A fallen boxer.
A woman with a broken dream.
A competion...
Adonis Creed kicks ass. He's famous for it. As one of the brightest up-and-coming stars on the MMA scene, he's an absolute beast in the cage...and out. Everything he's trained for has broug...
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Fatigue ripples over me as I press my back against the wall inside Café Lazzo, my favorite restaurant near my apartment. It's been two weeks since I lost my job. My cold has worsened, and my throat is hoarse. Thanksgiving came and went a busy time, and I'm hoping that's why I haven't gotten any callbacks from the parlors I checked in with.
I tug my black toboggan down over my forehead, covering my messy bun. I'm sloppy with my glasses, ripped jeans, and faded peacoat. Shivering, I tighten the scarf around my neck. I want to get my pasta, go home, and starfish on my bed.
"Order up for Miss Avery Monroe!" comes from the server at the takeout stand.
"Here!" I rasp out as I work my way through the throng of people waiting for their takeout. Sadly, this restaurant doesn't deliver, and their butternut squash soup and crab ravioli have circled in my head for days. My mouth waters and I'm almost to the counter—
A man steps in front of me, cutting me off. "Kendra, sweetheart, how are you?"
Roberta Adrianna Balboa, the daughter of Adrian and Rocky Balboa, and the Marketing Manager for the Delphi Boxing Academy. While working at The Tyler Woods Boxing Gym, she met and married Edgar Grafton Richard III.
I wave at her. Look! Me, me!
"I'll check your status." She bats her lashes, then darts to the takeout window.
I tap my three-inch stacked Converse, waiting for him to notice the angry girl next to him, but he's too busy watching the swing in Roberta's hips.
I scan the DBA ( Delphi Boxing Academy ) sweatshirt he's wearing, and it dawns on me. Of course! It's him.
Jesus. Is he everywhere?
Adonis Creed. my loving boxer. Lives in the penthouse of my building. Tawny hair, angular face, big muscles. Arrogant.
I ease the aluminum container of napkins from the bakery case closer to me, then knock it to the floor. A grunt comes from him when it bounces and lands on his foot.
I blink. "Oops."
He bends to pick up the container, then frowns as he rakes his eyes over me. "Did you throw this at me?"
I'm not quite a ninja.
Someone behind me, a male, murmurs an affirmative: "Yeah, she did."
My adrenaline spikes and sweat builds on my face. Part of me wants to play it off as an accident, but . . .
"Um . . . yes?"
"What's wrong with you?" he snaps as he places it back on the bakery case.
My heart thumps like a war drum in my chest as I push out my words in a gravelly voice. "She called my name; then you cut me off before I reached the counter."
