"What did he say?" Coach asks the other two.

"He said, 'About goddamned time.'" Pete exchanges looks with Riley.

"If Oz tries to stitch the poor kid's open cut, the kid's going to lose an eyeball," Coach declares as he gets up and grabs his jacket.

My heart turns over in my chest.

"He's got some chip on his shoulder."

Coach shoots them a grave look. "If his old man is who we think he is, of course he has a chip." He spots me and for a moment seems confused as to why I'm here. "Reese, right?"

"Yes." I smile at all three of them. "Congratulations."

"Come with us next time," Riley says. "I promise you it's quite the experience."

"Can't. Apparently Racer's on an I-need-Reese-to-sleep phase. I'm his new blankie."

I quickly shuffle back into the kitchen, ask Diane for a cooler bag to fit a pint of ice cream, then go knock on the door of the master bedroom. I hear shower water in the background when Brooke opens the door with a towel clutched to her chest. I force myself not to look inside because when I'm around them, I almost feel like I'm intruding on the incredible chemistry they share. "Can I go out for a walk? Racer's tucked into bed. I want to burn some calories."

"Sure, but . . ." She glances into the bedroom as if to check the time.

"I'll be fine," I assure, dipping my hand into my bag. I take out the pepper spray she gave me.

She grins. "Okay, then. You're set. Be careful, Reese. One hour back here or I'm going to bust your phone."

"Yes!" I cross the living room and head outside.

TWELVE.

FIRST AID.

Reese Twenty minutes later, I'm at the lobby of his hotel. I pretend to be his girl, the dumb-wit who forgot the room number, just got into town, and wants to surprise him. Because I'm young and seem sweet, the staff falls for it and dishes out the room number, and three minutes later, I'm a mass of nerves knocking at his door. "Just do it," I hear, a low growl.

Even through a door, the guy's voice makes me shiver.

Why are you here, Reese?

"Maverick." I knock again, then say, "Maverick, it's me."

There's total silence to the degree that I wonder if I made up the sounds I just heard coming from inside the room.

He swears and three heartbeats later, the door swings open. Maverick Cage stands before me, utterly still. Tall. Sweaty. And intimidating. I inhale, because, hello? Intimidating.

One eye is closed, bleeding at the eyebrow. The eye beneath it is swollen and bruised, and the power in his other eye's stare is so absolute, it would thrust me backward if I weren't so determined to get in there and help.

It takes me a moment to realize that while I stand here and gape, he's been checking me out, head to toe.

Heat pops up all over my body, quickly following his stare.

"What are you doing here?" His voice is about as raspy as sandpaper. There's a world of frustration in his expression, and his throat is so tanned and thick and he's bleeding and shirtless and he is so ripped. And glorious. Every muscle of his chest is chiseled and rock-hard, covered in the smoothest, most golden skin I've ever seen. His nipples- You are not staring at his small, pointy, brown nipples, Reese!

"I can sew," I blurt. "I mean, shirts and stuff but . . . my cousin insisted I learn first aid and more when I came to help for the summer."

His one eye once again runs over me and he waits a beat. It's such a long beat, in my mind I have a chance of leaving the building before he opens the door farther. "Come in."

He's reluctant about letting me into his space, and I'm suddenly just as reluctant when I step inside. If I thought by coming to his room, I'd have a clue as to who he is, I was on another level of fantasy. The place is as bare as a clean hotel room gets-except this room is littered with fighting gear. A duffel bag by a chair in the corner. Water bottles and electrolyte drinks. Plus a first-aid kit open and full of material that seems to have been shuffled around as something was extracted.

Seeing the bed he sleeps on makes my chest feel so weird. Like somebody punched me there. There's a pair of black boxing gloves on the nightstand next to a similar pair of older gloves. Those second gloves look old; they're worn and torn around the wrists, taped haphazardly with a silver tape. They're the kind of gloves one doesn't keep around for fighting purposes. They look older than Maverick is.

In the center of the Spartan room, a middle-aged man stands holding a shiny little needle with a slim blue thread running through it.

The man has a belly, has clearly been running his hands through his white hair in frustration, and his eyes are bloodshot and confused as he scrutinizes me as if he's not sure if I'm really in the room or maybe in his head.

"Hi, Oz," I say.

He squints. "And you are?"

"You don't know me, but everyone knows you."

He huffs. "Is that right? As the has-been, right? I'm making a comeback, just you wait and see." He drinks from his silver flask. Maverick smirks at me and goes to pluck the needle from Oz's grip.

When he walks up to me with the needle, I suddenly don't know what possessed me to come to his aid. I've sewn pillows, not warm, living flesh.

"Do your worst," he says, raising his good eyebrow, challenging me.

"Has it been sterilized. . . ?" I ask, trying to focus on the needle he just handed to me.

Not on the fact that Maverick is too close.

Not on the fact that Maverick is watching me with more interest than he's ever watched me with.

Pulling out the nightstand drawer, he grabs a lighter, turns it on, flickers it over the needle, sterilizing it with the flame, then he walks to a bag of ice and sticks it inside to cool it immediately.

"I'm impressed."

Our fingers brush as he passes the needle again, and then he sits down on the chair by the window. I try to keep my pulse steady as I clean the wound. "No hospital for you, huh," I whisper.

"Don't want to go there to heal and I don't want to go there to die." His voice is low but adamant, and so close his breath fans over my face-and it feels so warm.

I stop smiling when I see him looking at me and feel that strange flip in my tummy.

Be strong, Reese.

If he can take the gash, you can do some needlework.

You might even take his stare.

I stand between his parted legs. He's in shorts and . . .

Oh.

God.

His thighs are massive and bulging like rocks. He's sitting down, his hair gleams under the yellow room lights, his knees scraped. His legs are hair-dusted and tan. His chest is soaked with sweat. I'm standing, and his face is eye level with my neck. Every inch closer, I get nervous. My hand shakes a little.

I know it's going to hurt, but there's no concern in his gaze. Almost as if he's immune to pain.

"Lower your gaze," I say.

He drops his gaze. And it doesn't help. I can't concentrate because whatever it is he's staring at now, my lips are tingling. Tingling.

Is he looking at my lips?

I can feel his eyes on me-in me-like he has X-ray vision. I set my fingers on Maverick's forehead. He doesn't react to the touch at all, but touching him is making me feel funny. But this is not a funny moment, so you should just get down to business, girl!

Inhaling and holding my breath, I pierce his skin with the tip of the needle, wincing inside. He doesn't move. He watches me in silence as I ease the needle out. And then pierce his skin again.

"You'll have a scar," I whisper ruefully.

He reaches out and curls his wounded hand around my waist as if to steady me, and I can't stop my body's instant quiver in reaction. Body, behave!

My hand has stopped stitching as I assess whatever it is that's unsettling me to the core.

His pinkie somehow stole under my shirt, the others over it. The pad of his finger is a little rough. His fingers grip me a little tighter as he draws me closer. I catch my breath, then realize he's steadying me so I can finish. And I won't be able to finish if I keep focusing on the fact that my boobs are right in his face!

I pierce his skin again, this time quickly, trying to sew as tightly as possible so that it heals better. And as fast as possible, so I can get out of here. He inhales sharply.

I pause. "I'm hurting you."

His head tilts and his eyes flick up to mine and there is so much heat there, the kind that I have never seen in anyone's eyes when they look at me. Not me.

"Are you done?" he asks, voice textured, his eyes roiling with frustration all of a sudden, as if he can't wait for me to be done. But his fingers are clutching me closer, until my knee is up against . . . his groin.

I purse my lips and focus on piercing his skin again. I do a total of twelve stitches. Even while my heart is running like Seabiscuit in my chest and I pray he doesn't notice how fast my chest rises and falls.

"There. You'll live to fight another day."

I pull away and then put almost half the room between us as I search for something to say. "I brought ice cream to celebrate. It's your first fight at the Underground. Tell me!"

Back to the business of celebrating, I bring out my ice cream pack.

He leans forward, elbows to his knees, watching me in curiosity. "It was nothing special." He curls his fingers into his palms and watches my profile intently.

Then Oz says, "It was spectacular! He KO'd three!"

Maverick's eyes flash on Oz, a spark hot enough to melt steel. He growls angrily, shaking his head. "Not enough."

"Better than any starter fighter I've seen in a long time. You broke Twister in one round." He stares at Maverick, who's staring at me.

"Twister?" I ask, impressed.

"I'll get you a cab so you can go home, Oz," Maverick tells him. I notice how meaningfully Maverick's eyes slide toward the door.

Oz's eyebrows fly up.

So do mine.

Maverick looks unperturbed.

I have the strangest feeling that he wants to be alone with me.

A kernel of panic settles in my gut.

And two of excitement.

Three of lust.

"Boy, I've been taking care of myself before you came along, so fuck off. I can get my own cab." Oz slaps the first-aid kit closed and carries it under his armpit as he sips from his flask and grabs his coat.

"'Bye, Oz," says Maverick, and when the door slams shut as Oz grumbles, Maverick looks at me and smiles.

I take out the ice cream.

Please god, let him not smile at me like that ever again.

We're so alone, and it's so quiet, and he's so . . . bare-chested.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, still smiling.

"Plastic spoons," I say, like they're the best invention ever. I purposely ignore his question and make a big ceremony out of studying the spoons-as if there's a difference between them-and finally I hand him one.

He watches me and takes it between his thumb and forefinger. I almost feel connected when we're both holding the spoon at the same time. Which is ridiculous.

"It's dietetic," I say as he slides the spoon into the bucket of ice cream. He jams it into his mouth. I watch him, uncertain. "It's good?"

He takes another spoonful and frowns, as if considering.