Rosewood vs. Jordan
Chapter nineteen
Aurora Driscoll
Hayes doesn’t understand the concept of personal space. Or maybe he does, and he just simply does not care for it. Because—until he went to change a few minutes ago—he hasn’t stopped touching me all night.
At first it was an arm around my shoulder, occasional kisses to the top of my head that sent tingles down my spine.
Then his hand moved to the dip of my waist. His lips at my ear every time he wanted to say something.
Soon, that wasn’t enough for him. People kept pushing closer to the ring, and though Mac was doing a perfectly fine job keeping them away, Hayes moved me in front of him.
He wrapped his strong arms around my middle and made occasional commentary.
Each time he spoke, my abdomen tightened, his breath on my neck disconcerting.
Inexplicably, I didn’t stop him. Not once.
His touch is like a computer virus. My brain turned into one of those eternal buffering screens, and I couldn’t do anything but stand there.
Now that he’s gone, my mind has reopened its normal tabs, all of which are reminding me this is not real, and Hayes is not boyfriend material.
Carson falls into the ring, his cup in the air like he’s swimming and doesn’t want to lose it to the ocean waves.
None of the liquid spills, though, so maybe his method is sound.
His appearance draws me out of my mini spiral and reminds me that in a few moments Hayes is going to be in there, fighting. And if he doesn’t get hit …
“Ladies!” Carson bellows, leaving off the and gentlemen part. “The fight you’ve been waiting for is finally here! Rosewood versus Jordan! Place your final bets. When the bell tolls, the wagers are set!”
Hayes appears at the edge of the ring. I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry.
Even cast in shadows, he’s something to behold.
He’s wearing nothing but a pair of black shorts that should be rated at least PG-13.
Maybe M for mature. Though all maturity in this room disappeared when he entered.
I’m pretty sure the woman next to me is drooling.
He ducks under the ropes wearing a smirk that makes my skin heat.
Under the lights, muscles ripple and it’s clear that he trains.
A lot. They could just be the showy sort of muscles with no power behind them, but I have a distinct feeling they’re not.
He pops in a mouth guard, then pulls on his gloves and bounces on his feet a little to warm up while the other guy enters the ring.
As my eyes—totally and completely unwillingly—rove over him, I notice his hands.
The ones that were holding my waist no more than ten minutes ago.
He’s wearing fingerless gloves with padding around the knuckles.
The kind that allows for more movement. More freedom to do things like lift my chin—I shake my head and blink a few times.
The two men meet in the middle while Carson heads to a gong right outside the ring.
Hayes and Jordan share a few words, then bump gloves before taking a few steps back and getting into defensive positions.
Carson waits just long enough for the room to fall silent, the air thick with anticipation, before hitting the gong.
Right as the sound pierces the air, Hayes glances my way and winks. The women next to me gasp like it was for them. I bite back a smile.
The fight begins with Jordan swinging and missing.
Hayes is fast, quick on his feet in a way that speaks of hours of dedication.
Each time Jordan advances, Hayes dances away.
The only time Jordan has something resembling an opportunity is when Hayes throws his own punch.
And even then, any counterstrike on Jordan’s part doesn’t land.
Hayes dodges, ducks, and glides out of reach every single time.
Frustration lines Jordan’s face. He looks ready to kill and swings with a ferocity that would be worrying if any of them came close to connecting.
I hold my breath as one particularly forceful swing sails through the air.
Close, but not enough. Hayes laughs, clearly entertained by his added condition to the match.
Jordan does not. It doesn’t look good that he can’t get a hit in.
His reputation is going to be atrocious after tonight if Hayes keeps this up.
The first round ends with a ring of the gong, and it’s clear Hayes dominated.
There’s a short break, and the room buzzes with conversation about the unusual fight.
After dropping his mouth guard with an attendant, Hayes leans over the ropes near me and grins, a water bottle hanging from one hand.
Sweat drips down his right temple, and his muscles are shining beneath the chandelier.
I can’t help it. My eyes wander over his frame.
He’s the kind of attractive that makes you forget how to function.
“Enjoying yourself, Princess?”
My eyes snap up to his, which are sparkling with self-satisfaction. I hope he can’t tell how badly I’m blushing right now.
When I don’t reply, he continues. “I’m thinking next week right after our tutoring session we can go to the gym where I train. Would that work for you?”
He tips the water back and takes a long drink.
“You haven’t won yet,” I remind him. “I doubt you can keep this up for another round.”
He wipes his mouth on his wrist. “Breaking our rules already?”
I frown, not knowing what he’s talking about.
“Rule number two. No lying,” he says right as Carson calls for him to return to the center.
I shoot him one last unamused look before he pushes off the ropes and turns away.
He’s even more annoying when he’s right.
I don’t doubt that he could keep this up for hours.
Sure, he’s exerted himself, but he’s got plenty of endurance, and beyond that, he loves a challenge.
I don’t read far into the fact that he’s doing all of this for a date with me.
It doesn’t mean anything; he’s just a bored billionaire playing with a shiny new toy, pressing my buttons to see what I’ll do.
Which is why I shouldn’t have proposed the bet in the first place, but he’s far too good at getting under my skin.
Now I’ve put myself in another situation where I’m in way over my head involving Hayes Rosewood. When will I learn?
Round two begins with a quick advance from Jordan.
He’s too impatient. Too reckless and angry.
Hayes is the opposite, and it shows. This is going to be easy for him if Jordan doesn’t tighten up.
I watch every move with bated breath, my heart jumping at every swing.
The attendees around me get rowdier the longer it goes on.
And then it all comes to a crescendo. Hayes swings and makes direct contact with Jordan’s temple.
Jordan sways on his feet, trying to keep his gloves up.
But he stumbles to the ground. Carson shouts out a countdown and everyone joins in, clapping with each number.
Every few counts he leans in to look at Jordan, who tries to get up onto his knees but ends up on the mat again.
“Eight, nine, ten!”
Jordan stays down. A few guys in matching uniforms rush toward him on the mat, flipping him over and assessing him. I know from watching countless fights that he should be fine. While he’s recovering, Carson grabs Hayes’s arm and lifts it.
“Our founder and winner, Hayes Rosewood!”
The entire room explodes with applause. Except me. Hayes meets my gaze, brows raised. Slowly, I lift my hands and clap them together a few times. He grins around his mouth guard while I shake my head.
After he soaks in the applause, he drops his gloves and mouth guard off with an attendant, then makes his way over to me. The crowd parts around him, though people do try to get his attention. He wipes his face with a black towel, pushing it through his dampened hair as he approaches.
“Looks like I won,” he says in a low voice.
I cross my arms and meet his gaze head on.
“Not bad, Rosewood.” I utter the words begrudgingly, trying to hide how impressed I actually am.
To win a fight is one thing, but to do it without being touched? It’s another level of skill that could earn him a lot more than applause in a basement. I grew up watching fights and hearing my dad and brother debate about the best ones. I know what excellence looks like. And Hayes has it.
Which begs the question: why isn’t he doing more with it?
“Rosewood, huh?” Hayes takes a step forward. The heat of his body washes over me. “I think I prefer Prince Charming.”
“And I think you know by now how little I care about what you prefer,” I shoot back.
He chuckles, and warmth pools deep in my abdomen.
“If people hear you they’re going to think you don’t like me,” he teases.
I roll my eyes. “If they think that after you were all over me tonight, there’s no hope for their comprehension skills.”
His hand lifts and he brushes a strand of my hair back, then runs his fingertips over my jawline.
“If we broke rule number one things would be cleared up pretty quickly,” he murmurs.
My breath catches, and I have to fight to keep up with the conversation.
“If we break rule number one, it’s not going to be in front of all these people.”
Pleasant surprise lights his gaze.
“Interesting phrasing. A lot of implications hidden within it.”
“Shut up and take me home,” I grumble.
His grin widens. I smack his bare chest.
“Not like that!”
He laughs again and takes a step back.
“Let me change and then we’ll leave. I’ve tortured you enough.”
“You can say that again.”
My words come out gruff, but I’m finding it hard not to smile as he dodges everyone who tries to talk to him so that we can leave. Just like he promised. Maybe this whole fake-dating thing won’t be so bad.