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WE’RE IN ATLANTA, staying at a nice hotel in the heart of the city. Brooke and I are having dinner. I haven’t seen Maverick since the park. Eight days plus a lot of long little minutes and seconds. He’s been training with Remy, and Brooke hasn’t really seen Remy either.

We’ve both brushed our teeth and slipped on our pajamas. Brooke wears T-shirts with little shorts to sleep, and I’m wearing my soft cotton lounge pants in light blue, like my eyes, and the matching top. We rejoin in the living room to read and talk when we hear low male voices—and what sounds a lot like cursing—outside.

The door swings open and the guys appear: Pete, Riley, Coach, and two tall, dark-haired fighters, banged-up and bloody, their T-shirts plastered to their chests. Brooke’s mouth opens, then shuts, then opens again as she gazes at her husband. “Did you guys fight?”

“Yeah.”

“Thought you were training?”

I’m staring breathlessly at Maverick.

Maverick in our hotel room.

Maverick in exercise clothes, sweaty, and . . . Maverick.

“Change of plans.” Remy stalks across the room and says, “Help me patch him up.”

“Let him bleed out, that’ll take care of it,” Coach says. Pete and Riley shuffle into the penthouse behind him.

“Patch him up so I can kick his ass again,” Remy repeats.

He shoots Maverick a meaningful look and Maverick says, “Recess is over for you.”

Brooke looks at me and I head to Maverick. “He can use my shower.”

Brooke nods, and I don’t know what possessed me to speak, because Maverick looks at me. And I’m sure that by the way we’re both staring at each other, they all know we had sex, that we had sex and every day I remember it. “Come with me,” I say, my voice odd.

He follows me to the bedroom. I shut the door, then go and open the shower and ask, “What happened?”

“Nothing big.”

“Remington Tate never trains with anyone. Maverick . . . it’s big.”

He jerks off his damp T-shirt, and as he crosses the room toward the bathroom, he chucks my chin and looks at me with a half smile, his eyes absorbing me with quiet intensity. “No big deal,” he assures me, and he steps into the bathroom and the door clicks shut.

I sigh and pick up his shirt. Maverick is the only guy I know not awed by the champion. The only person I know.

I’m pacing minutes later when Brooke comes into my room the very moment I spot the blood on his T-shirt.

“Are they crazy?” I ask Brooke, scowling when I show her the blood on the shirt Maverick discarded.

“Crazy,” she confirms. “Here’s a fresh pair of clothes. They might be a little loose on him.” Maverick steps outside, his chest bare, his hips covered in a white towel, and Brooke’s eyes widen. “Then again, maybe not.” Brooke looks at him narrowly. “Yeah, not so much.”

She sets the clothes aside, steps forward, and jabs him on the chest. “My husband’s got it in his head to help you. He rarely trusts anyone and it’s not easy to gain his respect.” Maverick is quiet. “Whatever it is you have going on, he thinks you’re an okay guy.”

Maverick calmly speaks to Brooke but looks only at me. “Yeah, I’m an okay guy.”

“Good.” Brooke pauses until Maverick seems to force his gaze away from me and back to her. “If my husband brought you here, with his family, you’re his friend,” she says, and her voice softens when she adds, “so I guess it’s nice to meet you, Maverick.”

She hands me a few bottles of oils she had tucked under her arm. “Mustard oil, arnica, take your pick, all anti-inflammatory, get this on him. Racer, what are you doing up?” She plants her hands on her hips in a disappointed-mommy pose when we all spot him by the door.

“I want Weese!” he says defiantly, running inside.

“Reese is busy now. Let’s get you back in bed.”

She sweeps Racer up in her arms before he can reach me, and Racer says, “Mavewick, come see my twains!”

“Later, buddy,” Maverick says, raising his arm to fist-bump with him.

Brooke eyes Maverick curiously, then shuts the door behind them.

“He’s not the only one who wants Reese.”

The dark-thunder voice that speaks rushes over my skin, and I find Maverick watching me with a wistful smile on his face.

My eyes widen.

And my brain leaps to picture me back in his arms, with his lips on mine, his hands on me. It takes every effort in me not to let my eyes trail over his chest, arms, every part of him.

“I want you too.”

Did I say that?

Oh god, his face.

He looks ready to lunge at me. Grab me. Hold me. Fuck me.

“What are we going to do about that then?” he asks.

“I don’t know. Maybe,” I whisper, then shake my head. “I don’t know. But I think of you.”

“I think of you too, Reese.”

I look at him as tingles race down my body, and we both smile. As if that’s enough for now.

But is it really? I ache when I think of him. I don’t like thinking that I can’t be with him.

“So you and Remy are getting along, huh?” I ask.

He clenches his jaw and frowns. “We’re competitors, not buds.” He lowers himself down on the edge of my bed and leans forward, elbows to his knees, and the towel parts to reveal his thigh.

“But here you are,” I say. “Remy brought you here and you let yourself be brought.”

He turns to look at me with a new twinkle in his eye, and then looks down meaningfully at the bed we’re, as of this second, now both sitting on. “Here I am.”

In. My. Room.

“The boys say that Riptide wants his last fight to be worth it,” I say, pretending to be busy now studying the massage oil labels.

He frowns thoughtfully, and I lift my eyebrows.

“You didn’t know it’s his last season?” I ask.

“No.” He flexes his fingers, frowning. “All the more reason I’ll be the challenger at the final this year.”

I roll my eyes, but god, he’s amusing sometimes. I love that he speaks without a hint of boastfulness, only fact. There’s a slight frown on his face, and I can almost hear his brain working thoughtfully in the silence. “So pick one.” I show him both oils.