Grayson
Lexi, he corrected mentally. She wasn’t his anything, except a potential employee.
His fighter. He left his playlist over his surround sound as he cruised through emails.
He confirmed the completion date on the subcontractor’s timeline for the new fight area of the club, purchased a case of mouth guards in various sizes, thank you, Lexi, and read an email from the club’s lawyer.
Mr. Aranov was reaching out about a disgruntled ex-member. It seemed the gentleman in question had been knocked unconscious and carried outside, and woke up to find his wallet gone, his watch gone, and that his membership had been revoked. He was demanding restitution and was threatening to sue.
He considered what would make her fight for him.
Was it money? He didn’t mind upping the offer he’d already had in mind.
She’d proven today without a doubt that she would be worth it.
She didn’t seem outwardly aggressive enough to need the fight, like plenty of fighters he’d known.
Which left him considering internal aggression.
What kind of personal demons made a legitimate submissive make fighting people and directing people’s fitness their life? It was a total contradiction.
The anti-inflammatories he’d taken still hadn’t kicked in, and his head throbbed along with his shoulder.
Suddenly remembering Lexi’s request - who was he kidding, he thought, she’d all but demanded he would get her a pepperoni pizza - he ordered pizza for eight-thirty, set an alarm for seven, and laid down.
He’d only met her a couple of days ago and she was already exhausting him. Fan-fucking-tastic.