Page 4 of Forgotten Comeback

So satisfying, eachthudof my gloved fist with the bag.

“Hey, beautiful, I need this bag.” A deep voice sounds from the other side of the bag, masculine hands holding it steady.

Annoyance flares through me. I’m about to school this guy on proper gym etiquette when he rounds the bag, my gaze locking with his. My breath hitches, and I resist doing a double take. I’ve never seen eyes like his before. Gray, with a ring of gold around each iris.

Tearing my eyes away from his exotic ones, I’d guess every bit of six feet tall, with an obvious boxer’s build. Wide shoulders. A slim waist. Trim muscles. Nice square jaw. No clue who he is, but I’ve seen him sparring in the ring a few times; he’s usually cheered on by a group of fangirls who could double for fitness models.

“Not my name, and sure, when I get finished,” I say, throwing another hook. I’m neither his fangirl nor a fitness model; he can wait his turn like everybody else.

He reaches above my head and unhooks the bag, crossing the gym in effortless strides.

“What the hell!” After picking my jaw off the mat, I chase him down. “I was using that bag.”

“And now you’re not.” He winks at me as he hoists the bag above his head, attaching it to a hook.

“And now you’re not.” I resume punchingmybag, refusing to be swayed by his ridiculous good looks.

“You’re cute,” he says with laughter in his voice as he slips on his gloves.

“Still not my name,” I tell him flippantly.

“No, but let me guess.” Those exotic eyes take an entitled stroll up and down my body, leaving a tingling trail of annoyance in their wake.

“Red hair to match the fiery temperament. Resting bitch face to warn any man away from those dangerous curves?—”

“And yet you’re not heeding the warning,” I say curtly, throwing another punch. It’s true: I have a world-class resting bitch face. It’s a combination of me being unable to hide my expression, coupled with my naturally frowning pout. As for the dangerous curves comment, I refuse to be flattered by who I’m guessing is the gym’s resident player.

“You tell me, man-eater, is it worth the risk?” he asks, his voice laced with amusement.

“Man-eater?” I roll my eyes. “Lucky for you, fuckboys aren’t a part of my diet.”

He chuckles as he rises to full height and disappears behind the other side of the bag. There’s athud, and the bag goes flying toward me and knocks me on my ass.

“Hey!”

He begins unleashing on the bag, and I ungracefully crab-walk backwards before standing, so as not to get knocked on my ass again.

“Dickhead,” I spit at him, storming off.

“Hate to see you go, but love to watch you walk away, man-eater,” he calls after me. “Thanks for the bag.”

Gavin

“Who’s the curvy redhead?” I throw a right jab, hitting the pad in my trainer’s left hand, followed by a left jab, hitting the pad in his right.

Russell narrows his eyes. “Nobody your dick needs to be concerned with. Focus.”

“My dick would focus if you told me who she was.” I throw an even harder right jab, left jab.

Russell sighs. “Taylor McKenna. Twenty-six-years-old. Casino dealer. Recently got into fitness.”

Right jab. Left jab.

“Single?” Not that I’m interested in being eaten alive; I prefer my women soft and sweet, not prickly and punchy.

Right jab. Left jab.

“Man, I don’t know what her relationship status is, and let’s keep it that way. She’s going to be helping out in the front office, and I’m not looking to get the club in a sexual harassment lawsuit. The boss would have my neck.”