We lie in silence, pressed together with the blood still thumping in our chests. Damn, I don’t want to move. Not an inch from this position, and I’d be content. Her stomach grumbles against my side. Clearly, biology won’t allow that.

“Hungry?” I run my fingertips up and down her spine.

“Yeah. I’m in the mood for pancakes.”

I grin at the longing in her voice. “There’s a great place not far from here. Best pancakes in town.”

“Mm, that sounds good. But, I don’t have a bra, remember?”

“Shit. How could I forget?” I squeeze her tight, remembering the warm heavy weight of her breast in my hands just minutes ago. “I think I might have some breakfast stuff here. How ’bout I make you breakfast?”

“Now you’re talkin’.”

Reluctantly, I let her go so she can pull on her clothes. I make no move to get up, and enjoy her body as it moves, her skin flushed from sex. Hot.

She searches the floor for something she can’t seem to find. Her eyes meet mine. “Where are my socks?”

“Don’t need ’em, Mouse. It’s hot as hell in here.” In more ways than one.

“My feet are cold.” She continues her search.

The memory of my first visit to her apartment, wearing those damn pink socks on her feet, flashes in my mind. What’s up with the cold feet?

“Your feet, but not your legs?”

She shrugs, a blush creeping into her already flushed cheeks. “Yeah. It’s weird, I know.”

I throw off the sheet and head to my dresser. Grabbing a pair of sweatpants for myself, I tug them on then open my top drawer for one more thing.

“Here.” I hand her a rolled up pair of my favorite socks.

She tucks her hands in close to her stomach and looks at my offer like it’s alive.

I laugh and push them to her. “Socks. Take ’em.”

“Oh, I don’t want to take your socks, if I could just find mine. Do you remember—”

“I want something of mine on you.” Whoa. What the fuck? But… yeah. That’s true. My woman’s feet are cold, I want to be the one responsible for making them warm.

Her lips part, and her eyes are wide. She’s silent.

“You gonna go statue on me or put the socks on so I can make you breakfast?” I shake the socks at her again.

She reaches out and grabs the rolled cotton. A slow smile spreads across her face. “The socks.”

“Good choice.” I lean in and drop a kiss on the tip of her nose.

She tugs the socks on and up to her knees. “Mmm, these are super cozy.”

I grab her hand, needing the feel of her skin on mine, and lead her down the hall.

In the kitchen, she doesn’t sit at the bar while I cook. She’s in there with me, moving around, while we laugh and joke about anything and nothing. I make coffee while she mans the griddle. Her outfit looks just as cute on her tight body this morning as it did when she stormed my door last night. And infinitely better now that she’s in my socks. I always thought women looked their best done up in tight clothes and freshly made up faces. I was wrong.

Her eyes catch mine, and a tiny smirk on her lips says that she knows what I’m thinking, and she likes it. Yeah, I’m definitely getting her naked again before she leaves.

I grab my supplements and stir together my morning concoction.

She flips four pancakes then turns to me. Her gaze falls to the myriad of jars and canisters on the counter. “What’s all that?”

I hold up my shaker-cup. “Shake. Doc’s orders.”

“Prescription shake?” She grabs the glass jar of liquid drops and brings it close to her face, squinting. “Do you know what any of this stuff is?” Her brows pinch together as she reads the fine print. “Theobromine? Nicotinamide Adenine Din—I can’t even pronounce that one.”

I swallow a large gulp. “Don’t know, don’t care. Doc says it’ll keep my back from flaring up, seems to be helping.”

She moves on to the canister of powder. “Do you know what’s in this one?”

I shrug. “Nope. Tastes like pickled dog shit though.”

Her lips twitch, and she tosses her hair over her shoulder. “I’m slightly grossed out that you know what pickled dog shit tastes like.” She scrunches up her nose, does an “icky” shiver, and smiles. “Okay, so I’m kinda like your girlfriend now, and I’m also a mom, so I have some experience in this area.” She raises her eyebrows, and I nod for her to continue. Hands on her hips, she juts out her chin. “You shouldn’t take anything, even if it’s prescribed by a doctor, unless you know exactly what it is.”

So cute. After staring at her for a few seconds, trying like hell to keep down the laughter building in my chest, I swallow in a final attempt. And fail. Laughter bursts from my lips, and I throw my head back.

“What?” Her shrieking question has me laughing harder. “It’s not funny.”

Still chuckling, I pull her into my arms. “Mouse, the UFL is a respected fighting organization. They’d never approve anything that wasn’t safe for their fighters.”

Hugging me around my waist, she lifts her gaze to mine and tilts her head. “I don’t know. I’d be nervous about putting things in my body that I can’t even pronounce.”

“Yeah? Can you pronounce Blake’s Snake?”

She smacks my chest, giggling.

“How ’bout Blake’s tongue? Blake’s finger—”

“Fine. But don’t come crying to me when you start growing feathers and laying eggs.”

Pulling free from my hold, she turns on her heel. Something catches her eye, and she whirls back around. “Pills too?”

“Calm down, sweetheart. Same shit. Pill form. Not a big deal. I told you the doc has me all hopped up on herbal shit.” I down the rest of the foul-tasting sludge and grimace. Yuck. “Tell you right now, I’ll sprout a garden out of my ass before I grow feathers.”

I watch as her eyes read line after line on the pill bottle. “Blake, there’s a lot of shit in here.”

“Is it herbal?”

“I think, but I don’t—”

“Then I don’t give a shit.” I rinse out my cup. “I have a fight in three weeks. I won’t go into it less than 100 percent.”

Turning back to the griddle in defeat, she shovels pancakes on a plate, chewing the inside of her lip.

I step up behind her and pull her in tight. “Mouse, you’re freaking out for nothing. I’ll toss all this shit the day of. I promise.”

Leaning back, she drops her head to the side. “I’m sure you’re right, and it’s all herbal or whatever. Ignore me. I’ve probably seen one too many freaky medical shows.”

I’m digging that she cares about what I put in my body. Shit, if the roles were reversed, I’d be drain dumping the stuff behind her back to keep her safe. But my pain is gone and my body is in top fighting condition, so I’m sticking with what works.

And for now, it’s Doc Z.

Twenty-two

Layla

Stuck in rush hour traffic on a Monday morning is not where I wanted to have this conversation. But after an hour-long session with the therapist turned into two, we’ve been unable to look each other in the eye. My stomach pitches. I had no idea how much she knew. I thought I’d hidden the worst of it. I was wrong.

I clear my throat. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

Her gaze remains steady out the passenger side window. She doesn’t respond.

“That must have been…” Difficult? Agonizing? Mortifying? My grip on the steering wheel tightens, my knuckles paling with anger. He promised me she couldn’t hear. Now I know that she was angry that I didn’t leave years ago, to protect her from having to experience that. And all this time I thought I was doing what was best for her, when really I did the most damage by staying.

The truck inches along the clogged freeway. I check the clock. “You’re going to be about forty-five minutes late. Do I need to sign you in?”

“No.” She looks out the front window.

I take a deep breath. There’s so much to say, so much to confess, but where to start? “I’m sorry I let that go on as long as it did.”

That gets me her eyes for a few seconds before she goes back to staring out the window.

“If I’d have known that you… you… heard, um, that—”

“Dad raping you.”

I suck in a painful gasp at the lifeless way she mutters those disgusting words.

“I wouldn’t call it that, I mean… that’s something that happens between strangers and—”

“Oh my gosh, Mom.” She glares at me. “Just say it. He raped you.”

I swallow hard and shake my head.

She thrusts her hands into her hair. “This is what I’m talking about. How can we get through something you can’t even admit?”

“I’m sick about what happened. If I’d have known then—”

“It’s over. All that is over. But you’re never going to be able to work it out if you can’t even admit it happened.”

“I hate that we did this to you.”

“I hate him. I always have, far back as I can remember. All those times you asked me if I was upset about leaving, I wanted to scream that I’ve never been so glad to be gone. I hated our life in Seattle.”

“So that whole time I thought you were pissed that we left, when really…”

She sets her crystal-blue eyes on mine. “I was pissed we never talked about why we left. It was like we left living one lie to go live another.”

I take a moment to let that sink in. She’s right. Accepting what was really happening was one thing, but talking to her about it seemed wrong on so many levels. That was before I found out that she already knew.

I grab her hand and give it a squeeze. “You’re very wise. From here on out, no more secrets, okay? We talk about anything and everything. No judgment.”