Page 88 of Player

Clarissa

“The kiss is what did it,” is what he offers as a way of an explanation.

He won. A win by knockout.

I can’t believe it.

Men slap him on the back and congratulate him for a bleedin’ brilliant comeback. Eager to show their newfound respect. Everyone underestimated him.

And now his name will be the talk of the town.

Bleedin’ brilliant is right.

I soak him in. Thick biceps covered with bruises. Broad shoulders emphasized by his proud stance. Muscled chest gleaming with sweat. The way his hair falls across his forehead, the auburn-blond locks darkened from exertion. A handsome, rugged specimen of a man.

Dangerous. I frown, wondering where that random thought came from.

As for clever, “You knew exactly what you were doing,” I murmur, handing him the towel wrapped around ice I talked a bartender into fetching for me.

Finn shrugs and places the ice on his cheek.

“I took pictures.”

He stiffens.

“Only of the last round.”

“Delete them.”

My eyebrows arch high. “What?”

“My boss will kill me if my face gets out there. Delete them.” His tone is flat. Somber. He’s serious. Yet, I can understand his position.

I take out my phone, and as he watches me intently, delete them all. I hold up my phone to show him. “Done.”

“Good. Let’s get out of here.”

I catch his wince and the slight limp as we cross the floor. Subtle things that show he’s in more pain than he lets on. He’s good at hiding his emotions. Excellent at making people believe less of him.

Still, I want to take care of him. Assess his injuries and smother him with affection. Be a proper girlfriend to him.

Right. A proper fake girlfriend, remember?

Finn stops us short halfway to the exit and looks toward the doorway. I follow his gaze.

A small group of men have entered. They stand out like sheep marked pink in a mob of blue. They’re dressed to the nines, wearing collared shirts, thin neckties, finely tailored black slacks, and black leather belts around their waists. All except the enormous, six-foot-seven man with them, wearing a wife-beater, gray sweatpants and black sneakers. His milky white chest is a wall of muscle.

A fighter then?

“The South African showed up,” someone nearby grinds out.

“Just in time for his fight.”

I glance around. No one looks happy, Edward the least of all.

Oh.

“Eddie-boyo is going to be eating Jell-o for supper,” Finn states. He’s quiet for a few seconds then surprises me by adding, “Time to do you that favor.”