares down at it.
“You okay?”
Her eyes dart up to meet mine, and she gives me a tight smile. “Yeah, I’m good. Just not very hungry.”
There’s something underneath the tilt of her lips, something she’s holding back, but I’m not about to pressure her to talk about whatever’s bothering her in the middle of this.
I know better than that.
Too many eavesdroppers.
Too many interested parties.
There is no such thing as privacy at a Hawke dinner—or in the family at all, really.
Uncle Savage sets his fork and knife across his empty plate and nudges it away from him. “You looked good in your sparring session Friday.”
I glance over at him, surprised by the first compliment I’ve received when it comes to my performance in the ring in a long time. Jenkins sure isn’t giving them to me. He does nothing but push. But that’s his job. To push. Not to stroke my ego. “Thanks.”
I’m finally feeling stronger.
My cardio is almost back to where it was before the shooting.
Each blow holds more power and less pain.
I roll my shoulder almost without thinking, and that sharp agony that used to be there with the movement is now merely a dull ache. The injured muscles have responded to Wren’s treatment plan.
Rebuilding.
Readjusting.
Compensating.
And even Savage has noticed.
No doubt everyone who has come to watch my training sessions has spotted the difference. It would be impossible not to when I was such a hot fucking mess before Wren arrived.
But he’s the sole person to voice it.
Kennedy grabs her wine and takes a long swig from it. “Can we stop talking about the fight and maybe, I don’t know, discuss the wedding for a change?”
Everyone turns to look at her, and Cass grins. He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest, waiting and watching for Kennedy to do her thing.
Oh, God.
Here we go.
I shove a piece of broccoli into my mouth and choke it down, anticipating the bickering about to ensue when my eldest cousin pushes her agenda.
Kennedy shrugs. “What? I’m getting married a week after the opening and fight, and we barely discuss it.”
Astrid points her fork at Kennedy. “That’s because you’re such a control freak. You’ve done all the planning yourself and haven’t let anybody help you.”
Kennedy gapes while everyone else bursts out laughing, including Nana.
She offers a knowing smile only a grandmother can. “She isn’t wrong, dear.”
Bright-red lips twist into a scowl at being called out. “So what? I want my wedding to be perfect.”
Cass leans over and presses his lips to her temple. “It will be, Chérie . Stop worrying so much.”
“Don’t I have reason to worry?” Her gaze darts around the oversized, custom-made table, over all two dozen people who call themselves Hawkes. “It seems like anytime something good happens in this family, it’s immediately followed by two, sometimes three, bad things.”
Uncle Stone gives her a dirty look. “Did you have to say that out loud?”
She shrugs. “What? We’re all thinking it, aren’t we?”
Coen mutters something under his breath, and Angelina leans over to whisper to Allie, who nods and whispers it to Jude, who typically remains fairly quiet during these dinners.
Easily overwhelmed, he sits back and interjects only when needed. His sharp azure gaze darts over all the guests and then lands on Kennedy and Cass. “The signature guest book came in today.”
Kennedy points her wine glass toward him. “Thank you. Some news about the wedding to share.”
He smiles at her, and everyone chuckles lightly as we return to finishing our plates and the conversations we were having before the topic of lasagna and my training was broached.
But I can’t manage to stomach mine tonight and push it away, glancing over at Wren to check on her.
And it’s a good thing I do.
Her normally pale skin has taken on an almost deathly pallor.
Nana notices, too, narrowing her gaze. “Wren, dear. Are you all right?”
I drape my arm over the back of her chair and lean in. “What’s wrong?”
She swallows thickly, a gulp like she’s trying to keep something down. Her hand drops over her stomach. “I’m not feeling very well. Excuse me.”
The sharp shove of her chair back from the table knocks my arm from it, and she turns and bolts for the back hallway before I can even get up.
I dart my gaze to Aunt Nora and Pope.
They both give me pointed looks, and Pope’s dark eyes drift to the Pack ‘N Play set up in the corner of the room where the babies sleep.
Oh…
My gut lurches, and I shove back my chair and rush down the corridor that leads to the closest bathroom. And a closed door.
I try the handle, but it won’t turn.
She locked me out.
Pounding my fist against the wood, I press my ear to it, listening for anything. “Wren, are you all right?”
She doesn’t answer, but the retching sound from inside finally reaches me.
Fuck.
It’s a good thing I’ve been picking locks at Nana’s house for years and have mastered the art.
I head back out into the kitchen and grab a butter knife from the silverware drawer.
Mom darts in from the dining room and grabs my wrist to stop me from ducking back out. “Where are you going with that?”
“To get into the bathroom.”
Her lips press together firmly, and she gives me a reproachful look I’ve received far too many times in life. “Give her a minute. She would’ve left it unlocked if she wanted you there.”
“But—”
Firm fingers tighten around my wrist. “Is she pregnant?”
I squeeze my eyes closed.
This isn’t the conversation I want to be having right now.
Not with her.
Not with anyone.
Not when I don’t even know.
I open my eyes and stare down at the woman who gave birth to me, who sacrificed over and over again for Astrid and me, who is the best mother I ever could have asked for. And I can’t lie to her and deny it. “I don’t know. It’s possible.”
More than possible.
She gives me a sympathetic look. “When I was pregnant with you and Astrid, my morning sickness started early, like two weeks after conception date because of how strongly my body reacted to the hormones.”
Images of taking her during the fundraiser up in the choir loft flit through my head.
Could I really have gotten her pregnant that night?
A combination of concern and excitement flutters through my stomach. “I need to make sure she’s okay, Mom.”
She inclines her head back toward the hallway. “Knock again and see if she lets you in before you go breaking Nana’s lock.”
“I will. I promise.”
Mom releases her grip on me, and I slip out of the kitchen and make my way back down the hallway to the bathroom.
I knock again, gentler this time, not wanting to startle her. “Wren?”
Several seconds tick by.
Then, soft footsteps.
The click of the lock and the knob turning.
She pulls open the door slowly, and I see how pale she looks, how clammy her skin appears, the red puffiness around her eyes from tears leaking out while she heaved.
Hell.
Wren has definitely been sick.
“Little Bird…” I push the door open all the way and step in, tugging her into my arms and nudging it closed behind me. Pulling her tightly against me, I let her bury her face against my chest. “Did you get sick?”
She nods weakly.
I tip her chin so she looks up at me, fear and uncertainty spinning in her unsteady gaze. “Are you pregnant?”
Her shoulders rise and fall gently. “I don’t know.”
“How long have you been here in New Orleans? Two months?”
“Yeah…” Her head bobs again. “About that.”
I brush my thumb over her cheek, not bothering to fight the grin pulling at my lips as my brain finally starts to process the possibility. And the reality. “You haven’t had your period since we’ve been together…”
Those soft bourbon eyes widen. “Oh, my God. You’re right. I didn’t even…I didn’t even notice.”
Neither did I.
But looking back, we both should have realized it happened at some point when I’ve been able to worship her completely uninterrupted the entire time.
“We’re going to have a baby, Little Bird.”
Tears spill from her eyes, but her lips curl into a grin that matches my own. “I think we are.”