Call To Engage. Tawny Weber
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forever. “Long enough to rest up, get in fighting shape and show you up in the gym and the bar.” A worthy challenge, actually, and one Elijah figured would be fun.
Apparently Mack agreed. “Now that’s what I’m talking about,” he said, slapping Elijah on the back and damned near sending his face through the chest-high service desk. “You’ll stay at my place.”
“Thanks, man.” That was just what he’d hoped for. “I won’t be any trouble.”
As if he’d heard something Elijah hadn’t intended to let slip, Mack’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t say anything, though. Just gave a long hum, then inclined his head toward the elevator.
“You’ve had a long drive. Bet that leg is stiff. We’ll go up this way—save the stairs for tomorrow. Better yet, I’ll set you up for a massage in the morning. I’ve got a couple of solid massage and rehab therapists attached to the place now.”
As if his body knew it was finally home—or as close to a home as Elijah had—it gave up all pretense of energy and drooped like a used condom. In a fog of exhaustion, he followed his cousin through the gym, vaguely aware of Mack pointing out his new weight-lifting equipment before they settled into a glass tube for the ride to the third floor.
“That’s the dojo,” Mack said as they slid past the second floor, a study of white on white with rich wood accents. Diamond tuck padded walls were visible beyond two groups of students following the instructors and a dozen or so others practicing kicks and punches solos.
One stood out. Slender yet curvy in the white gi, a woman with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail performed a series of running jump kicks. There was something familiar about the move, but Elijah couldn’t pinpoint it. His eyes narrowed. But before he could focus, the elevator’s ascent blocked his view.
“Guest room is all yours for as long as you want it. I’m busy tomorrow, but I’ll book you a massage first thing. Then we’ll spend some time getting that leg back into shape,” his cousin promised as he opened the door to his third-floor apartment and waved Elijah inside.
“You’ve redecorated,” Elijah noted, looking around.
Mack’s living space reflected the man. Big, intense and comfortable. A television covered a wall opposite a deep purple leather sectional. There was art, most of it nudes, and a chrome-and-glass table plus leather chairs straight out of the 1970s. Instead of the slew of trophies that had once crowded the far wall, there were now a trio of abstracts that, if Elijah tilted his head to one side, appeared to be a ménage à trois.
“Sit, be comfortable. I’ll get us a beer, and you can catch me up. Start with your sex life,” Mack instructed, heading for the kitchen as Elijah dropped onto the couch, sinking into the soft leather.
“Nothing there to catch up on. Between the hospital time, recovery and my regular duties I’ve been pretty busy.”
To say nothing of the random flashback onslaught, the nightly retrospectives through the terrors of his subconscious and the nagging feeling that after sacrificing everything that mattered for his career, that career was spinning wildly out of control.
“Too busy for sex?” Mack had a pitying expression when he returned with a tray carrying two chilled pilsners of beer, a bowl of mixed nuts and a plate of what looked like a cross between potato chips and green beans. “Sounds like your leg isn’t the only thing we need to work on while you’re here.”
Call it exhaustion. Call it instinct that had the little hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. Whatever it was, Elijah vowed then and there to step carefully. Because that matchmaking gleam in Mack’s eyes could mean only one thing.
Trouble.
And the last thing Elijah needed right now was more trouble. Even if it came in the form of a naked woman. He didn’t care how hot she was. He didn’t care how willing. He didn’t even care if she came wrapped in a bow holding a list of kinky preferences.
“No work necessary. I’m here to rest and recuperate, nothing more,” he said, taking his beer. As he swallowed down a healthy gulp and shifted the conversation into safer realms, Elijah changed that vow.
Not about avoiding trouble or needing to rest. That vow was rock solid. But the naked woman part? No point making any hasty decisions on that subject until he saw what Mack came up with.
Because, after all, who could resist a bow?
* * *
MY LIFE ROCKS.
My life is right on track.
My life kicks serious butt, and I love every minute of it.
Ava repeated the affirmations on each exhalation, the soothing tones of bells and chimes ringing softly in time with the words. The gentle scents of sandalwood, vetiver and neroli wrapped around her bare shoulders, as soft as the raw-silk fabric of the lush, oversize pillow she sat on.
As the music slowly faded, so did her words. But her breath stayed even, slow and easy. After a few seconds of silence, she scanned her body for any tension, but she found no tightness, no stress. She felt great.
She let herself grin as she opened her eyes. She knew from experience to give herself a few moments to find her balance before pushing to her feet.
It never failed to make her smile that she felt as if she were opening her eyes to a rainbow. Colors glinted from every corner. The walls were a soothing teal, the low-slung couch sapphire blue. Drapes framed the floor-to-ceiling window in shimmering shades of emerald and amethyst. Pillows in a myriad of shapes, sizes and colors scattered like jewels over the couch, pouring onto the floor. A couple of topaz beanbags rounded out the seating around the low, surfboard-shaped ebony table.
On the far side of the room, partitioned off by a curtain of beads, was a hanging bed covered in white, with more pillows strewn over the surface so it looked like a fluffy cloud amid all the rest of the color. She had a few antique pieces here and there, a tiny kitchenette opposite the bed, with the only door other than the front one opening to a dollhouse-size bath.
The studio was unquestionably small. Cozy, she liked to call the space. It was actually the attic level of a renovated three-story Victorian. The polished wood floors creaked, and the plaster walls tended to let in the cold in the winter and the heat of summer.
Ava loved it.
Her mother hated it. It’d taken Ava a year or so to decide whether she loved it out of spite, a bit of rebellion against a domineering mother who considered her own opinions pure gold. Eventually, though, Ava had come to accept that the space simply suited her, and the whys didn’t matter. She considered that a sign of maturity.
Rising with a lithe move, Ava stretched her arms high overhead. Grasping each hand around the opposite wrist, she twisted from one side, then the other, pulling air all the way into her toes and greeting the sun rising outside her window.
She prepared for her day with Mack’s offer playing through her now-clear mind. It was tempting—so tempting—to say nope, she didn’t want commitments and responsibilities cluttering up her life. But the fact that she was automatically angling for the easy route told her that she shouldn’t.
She needed to consider the partnership seriously. Beyond the money, what it would cost? Was it worth the risk? How big of a difference would it make in her life, and could she be just as happy without it?
Ava gathered her gear for the day. Her duffel, with street clothes and a change of workout gear. Her iPhone, earbuds, charger, wallet. A new bottle of shampoo to replace the almost-empty one in her locker. Car keys, although she walked to work in good weather.
She capped the protein smoothie in her insulated mug and added it to the duffel, then crossed to the door. Hanging there on the wall by the heavy polished oak was a oval silver beveled frame, not more than three inches tall.
It didn’t hold a photo, but instead a swatch of pale blue fabric and a tiny lock of hair, shades deeper than her own nutmeg brown.
Ava