Chapter 17
Jamie
When Marcus, Ethan's personal chef, carries in a portable food warmer and looks around my uncle's gym like he's searching for a clean spot to put it, I have to bite back a laugh. Finally, he spreads a pristine white cloth over one of our weight benches.
Ethan introduces us, and he gives me a little bow.
“I’ve prepared a wild mushroom risotto," Marcus announces. "Grilled asparagus spears, honey-glazed baby carrots, and a roasted pear and walnut salad."
"Wow." I blink. "Sounds delicious."
And completely surreal. I sit in the grimy, well-worn boxing gym where I’ve spent most of my life and watch him plate the food like we're in a five-star restaurant.
Marcus arranges everything with practiced precision, adding artistic drizzles and garnishes that make the food look like modern art.
He puts the plates in front of us, on the elegant table that even has a candle, and tips his chin in acknowledgement when I thank him.
"There's my specialty dessert for afterward," he tells Ethan. "Would you like me to stay so I can serve it?"
"No need. Thank you, Marcus, you've outdone yourself. I can handle it from here." Ethan's voice carries genuine warmth as he says to me, "Marcus is the best chef in LA. You're in for a treat."
“Thank you, Ethan. It’s my pleasure. Ms. Jennings, I hope you enjoy the meal.” Marcus bows again before departing.
“He called you Ethan instead of Mr. Kane,” I say, picking up my knife and fork.
Ethan shrugs. “People can call me whatever they like. I barely notice.”
The main gym lights are off, and in the flickering candlelight, Ethan’s high cheekbones and square jaw make him look like a model.
He lifts his glass, and I watch, mesmerized as he brings it to his lips.
Those lips were on mine. Those strong hands roamed my body.
I tasted this gorgeous man. I had my thighs around his hips…
I clear my throat, forcing myself to focus on our conversation, reminding myself that he’s not a good person. “You’re more polite to Marcus than you are to most people,” I say.
“Marcus is a nice guy, and he’s been cooking for me for years." He gestures at my plate. "Try it."
The first bite hits my tongue and – holy shit.
It explodes into my tastebuds, and a moan escapes before I can stop it.
The flavors are incredible, rich and complex and perfect.
I should be embarrassed by the loud, raw sound I just made, but I can't even care because this is literally the most delicious thing I've ever tasted.
I scoop more in. "Oh my God," I breathe, closing my eyes to savor the food. "This is the best thing I've ever had in my mouth."
Ethan chuckles, and it’s a deep rumbling sound in the back of his throat. “By the end of the evening, you'll have something even better in your mouth."
My eyes fly open. "What did you just say?"
The air between us thickens as he watches me, his gaze heated and intent. My skin prickles with awareness. Without meaning to, I lick my lips, and his eyes track the movement. The temperature in the room spikes, and suddenly I’m scorching.
"The dessert," he says, his voice low and suggestive. "Marcus's specialty will make you moan even harder."
Heat floods my cheeks. I grab my wine glass and take a large swallow, trying to cool down. “Um.” I clear my throat. “Didn't you want to discuss the threat?"
He nods, his eyes still dark, his expression hungry. “But first, let’s finish our meal.”
Fine by me. I eat more, trying not to make any more sexual sounds. Not that it’s easy. The food is so good that I want to cry out “Yes! Yes! Yes!” like Meg Ryan did in When Harry Met Sally.
“That was incredible,” I say, when I finally put my knife and fork down on my empty plate. I let out a satisfied sigh. “Now, about that threat.”
“You need to take precautions,” Ethan starts, and my annoyance with him flares.
Before I can remind him that security is my job, my phone rings. Unknown number again.
Grimacing, I cut off the call. "Dammit. He just won't quit."
"Your father again?" Ethan's tone has gone gentle.
“I think so.” I meet his eyes firmly, not wanting him to feel sorry for me. “I don’t want him in my life. I have Uncle Vito, and Scarlet and Kayla and Dani. They’re my family, not him.”
He nods, his expression full of understanding. But that’s an illusion. How can someone like him understand me?
"Anyway,” I say, wanting to change the subject. “You said something about dessert?"
He takes two chocolate soufflés from the warmer and pours thick toffee sauce over each one. Steam rises and the scent makes my mouth water.
The first bite is heaven. Pure, molten chocolate-and-toffee heaven. I can’t stop the sound that escapes me, somewhere between a moan and a whimper. “Holy mother of God,” I breathe. "This is incredible."
I scoop more chocolate deliciousness into my mouth, closing my eyes to appreciate the way each spoonful melts over my tongue, transporting itself from my tastebuds directly into the pleasure center of my brain.
When I finally savor the very last mouthful and open my eyes, Ethan's gazing at me with an intensity that makes my pulse jump.
"You're staring," I manage, feeling heat climb my neck.
"Can you blame me?"
Our eyes lock across the table. The air feels electric, charged with possibility. Heat coils inside me, and all I can think about is kissing him again. I want his hands on me. His mouth on mine. For a moment, it’s all I can think about.
Then he looks down at his plate and clears his throat. "About the boxing match." His voice changes, going serious and hard.
"What about it?" I ask.
"We can't hold it here."
The words hit like a punch to the gut. My spoon clatters against the dish. "Excuse me?"
"The gym isn't suitable. The roof leaks, remember?”
I make my voice hard as steel. "The match happens here or not at all."
He frowns. “Be reasonable, Jamie.”
Anger flares hot in my chest. “Stand up," I order, surging to my feet. "Come here."
I stride to the wall beside the trophy cabinet, stopping in front of an old poster of Micky 'The Fist' Martinez, signed by the great man himself.
"See this?” I demand. “When I came to live here, Uncle Vito was a pro fighter, and this was a serious boxing gym.
He used to hold exhibition matches here all the time.
" I run my finger over the faded signature scrawled at the bottom of the poster. “My uncle invited Micky to fight here, and he actually came. That’s how good this place used to be. Micky saw me punching the bag and showed me some tips. He said I had talent.”
“You do have talent. But?—”
“It meant everything to me.” I turn on Ethan.
“I’d never been good at anything. I sucked at school, and Micky was the best fighter in the world.
Every time I look at this poster, even now, I remember how he made me feel.
Thanks to him, I didn’t get so depressed about all those lousy report cards.
And the kids who come here now, they need that too.
I want my uncle to see that this place could be great again. ”
He gestures to the stack of buckets in the corner. “What will you do if it rains, run around with those?”
“Would it matter if I did?” My voice rises with frustration. “If we hold the match here, we’re proving it can still be great. The kids who train here deserve the same kind of hope and inspiration that it gave me.”
He sighs. “What if the event fails because this place is too run down?”
“You mean because your wealthy friends might get shocked at having to walk into a gritty boxing gym instead of a fancy ballroom?”
He meets my gaze. “Yes.”
There it is.
His one-word answer makes the difference between us stark. I should have known he wouldn’t understand how important this is to me. How could he?
All at once, I want to be alone, in my sub-standard bedroom in my sub-standard gym.
I stride away from him, heading for the stairs. "Thanks for dinner. I’m going to hit the sack.”
“Jamie...”
I don’t turn around. “Lock up when you leave."