Page 5 of Falling for the Forbidden Fighter (She’s Worth the Trouble #3)

LOUIS

The apartment is quiet and cool when I get out of the shower. I used her shampoo and conditioner, so I smell her even though she’s not here.

On the counter, I find a key sitting on a little note. Be back around six. Rest. Eat. Hydrate. You’ll need it.

Even her handwriting is gorgeous.

I smell the note before tucking it safely into my bag. With nothing to unpack, I throw on some shorts and a tank top, take stock of her fridge, and look up the closest grocery store on my phone.

Ten-minute walk. In this heat, it’ll suck.

She’s worth it.

Another sweat worked up, another shower. I take a nap on the couch and get the best sleep I’ve had in years, then I find her vacuum and cleaning supplies. For the next hour, I clean the already tidy apartment.

It’s beyond feeling like I owe her—I definitely do.

If I’m staying here, I want to make her life easy. She’s not charging me rent, but I’d do this even if she were. I want to show her that I’m ready to worship her any way I can…

By the time the front door opens, the house is fragrant with onions, garlic, and peppers.

I hear her before I see her, “Uhhh. Are you cooking?”

She comes around the corner, a confused smile on her face.

“I said you could help with groceries,” she laughs. “Not that you had to be my personal chef.”

I shrug, browning ribeye in the pan. “You like cheesesteaks?”

“Never really had one.”

“Well, you’re getting the real deal tonight.”

Catherine changes into an oversized tie-dye shirt and sits on a stool at the counter.

For a brief moment, I catch a glimpse of her legs in the TV’s reflection, but I don’t linger on it.

If she’s going to be lounging around in just a t-shirt like that, I’m going to have trouble keeping my eyes to myself.

Thoughts of her father’s warnings try to pummel my mind, but I dance around them. I’ll face that fight when it comes, no matter the consequences.

“So, you cook?” she asks as I start assembling our sandwiches. “They teach you that in an orphanage? I figured all you ate growing up was gruel.”

I’m happy that she doesn’t feel the need to walk on eggshells with me. Lots of people handle me like glass when they find out I was an orphan. I don’t get it. All that apologizing and pity makes me feel isolated, less than them.

Catherine makes me laugh at my painful memories.

“I wasn’t in an orphanage,” I say, dropping two plates with overflowing sandwiches on them. “All right, so they didn’t have the hoagies or the peppers I wanted, but this is as legit a cheesesteak as you can get this side of the Mississippi.”

She takes a slow, big bite. The cheese stretches from her lips, followed by a little moan that makes me hold my breath.

“Oh, wow,” she mumbles through a full mouth. “Mmm!”

Nothing like watching somebody take that first bite of your food and loving every second of it. Now, I can eat.

I lean against the counter, diving into my own sandwich.

“Louis,” she hums, shoulders bopping back and forth, “where did you learn to cook like that?”

“Anyone from Philly should be able to make this. It’s like… nachos in New Mexico.”

“Really? You think nachos are our go-to?”

“Burritos?”

Catherine rolls her eyes, swallowing another bite. “Chiles Rellenos. Chile burgers… anything with chiles, really. Come on, this is insanely good. You throw down in the kitchen.”

“Thanks.” I smile at her, letting myself feel proud for once. “I was a line cook on the ship. We fed a whole damn carrier, almost five thousand people. I learned a lot, mostly about making a ton of food fast, but I was all right on the grill. Burgers. Omelets. Whatever.”

“Better than all right . This is fantastic.” She gives me an amusing look. “And if you want to make a habit of cooking me dinner, I would not mind.”

“I’ll do the dishes, too.”

“You cook, I’ll clean. Deal?”

She holds her fist out. We knock knuckles.

“Deal.”

Our cheesesteaks get devoured. Catherine even fingers the extra cheese off her plate. She pats her stomach, groaning.

“Food baby,” she says. “You ever consider being a chef? Culinary school?”

I grab our plates. “No.”

“Why not?”

I shrug, busying myself in the sink. “Can’t.”

“Hey, I said I’d clean.”

Catherine comes around the counter, jostling me.

“I can do it,” I say.

“Louis. You don’t have to do everything , all right? You’re not a burden. I want you here.”

I’m not a burden.

That’s all I’ve ever been. I was a burden on my parents, so they ditched me. A burden on the system, so I got tossed from house to house. I even found a way to be a burden to my unit, my ship, and got my ass tossed out of the Navy.

People like me are nothing but a drain on others.

Catherine bumps me aside, taking over the dishes. It makes me feel useless, but she doesn’t seem to mind… she seems happy to do it.

I take a few deep breaths, grab a rag, and start wiping down the counters.

“You won’t relax, will you?” she laughs. “Don’t think I didn’t notice that you vacuumed and cleaned up, too. Whatever makes you feel better.”

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah. Yeah.”

She starts loading rinsed plates into the washer. Every time she bends down, her leg lifts so her bare foot comes off the floor and her toes point. How is she so graceful and perfect when she’s doing something as mundane as the dishes?

It’s impossible not to steal glances as that big t-shirt lifts.

“So why can’t you go to culinary school?”

Again, I feel myself getting red in the face.

“Money,” I grunt.

“Win this fight and you’ll have some money,” she says. “Win a few more and you’ll be set. You could even take out student loans.”

“Not with my discharge,” I say. “And no GI Bill.”

“But if money wasn’t an issue.” She turns to face me. “Then would you go?”

I can feel my lips moving, but all that manages to come out is: “No.”

“Why not? Seriously, if all your cooking is like that you could—“

“I’m too fucking dumb, all right?”

Catherine looks furious, sad with rage. “What?”

“I barely managed to get my GED. Barely passed the ASVAB.” I feel like punching something.

My hands clench, eager to slap myself in the head.

“Why do you think I was a cook instead of some munitions specialist or flight-line tech? School ain’t for me.

Never has been. The only thing I’ve ever been good at is fighting. I have to fight.”

“Hey. Hey…”

Catherine creeps toward me, cupping my face with both hands. It feels like heating pads being pressed against me, like I’m being taken into a loving embrace that I needed twenty years ago but never received. It frightens me, makes me feel unsteady and weak.

“Don’t talk about yourself like that,” she says. My eyes are closed, but I feel her staring at me. “Y-you’ve had a hard life, Louis. That much is clear. But you’re not dumb. You hear me?”

“How do you know?”

“Because most boxers do it for fun. They do it to prove how manly they are. So many guys are eager to have their brain cells killed for a living… not you.” Finally, I open my eyes and let myself feel the warmth of her gaze. “You do it because you think you have to. But that’s not true.”

I scoff, keeping my arms pinned to my sides.

“I’ve got no family. No savings. The Navy gave me a behavioral discharge.

You know I have to report that on my job applications, right?

I’ve got nothing , Catherine.” I hold up a fist. “ This is all I’ve ever had.

If there’s any sort of road for me, it’ll be paved in blood. ”

She looks like she wants to say something comforting, but nothing comes to her.

What can she say?

Folks in the foster homes tried their best. I’ll always be grateful for that. But there was nothing those people could tell me to make me feel better about any of it.

Catherine must see the rage I’m feeling because she frowns, smacks my chest, and whirls around, digging in her bag.

“What are you doing?”

She turns and slaps a twenty into my hand.

“There,” she huffs, crossing her arms.

“There… what?”

“For the meal. You’re a professional now. And it was worth every penny.”

I can’t help but smile. “I guess it’s more than I’ve ever made boxing.”

“Five stars.”

Catherine storms out of the kitchen.

“Get ready for bed. Training bright and early,” she yells from her room. “And if I ever hear you talking about yourself like that again, you’re out of here!”

I hold the note in my hand, feeling the crispness between my fingers.

Somehow, the gesture makes me feel a little better about things long past.