His hands released her, but he didn’t go anywhere, his gaze burning into hers. “I may be going a little above and beyond the job description.”
She could tell his actions had affected him as well. Weeks of no physical contact outside of the cage, it was a miracle they both still had clothes on right now. “So, this is just for me?”
“This is just for you.”
* * *
“Damn!” he muttered, pacing his office moments later. “Why did I touch her like that?”
He’d been doing so well the last couple weeks keeping things professional between them, keeping the focus on her training and his own, even if it was driving him completely insane. He hadn’t given in to a single temptation to kiss her or hold her or back her up against the cage . . .
Shit.
But moments ago, she’d been freaking out—on the verge of an anxiety attack over ten pounds. What choice did he have?
Lots of choices, actually. None of which involved giving in to the intense urge to touch her new body—her strong, sexy, lean body that still held the feminine curves that could make a man temporarily lose his mind.
That’s all it was. Temporary insanity caused by the hotness of one woman.
He’d experienced this before. All the time. He got hard just walking into a strip club. He liked sex. He was a man. Feeling attracted to a sexy as all hell woman was a perfectly acceptable reaction.
Feeling this insatiable attraction to a woman he’d already nailed before was a different story.
He sat in the chair and caught sight of her leaving the locker room in a pair of jeans and white tank top, her blonde hair, still wet from her shower, piled on top of her head. God, she was beautiful. Only now, it wasn’t her ass or her breasts he was staring at, it was her face and that amazing smile of hers he suddenly looked forward to seeing every morning. The one that made even the shittiest day seem bearable . . .
Damn. He suspected this feeling in his chest would be harder to explain away than the one in his gym shorts moments before.
* * *
“Grandma, where are you?” Parker called, carrying their chai tea lattes, which of course she would tell her grandmother were fat-free and sugar-free, and something she wouldn’t be telling Tyson about at all, into her grandmother’s house. Though knowing the man, he could probably smell it on her three days from now. The guy was intense. Especially the way he looked at her, watched her train, touched her earlier that day . . .
Her cheeks flushed at the memory. They were doing this protracted dance around each other again and it was driving her crazy. They’d agreed to cool things but he was obviously still attracted to her and she was . . . She paused. She was what? To say attracted to him would be an understatement, yet she wasn’t sure it went beyond a lust-filled intrigue with her bad-ass coach. At least she hoped it didn’t. Since ending things with Brantley, she wasn’t in any rush to get involved with yet another Mr. Wrong, and Tyson had been brutally honest when he’d told her where he stood regarding relationships. A commitment-phobe who was dedicated to one thing—his fighting career—wasn’t exactly Mr. Right either. Still, she wasn’t sure she cared.
“I’m out by the pool,” she heard her grandmother call as she entered the open-concept, white marble kitchen her grandmother had spent more than $100,000 remodeling the year before. She squinted as she walked through, the glaring sun against the white nearly blinding her. She’d never tell Abigail, but the older woman had gone way overboard with the white—floors, cupboards, appliances, and backsplashes. She felt sorry for her grandmother’s housecleaner. No amount of obsessive scrubbing could keep the kitchen sparkling.
The rest of the five-bedroom, four-bath bungalow-style home looked similar to the kitchen. Every room was professionally designed and decorated, with the furnishings and décor swapped out every couple of years as styles changed. Her grandmother’s home was always camera-ready for a spread in Modern Homes Magazine. But it was never comfortable and inviting. As a child, she’d felt as though she were living in a museum—not allowed to touch anything or make a mess.
She stepped through the patio door and saw Abigail lounging in the sun, wearing a large brimmed sunhat that covered the top half of her body, a towel around her lower half, and an oversized umbrella covering it all. Okay, so lounging in the sun wasn’t the best description. “Hi, I brought you your favorite nonfat, no-sugar latte.” She set the cup down and her grandmother reached for it instantly.
She took a sip and said, “I can’t believe these are healthy. They don’t taste healthy.”
“Starbucks—a modern miracle,” Parker said, kicking off her flip-flops and reclining in a chair beside her grandmother. This was one little white lie she had no trouble telling. The weekly latte was probably the only thing her grandmother had ever consumed that she enjoyed in her entire life. She still had the same thin shape she’d had at thirty, and Parker thought it was kind of sad that even after her acting career ended, her grandmother hadn’t relaxed enough to start enjoying things like sugar.
“You should be covered up,” Abigail said, forming as much of a frown as she could with the Botox filler in her forehead.
“I like the heat on my skin.”
“You won’t like the wrinkles.”
“That’s what Botox is for, isn’t it?” she said, though she was still opposed to the treatment. Injecting a disease into her face seemed counterproductive somehow. Though she’d never admit as much to her grandmother, who’d invested in a dermatological company the year before. Beauty for Life MD was making her grandmother almost as much money as her career in movies had and the additional perk—probably the biggest one for Abigail—was the free cosmetic procedures. Parker knew she could get the family discount if she wanted, but she hoped to hold onto her natural look as long as possible.
“You’ve gained weight,” Abigail said, setting her latte aside.
It wasn’t a question, so Parker didn’t answer.
“I can see it in your face and neck . . .” She removed her sunglasses to study her. “I thought you were working out all day, every day, for this new role.” The look of disappointment and judgment was one Parker should be used to by now.
“I am working out, but I needed to put on some muscle,” she said, knowing this was one conversation her grandmother just wouldn’t understand. A low number on the scale was her number-one priority. How many times had she heard that growing up? And despite Hollywood’s changing landscape and its increasing acceptance of plus-size models in the fashion industry, her grandmother was old school. Gain weight, your career was over. End of story.
“Have you cleared it with the director?”
Oh God—how many times over the years had she heard that? As a child actress, she couldn’t cut her hair without her current director or agent’s approval. If she got a bruise anywhere visible, they had to be notified immediately in case a job came up . . . which meant she wasn’t allowed to get a bruise or cut or scratch . . . which meant she wasn’t allowed to play anything where she could get hurt. Basically anything fun.
The year she lost her front tooth was like Armageddon at home. She’d had to keep her mouth closed during all of her casting calls and the inevitable speech impediment that accompanied missing teeth had cost her so many jobs that year her grandmother had exclaimed dramatically, “Career over at nine.”
At the time she’d cried her eyes out, but now she laughed at the memory whenever she recalled it. Her grandmother still didn’t think it was funny.
“Trust me, Grandma, the weight gain is fine.”
Abigail didn’t look convinced. “You know I don’t understand it when actresses gain weight or purposely try to look hideous for a role. I’m not sure they can ever recover from that.” She rolled onto her stomach.