Chapter Twenty-Two
Sierra
I stood in the middle of Connor’s walk-in closet, surrounded by open suitcases and piles of clothing, trying to decide what people wore to a boxing match.
Toffee had made himself comfortable in the largest empty suitcase, his beige fur contrasting against the black interior as he kneaded the soft lining.
Every time I removed him to place something inside, he would wait exactly ten seconds before leaping back in, purring triumphantly as if he'd won some silent battle of wills.
“You're overthinking this,” Connor mused from the doorway, his massive frame blocking the entire entrance. Usually, that would make me nervous, but Connor never made me scared.
He leaned against the frame, tattooed arms crossed over his chest, watching me with that half-amused, half-indulgent expression he reserved solely for me.
He'd been packed for hours already—his entire process had taken less than fifteen minutes, resulting in a single duffel bag containing workout clothes, fight gear, and one suit.
“It's Boston in March, sweet girl. Not the Arctic Circle.”
I sighed, holding up two nearly identical sweaters, one ivory, one white, squinting at them as if the difference were monumental.
“I know, but I've never been to a professional fight before. I don't want to look out of place.”
Truly, I was terrified of embarrassing him, Connor “Killer” Graves, showing up with a nobody who didn't know the difference between an uppercut and a hook.
The boxing world was his domain, filled with people who understood his language of violence and victory. I was just a visitor, clutching my books in a world of mouth guards and championship belts.
Connor crossed to the closet, gently taking both sweaters from my hands and tossing them into the suitcase. Much to Toffee's dismay, of course, who shot him a betrayed look before relocating to a pile of my leggings.
“You could show up in a potato sack and still be the most beautiful woman there.”
His hands settled on my hips, thumbs brushing my skin beneath my oversized pullover. “Besides, you'll be in VIP. No one's getting anywhere near you.”
“That's not helping,” I muttered, though I couldn't help but lean into his touch. Truthfully, it did help. I didn’t like being in crowds like that.
His entire being was always solid, the eye of the hurricane that had become my life, finding ways to take care of me that I didn’t know were possible.
With Connor, I could breathe. Without him... the thought of being alone in a strange city made anxiety flare in my belly.
As if sensing my thoughts, Connor tilted my chin up, making me meet his gaze .
“I'll be with you the entire time,” he promised, his thumb tracing my lower lip. “And when I'm training or in the match, Mara will stay with you. No one's getting within ten feet of you without going through her first.”
The image of the intimidating ex-WBC woman should have been reassuring, but it only underscored how out of my depth I felt.
Normal people didn't need security details. Normal people didn't worry about being recognized in public or having their pictures splashed across sports websites. But Connor's world wasn't normal, and by extension, neither was mine anymore.
“I'm being dumb, aren't I?” I asked, attempting a smile that felt wobbly even to me. "It's just a few days in Boston.”
Connor's expression darkened, a shadow passing behind his eyes so quickly I might have imagined it. Then he was smiling again, pressing a kiss to my forehead.
“Don’t speak like that. You just have too many good ideas, sweet girl.”
The certainty in his voice was absolute. When Connor Graves made a promise, it seemed like the universe itself rearranged to accommodate it.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, the distinctive pattern indicating a group call. He pulled it out, glancing at the screen with a slight frown before answering.
“What?”
His greeting lacked even the pretense of warmth, though I knew this was just how he communicated with his friends.
I could hear the tinny sound of voices through the speaker, though not clearly enough to make out words. Connor's expression shifted subtly, his jaw tightening as he listened.
“Yes, I'm still fighting,” he said after a moment, his free hand absently stroking my lower back in slow, soothing circles. “Friday night. Eight o'clock.” Another pause as voices erupted from the phone. "Yes, I'm bringing Sierra. "
His tone dared them to comment, which, of course, they immediately did, judging by the increase in volume from the device.
Connor's eyes rolled skyward, his brows creasing. “She's coming to the fight. And the cat.”
Whatever someone said in response made Connor's expression darken dangerously. “Say that again, and I'll rearrange your face the next time I see you.” The threat was delivered with such casual menace that I might have been concerned if I didn't know that they seemed to care beneath their bickering.
The voices grew louder, more insistent, until Connor finally growled, “I'm hanging up now. Either be at the hangar at seven or find your own way to Boston.” He disconnected the call with more force than necessary, shoving the phone back into his pocket with a muttered curse.
“All good?” I asked, trying to sound casual while folding a pair of jeans with excessive care. Connor's expression softened as he looked at me, the irritation melting away.
“They’re just being little shits," he sighed, dismissing whatever had transpired. “They'll meet us at the hangar tonight. Adrian's got some weird tea for you to try.”
The thoughtfulness of the gesture made me smile. For all their rough exteriors and questionable humor, Connor's friends had seemingly taken to me, making me feel like the luckiest girl in the world.
“That’s nice of him,” I murmured, finally zipping the overstuffed suitcase closed. Toffee immediately leapt onto it, claiming the new territory with a satisfied meow.
“I think I'm finally packed?"
Connor glanced at the two big suitcases with barely concealed amusement. “We're going for four days, sweet girl, not moving permanently.”
I flushed, my nerves tingling and suddenly defensive. “One is just for Toffee's things! He needs the fancy food you got him, and his favorite toys, and his scratching post, and?—”
“And we're taking a private jet that could fit a hundred Toffees,” Connor finished for me, wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling me against his chest. “Relax, I’m teasing you.”
His lips found the lobe of my ear, brushing over the sensitive skin. “Besides, I like that part of you. It's cute.”
I melted into his embrace, the lingering anxiety about the trip receding. He had a way of making the world feel manageable, of turning mountains into molehills with nothing more than his presence.
With him, I could face anything, even a city full of strangers and the intimidating world of professional boxing.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of last-minute preparations.
Connor ordered a big, greasy pizza to commemorate the fancy hotel food we’d be eating the next four days, and we ate on the living room couch, sharing garlic bread and laughing as Toffee attempted to steal pieces of meat from our plates.
It felt normal, a bubble of peace before the chaos of travel and the intensity of the upcoming fight.
As evening approached, my anxiety returned, manifesting in increasingly frantic attempts to make Toffee use his litter box one last time before we left.
“Come on, baby,” I coaxed, placing him down in the pristine litter for the third time in ten minutes. “Just go now, so you don't have to on the plane.”
Toffee stared at me with the particular brand of disdain only cats can master, before deliberately turning and walking out of the litter box, tail swaying in rejection.
“He's not going to go just because you want him to,” Connor observed from the doorway, where he was checking messages on his phone.
He'd changed into comfortable travel clothes—black joggers and a brown fitted shirt that stretched across his biceps in a way that made my mouth go dry .
“Toffee operates on his own schedule.”
“But what if he needs to go during takeoff?” I fretted, following Toffee into the living room and picking him back up to carry him to the litter box. “Or during turbulence? Or?—”
Connor crossed the room, placing his large hands on my shoulders and effectively halting my spiral. "Sierra,” his voice was gentle but firm. “The jet has two big bathrooms. We can set up a litter box in there. He'll be fine.”
His thumbs traced soothing circles on my collarbones. “You'll be fine. Everything will be fine.”
I took a deep breath, nodding. “You're right. I'm being dumb again.”
“Not dumb,” he corrected, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "Just nervous. It's your first time flying private, your first professional fight. It's normal to be anxious.”
His hands slid down my arms, intertwining our fingers. “But I've got you. Both of you.” He nodded toward Toffee, who had wriggled out of my arms.
The declaration was a reminder that I wasn't facing this alone. Connor and the sponsors had taken care of everything regarding the trip. All I had to do was trust him, follow his lead, and enjoy the experience. It already eased most of the anxiety I would’ve been feeling otherwise.
“We should get going,” Connor muttered, checking his watch. “We’ll take the car and park it there.”
He moved with purpose, gathering our luggage and arranging it by the door. I watched him, marveling at how quickly he got everything done and how easily he lifted every bag.
The final task was getting Toffee into his carrier, a fancy model Connor had gotten delivered this morning that probably cost more than all the clothes in our luggage combined.
This one was a soft-sided backpack with mesh windows, plush interior padding, and even had a small built-in water dispenser.
“It's airline approved,” Connor had explained when it arrived early this morning, as if that justified the exorbitant price tag. “Only the best for our boy.”
Toffee, however, was not impressed by the carrier's pedigree.
When I approached with it, he looked up at me with his blue eyes, giving a soft chirp.
I scooped him up easily, his warm body squirming in my arms as I gently lowered him into the plush backpack.
He nosed the mesh, looking up at me expectantly as I zipped the carrier closed and fished out a treat for him.
“That was easy,” Connor remarked, watching the process with a hint of surprise. “He gave me a harder time at your apartment.”
I smiled proudly. “Toffee’s usually pretty good for me.” I tucked a new bag of his favorite treats into the side pocket. “Plus, I think he likes his new carrier.”
Once the bag was ready, Connor turned me around.
“Arms up.”
I obeyed, raising my arms as he slipped the padded straps over my shoulders. His movements were gentle as he adjusted the fit, and Toffee's weight settled comfortably against my back, the carrier designed to distribute his bulk evenly.
“Too heavy?”
I shook my head, feeling oddly calm yet excited with Toffee on my back.
Connor picked up the two suitcases and his duffle, leaving me with just Toffee's carrier and my small backpack. “Ready?”
I took one last look around the penthouse—my safe haven for the past week, the fortress where Connor had sheltered me from the world after my meltdown.
The thought of leaving it made my stomach clench with a fresh wave of anxiety, but I pushed it down. As long as Connor was with me, I could go anywhere.
“Ready,” I confirmed. Toffee meowed softly from within his backpack, already wanting to get going. Connor's smile was warm and reassuring as he held the door open for me.
“Then let's go, sweet girl. Boston awaits. ”
As we stepped into the private elevator, I felt a curious mixture of anticipation.
I was entering Connor’s world, a world of luxury and privilege, of spotlights and expectations.
A world where he reigned as champion, feared and revered in equal measure.
And he was bringing me into it, proudly, without hesitation.