Fight to the Finish (First to Fight #3) (8 page)

Oh, my God. I just said that. Someone please direct me to the nearest hole in which I could crawl into.

He chuckled softly. “I know what you meant. And you
look amazing, too.” He stepped closer to her, taking a gentle hold of her elbow. “Pow,” he said, leaning in for a kiss.

She turned her head at the last minute, chickening out. Zach was in the car, probably staring. She didn't . . . she couldn't . . .

Oh, hell. She was going to. When he started to pull back, she rose up on her toes and brushed a light kiss across his mouth. He didn't push, didn't press for more. But the way his breath hitched, just a little, told her he was affected.

“We have to get going.” When he didn't release her arm, she made a flapping motion. “I need that to drive.”

“Right. Sorry.” He stepped back, letting go to run a hand over his hair. “Have dinner with me.”

“Zach is still grounded,” she began, but he cut her off.

“Just us. I need to see you.”

“I . . .” Ah, hell. This was not going to end well. “I'll think about it.”

“Don't think. Just say yes. Tomorrow night. We've been given Monday morning off, so Sunday's a good night for grilling. Please.”

“I'll think about it,” she said again, because saying no when he was standing in front of her was impossible. “Congratulations.” She ran for the driver's side, opening the door before he could try to do it for her and sliding in. As she closed the door and sighed, Zach leaned forward between the seats from the back.

“Mom? Were you kissing Graham?”

“Adults kiss people they're close to,” she said neutrally, watching Graham walk back toward the gym doors.

“How close are you?”

Getting closer every day, whether it was right or
not.

8

G
raham settled down in his reclining love seat, a beer in his lap, and handled his phone. The device flipped from hand to hand, rolled over fingers and mesmerized his turned-off brain . . . until he dropped it and it clattered to the floor.

Another super Sunday night for him. He could call friends, though most had lives of their own and would be busy on Sunday. His teammates could possibly make it, but they each had their own women to be home with, or had already made plans to fully utilize their morning off tomorrow. Didn't seem fair to drag them away from their happy cocoons to come wallow with him.

He could call Kara.

That caused him to grimace and take another swig. Yeah. Because punishing himself was a top priority. Why would he call just to get rejected—again—for dinner? He'd asked, and she'd hedged. Because she was too polite to come right out and say “No, now stop asking.” The fact that she hadn't called him meant it was a definite no.

Time to move on.

Yeah. Right.

His phone vibrated on the floor, and he nearly pitched himself out of the recliner struggling to pick it up. When he saw Greg's name on the display with the text, he grunted and nearly let it drop again. But he swiped a finger right to read the message.

What are you doing tonight?

Seriously? Greg had a bombshell like Reagan Robilard in his clutches, and he was asking about plans? If his friend was that big of an idiot, Graham couldn't help him. Before he could put the phone away, it buzzed again.

Don't be a chicken shit. Ask her out.

So that was the real reason for the question. Not to join him, but to give him a kick in the ass.

He huffed out a breath, set the beer bottle to the side and texted back.

She's not going to come here alone. Zach's grounded. It's a SNAFU, all around.

Try anyway.

Drop it.

Try.

Because he wanted to prove Greg wrong, he opened a new message for Kara. Then, thinking better of it, he closed that and called her. When she answered, he blinked in surprise before saying, “Hey.”

“Hi,” she said, her voice a little breathless.

There was a long pause, then she asked slowly, “Graham? You called me.”

“Right. Sorry.”
Get it together, man.
“I was wondering about dinner. Tonight. You know, just you and me.”

Kara cleared her throat, and he waited in resignation for the no.

“It's funny you should ask.” Her voice sounded tight, but he wasn't going to question it when hope soared. “Reagan is here, asking to babysit.”

That took him aback. “Reagan is there? What for?”

“To babysit,” she said again with what was obviously forced patience. “She just got it into her head to repay me for helping set up the gym the other night before the fight. I guess I'm free.”

“She is!” Reagan said cheerfully from the background. “Zach and I are gonna pig out on popcorn and watch romantic comedies.”

There was an exaggerated groan from somewhere else in the distance, which made Graham smile. “Okay, so, I'll see you soon?”

“Fifteen or twenty, I'd guess.” She hung up without another word.

Thanks, dipshit. Now she thinks I orchestrated the whole thing.

Anytime. You two both need a kick in the ass.

He locked his phone and rolled his eyes, then stood to figure out exactly how much food prep he could accomplish in fifteen minutes.

*   *   *

AS
Graham let Kara into the house, she sniffed appreciatively. “Smells . . . wow. Smells great.”

He gave her a smile as she left her bag on the love seat and followed him back to the kitchen. “Simple spaghetti. I'd thought about grilling, but when I didn't hear from you, I never marinated the steaks. So it's not as good as it could have been. Nothing to get excited about.”

“It's a meal I didn't have to cook. I'm sorry, but I'll get excited and you'll just have to tolerate it.” She hopped up onto a stool and watched as he worked, using a spoon to mix something in a bowl. “I see sauce on the stove, so what's in the bowl?”

“Your project.” He set it in front of her, taking her fingers and wrapping them gently around the spoon. When she looked down, she saw frothy melted butter. “Italian spices, garlic, salt and pepper. It's for the garlic bread. Season it however you want, and I'll brush it on and toast the bread.”

“Trusting. For all you know, I could be a total garlic fiend.” Her smile was mischievous as she reached for the powder. “You wouldn't want to be within a hundred yards of me.”

“I'll always want to be near you, Kara.” He dropped that quiet bombshell like a rapper dropping the mic, then turned to the stove to stir the sauce.

“Oh,” she breathed out, then, with shaking hands, picked up the first seasoning and started sprinkling. She tried to speak, but nothing came out so she cleared her throat and tried again. “Reagan told me you didn't know she was coming over.”

“I had no clue. Greg and Brad's lives have become almost dangerously boring, so they've taken to meddling with mine.” He glanced over his shoulder quickly before turning his attention back to the stove. “I can't complain though, since the result was you coming for dinner.”

She'd had a moment of doubt, as Reagan had shown up and insisted she go out for dinner—but not before changing out of her sweats and fixing her hair. Dinner with Graham
was bad enough. Dinner at his home, with no servers, other patrons or the bustle of restaurant chatter to act as a buffer was too intimate to think about.

Then she'd realized this was her chance. The opportunity she'd needed to explain exactly why she'd played hard to get on accident. Why he needed to give up the idea of pursuing her and move on to someone he could make a life with.

Whoever that lucky bitch was.

Not very Zen of you, Kara.

Who cares? Thanks to Henry, she was once again missing out on life.

Graham took the bowl back from her and used a brush to coat a loaf of French bread he'd obviously pre-sliced. Sticking that under the broiler, he drained the pasta in the sink. “Should be about five minutes.”

“Italian, hmm.” Propping her chin on her hands, she watched with appreciation. Just because she couldn't make a meal out of him didn't mean she wasn't allowed to fully consider the menu. “Who taught you to cook?”

“It's boiled pasta and a simple red sauce.”

“Which a lot of guys would not be able to handle. And girls. Takeout is too prevalent today. Give yourself a little credit.”

He nodded, checked on the bread, then stood again. “My yaya taught me.”

“Yaya . . . grandma?”

“Yup, on my dad's side. Born and raised in Greece, then came over here when my dad was about ten. Just her, her six kids—”

“Six,” Kara breathed.

“—and the promise of work in her uncle's bakery. Best baklava you could ever hope to taste.” He closed his eyes a moment, as if imagining taking a bite from the Greek dessert. That moment of pure delight made her want to reach for him.

“So your very much Greek yaya taught you to cook . . .
Italian food.” She smiled as he raised a brow. “Come on, it's funny.”

“Much to my yaya's dismay, I actually don't care for Greek food. Or most of it,” he added, and she could tell he was thinking of baklava again. “But the basics of cooking remain the same, regardless of the dish's origins. She bakes like a dream, and is a pretty good cook, too. Taught my mother, who is
not
Greek, a few things. They're tight, which is pretty cool since I know what the stereotype about Greek mamas and their sons can be. But Yaya just assumes everyone wants to be a part of the family, and treats them like it. Everyone gets fed until they can't do anything but roll away from the table. If you can eat, you can be family.”

“She sounds awesome.” The pang of longing hit her harder than she expected. That family connection, his obvious love for them, and the fact that Zachary would never have that with either set of grandparents.

“I'm lucky to have her. We all are. She is the definition of the word ‘matriarch.' You'd love her.”

He said it casually, but it brought her back to the purpose of the dinner. “Graham—”

“Dinner's ready.” Cutting her off, he brought the garlic bread from the oven, and it smelled divine. “Could you set the table? I tossed some silverware and cups over there, but didn't get a chance to make order out of it.”

She set it quickly, pleased to see he'd given them simple tumblers instead of wineglasses. No alcohol for her when she'd be driving home soon. Probably none for him, either, given his workout schedule. She filled both their glasses with ice water, and when she returned to the table she found he'd already plated her food and had it waiting. The heaping pile of spaghetti topped with spiced red sauce and a few meatballs was about double what she could really eat. But she didn't complain, merely sat down and waited for him.

“Okay, need anything else?” he asked as he set the salt
and pepper shakers in the middle. “I'm not really used to eating at the table. I'm more of a ‘sandwich on the couch with a paper towel' guy.”

She tsked, and watched with amusement as he blushed. “I'm kidding, Graham. I get it. When Zach's gone, and I can just get away with eating a bowl of cereal for dinner, I totally do. It's the perk of being an adult.”

“Yeah.” Nodding in agreement, he twirled some pasta over his fork. “Good point. It's an adult perk. How's Zach today?”

“You ask about him,” she said suddenly, leaning an elbow on the table. “It's so new to me that anyone does.”

He blinked, letting his fork drop to the plate. “I . . . what?”

“I've dated,” she said, deciding to forge on. “I'm not a nun. Well, obviously,” she added with a little laugh. “I've tried very hard to not use being a single mother as a reason to push men away. I caught myself trying at the start, but that was more logistical than emotional, because I was just too tired to date. For the simple purpose of survival, men were not on my radar for the first few years.”

One had been, and look where that had gotten her . . .

“You don't have to tell me all this.” Graham laid a hand on her forearm, thumb rubbing a circle under her wrist, where her pulse beat. “I didn't ask to pry your life story out of you.”

“Of course you didn't.” She picked up her fork—which forced him to let go—and speared a bite of broccoli. “I'm telling you, so you understand where we stand.”

His eyes turned stormy, but he retracted his own hand and nodded. “I have a feeling I'm not going to like this, but go ahead.”

Like it or not, here it comes.

*   *   *

GRAHAM
listened while Kara explained that dating hadn't been a priority, but she'd tried it on occasion. And how the men she'd dated basically ignored Zach's existence.

Idiots,
he thought, but said nothing. When he stabbed a piece of meatball a bit too hard, sending his fork tines screeching against the plate beneath, he winced and looked over at her. Kara's mouth was a little open, garlic bread halfway there, frozen, as she watched him.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, popping the bite into his mouth. “Keep going.”

“I made the choice to not let Zach meet any of them, at least not at first. My thought was I'd be sure the guy was important before we went there. But they didn't seem to care if it ever happened. It was as if they only wanted me. I never got far enough with any of them to see how they reacted to Zach. Eventually it stopped being an issue.”

Because she'd stopped putting herself out there. He could see it.

She set her fork down and leaned back a little, her plate barely half finished. “That was amazing. The sauce . . . you made that from scratch?”

“Cheat-scratch. I didn't have time to start from fresh tomatoes, so I used canned ones. Not as good as from the garden, but it works in a pinch.”

She grinned at that. “You're a man of surprising talents, Graham Sweeney.”

He took the risk of reaching for her hand and lacing fingers with hers. She didn't pull away, which he took as a good sign. “You've got some surprises, too. But keep going.”

The idea that she might be a mystery seemed to faze her, and it took a moment before she could snap out of it. “Uh, where . . .”

“None of the guys took an interest in Zach.”

“Right.” She cleared her throat, and squeezed his hand. He knew she meant it as a sign to let go. Perversely, he squeezed back and kept on eating with his other hand. She might be finished, but he wasn't nearly done. Not with his food, and sure as hell not with her.

“Henry—that's Zach's father—is not a great guy. He's no evil cartoon villain, or a criminal or anything. Just not a great dad, or that nice of a human. Not someone I should have procreated with. But hey, when you're eighteen . . .” She lifted a shoulder. “He had a cute butt.”

That made him smile. “I'm sure a cute butt is very important.”

“Of course.” Her eyes drifted down to the seat of his chair, and he had a feeling it wasn't meant to be ironic. Did he pass the Cute Butt test?

“He's around just enough to make things miserable when he wants to. It's his favorite card to play. He knows I love Zach, and worry about his allergies. He knows he can use that to his advantage. He plays with people, manipulating them like Claymation to get what he wants with the minimum effort required. It's just what he does. And that's why there can't be anything between us.”

Graham played gently with the inside of her wrist, feeling her pulse skip and flutter. “I don't plan on living with the guy, so I don't know what he has to do with this.”