Fighter's Kiss: An enemies-to-lovers MMA romance (Irish Kiss Book 3) Read online

  “You?” I guessed.

  “Hell no!” He laughed. “Go bother Seamus.”

  I chuckled as he held up a finger while we walked on. “Yes, this Friday,” he complained. “Yes, it has to be this Friday. I’ll hold.” He shook his head at me and whispered, “There’s tons of parklands and woods and flowers and dirty stuff out there if you aren’t allergic to the sun like me.”

  I stared out at the beautiful green grounds of the mansion as we passed a row of tall, narrow peaked windows. I loved Central Park in NYC, but here it seemed I’d be less likely to get stabbed by a junkie’s needle while cloud gazing.

  “Declan’s gym is here to the left.”

  Through floor-to-ceiling glass panels, I could see the massive gym full of exercise equipment, weights, machines, and its own boxing ring.

  As we passed I spied Declan pounding away at a punching bag. I thought it was going to explode. “So, the boss is a little, umm…” I shrugged as we went on. “A little beastly.”

  Oisin placed a hand on my shoulder to guide me toward a staircase to the right. “Trust me, his bark is worse than his bite.” He suddenly held up a finger to me as he paused on the stairs and rolled his eyes. “Yes, George. I’m still be here. You don’t have to keep checking. I’m not going till I get what I need.” We started to climb again and Oisin continued, “Declan has been going through a rough time. I’ve worked for him for a long time and he’s a good guy, the best guy, really. He just…pain makes us all a little mean, I guess.”

  I nodded, wondering what exactly he meant.

  “The treatment area is here, directly above the gym,” Oisin pointed out. “Declan spared no expense. Massage, spa, sauna, steam room. Afraid you might not have much time to use it, though. Declan will keep you pretty busy.” As we followed the long hallway, Oisin again stopped and huffed in frustration. “Give me just two seconds, dear.” He squeezed my arm. “I have to go all Momma Bear on this asshole.”

  “No worries.”

  “Listen here, George-y Boy,” Oisin said, stalking off back down the hallway. “Getting back into fighting shape means everything to Declan, and I’m not going to be the one who gets in his way because I can’t find a single organic lime on this entire feckin’ island.”

  The echo of his voice faded as I wandered a little farther. A half-cracked door down a small hallway caught my eye. I glanced back at Oisin, who still waved his arm about, despite the person on the phone not being able to see him. Chewing at the inside of my mouth, I hesitated for just a moment before tiptoeing down the hall and slipping inside.

  A grand canopy bed, pressed and made, stood in the centre of the room with drapes drawn tight. I peeked into the closet to find it filled with sequined evening gowns, fine silk blouses, and a Sax Fifth Avenue worth of heels. My scuffed sneakers squeaked on the white marble floor as I toured the gorgeous en suite bathroom with a gold clawfoot tub and a vanity still filled with high-end makeup.

  Back in the bedroom, I found a picture frame turned face down on the bedside table. I knew I shouldn’t look. I should have left, closed the door behind me, and never returned. But I could only fight the curiosity for so long and after a few moments of staring at it, I quickly flipped it over.

  It was a picture of Declan and a gorgeous woman on a yacht in crystal blue waters off of some white sand beach. I leaned in close and noticed he didn’t have the scar near his left eye. The scowl was missing, too. It was shocking to me, but he was actually smiling—a big, wide, happy smile.

  I jumped as Oisin poked his head into the room.

  “My little voodoo queen, get your cute ass out of there,” he hissed.

  The picture frame slipped from my fingers and clattered to the table. I darted out of the room, leaving behind the mysterious woman and the man who appeared just as much a stranger.

  “You’re not supposed to be in there,” Oisin said as he reached over me to quickly close the door.

  “It was open.”

  Oisin frowned.

  “Open?”

  “Cracked.”

  “Curious.” He tapped his chin for a moment and then grabbed my hand and spun around on his heel, dragging me along behind him.

  “Whose room is that?”

  “A ghost,” he said with a shudder.

  “A ghost?” I glanced up at him, trying to search his face.

  “Don’t ever go in there again, alright?” Oisin wouldn’t look down at me as he increased the speed of his steps next to me. “It’s off limits.”

  Over my shoulder, I looked back toward the hallway with the strange room.

  “Trust me.” Oisin shook his head. “You don’t want to go near there.”

  I didn’t understand. “Why not?”

  I watched as Oisin practically shuddered. “It’s a cursed place,” he explained. “There’s nothing but pain in there.”

  Slowly, I said, “You’re not making any sense.”

  “It doesn’t have to make sense. Just know that if Declan saw you in there, at the very least you’d be fired on the spot.”

  I hesitated before asking, “And at the very worst?”

  Oisin stopped and leaned down so he was face-to-face with me. He placed a hand on each of my shoulders. Before he spoke, he looked down the ornate hallway in each direction. “It’s Giselle’s old room,” he whispered.

  “Giselle?” I racked my brain.

  “They had separate rooms and that was hers.”

  “What happened to her?” I asked.

  Oisin poked my nose. “No more questions.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why does Declan keep all of her stuff in there?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “What’s the worst Declan will do if he sees me in there?” It hadn’t escaped my attention that he hadn’t answered that question earlier.

  Oisin shook his head again. “You will not work your voodoo magic on me, little lady. I’ve already said too much.” He mimed locking his mouth and throwing away the key. “You know what they say about loose lips.”

  I shrugged. “They sink ships?”

  “Worse.” He winked down at me. “They waste lipstick.” He nodded over my shoulder at a door. “This is you.”

  “Me?”

  “Your room.” He pushed the door open for me and flipped on the light.

  I stepped inside and looked around. It certainly wasn’t as luxurious as Giselle’s room, whoever she was, but the bed looked comfy with lots of fluffy pillows and the windows overlooked a pretty little garden. “This is great,” I said. “I’m ready to sleep for thirty hours.”

  As I headed toward the bed to deal with my looming jetlag, Oisin clicked his tongue. “Eh, eh, not so fast.” He pointed to a binder on a small wooden desk in the corner. “You’ve got homework.”

  Tossing my duffel bag onto the bed, I wandered over to the desk. “Homework?” I asked.

  “Declan expects you to have read and memorized it all for your start tomorrow at 7 a.m.”

  I whirled around in horror. “Seven a.m.? I haven’t slept in two days.”

  Oisin just shrugged.

  I returned my attention to the large binder. “Job Manual,” I read the intimidating bold black letters on the front. “I’ve had high school textbooks thicker than this.” I thumbed through the dozens of pages. Hundreds?

  “I wouldn’t worry about it too much, my little voodoo queen,” Oisin said, lingering in the doorway to my room. “No matter what you do, Declan’s going to find a way to get rid of you.”

  I nodded as he closed the door behind him.

  Not if I had something to say about it. I wasn’t going back. Wouldn’t go back.

  River

  In the quiet kitchen, I drummed my fingers against Declan’s detailed weekday morning schedule thoroughly outlined in the Job Manual folder Oisin left with me the night before. I rubbed at the drool stain from where I fell asleep on the pages sometime past 2 a.m. Turns out the pages of Decla
n’s dietary restrictions and appropriate healthy substitutions isn’t exactly thrilling late night reading.

  Yawning and glancing around the kitchen for the coffee pot, I considered what to make for Declan’s 8 a.m. prompt breakfast. As I opened the cabinets and meandered through the pantry, it was quickly obvious that the options were endless. Oisin’s kitchen was better stocked than the Whole Foods store I couldn’t afford that had been located beneath my NY apartment.

  I wanted to impress Declan on my first day, so I picked a meal even the grumpiest of grumps couldn’t resist smiling at.

  Within minutes I had my apron tied on, my ingredients laid out across the large marble island, and a steaming cup of coffee in my hand to fuel my culinary genius. But something was missing. Standing in the centre of the kitchen, I eyed the auxiliary cord connected to a state-of-the-art surround sound system. A little music never hurt anybody. I would keep it down, just loud enough to hum along to it.

  And honest to God, it started off low. It’s just that when I passed the stereo to get to the fridge to put the milk away, I turned it up just a smidge. And while I stirred the blueberries into the pancake batter with the bowl held against my chest, I just happened to dance over on my bare toes toward the stereo and oops, the music got a little louder. It wasn’t my fault that while the pancakes cooked in the skillet, I had nothing else to do but turn the knob higher and higher and higher between each flip.

  By the time I was arranging a fresh mint leaf on top of the fruit salad, drizzling the pancakes with maple syrup, and pouring a big glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, I was singing at the top of my lungs to my girl Whitney Houston, belting out “I Wanna Dance with Somebody” in the kitchen.

  “I wanna feel the heat with somebo—”

  The music abruptly stopped and I whirled around, dropping my microphone—I mean, spatula. It clattered to the floor as I stared at Declan, who frowned at me by the stereo with his finger still on the power button.

  “Oh, hi, morning,” I said cheerfully as I untied my apron and slipped it over my head. “How are you feeling?”

  His dark auburn hair was wet from a shower and it hung low over his blue eyes. I thought I could still see tiny drops of water clinging to his thick, long eyelashes. I wanted to lean in to see closer, but the ferocity of his glare stopped me. He remained silent as I waited for him to speak.

  He wore gym shorts again, all black, sneakers again, all black, and had a towel slung around his shoulders, also black.

  I glanced down at my rainbow-striped sweater where there was not a trace of black. Shifting uncomfortably under Declan’s unwavering angry eyes, I scratched at the back of my neck. “Um, did you sleep well?”

  Declan ignored me as his eyes moved to the dirty kitchen surrounding me.

  To distract him from the mess and to distract myself from the contour of his abs, I walked around the kitchen island and pulled out a bar stool. “Breakfast…” I swept my arm across the masterpiece, “… is served!” I patted the seat of the bar stool.

  Declan did not move an inch.

  “I thought we could start with fresh squeezed orange juice.” I pushed the glass closer to him.

  He didn’t even look at it, his eyes were fixed on me.

  “And here’s some fruit I picked from the garden, and then for the grand finale…” I imitated a drumroll on my legs. “Pancakes!”

  Declan blinked. I think…

  “My friend, her name is Miley,” I was starting to babble, “she swears they’re the best in the tri-state area.” I held out a fork for Declan to try it.

  He seemed set on just glaring.

  “Then before your training, I was thinking I could lead you through some yoga,” I continued, hurrying over to the binder now stained with both drool and pancake batter. “It’s not on the schedule here, but I’ve found it can help to calm the mind, prepare the body, open the heart space and stuff, you know?”

  He did have a heart space, right?

  “Have you tried meditation?”

  Declan did not answer.

  “Have you had your chakras cleansed recently?”

  After several moments of long, drawn-out awkward silence, I drummed my fingers against my leg and started to ask, “Have you had your chakras cleansed recen—”

  I stopped mid-sentence and watched in confusion as Declan suddenly crossed the kitchen, grabbed the platter of golden, fluffy, warm blueberry pancakes smothered in steaming butter, glistening with maple syrup and lightly and lovingly dusted with powdered sugar and promptly dumped the entirety of it into the industrial-size blender on the counter. I gasped in horror as he then shoved in several raw eggs, milk, a bundle of kale, two whole carrots, and half an eggplant. He fit the lid on top before turning to me.

  He waited till I met his eyes and then shoved his finger down on the pulverise button.

  A piece of my soul died as the bright blue of the berries and the golden brown of the cinnamon and butter turned into a stomach-churning greenish brown.

  Without even taking the time to reach for a glass, Declan tipped back the monstrosity and chugged it down without coming up for air.

  I resisted the urge to gag as he tossed the blender into the already overflowing sink of dirty dishes and stormed right past me out of the kitchen. The last of the maple syrup dripped to the floor from the empty platter Declan left haphazardly on the edge of the counter. With a quick glance down the hallway, I stuck out a finger to catch a drop, licked it off, grabbed the binder, and hurried after my new boss.

  I certainly wouldn’t be getting any sweetness from him.

  Declan

  Seven days.

  I only had to last seven days.

  Seven days and the girl would be gone.

  As I stalked toward my gym, trying to repress the frustration and anger igniting my blood, I heard the echo of fast little footsteps behind me. I groaned and rolled my eyes.

  “I can cook something else tomorrow if you don’t like pancakes,” the girl said as she ran up beside me.

  I kept my eyes straight forward.

  “French toast, maybe?” She had to jog to keep up with my long, brisk stride. “I can do a mean French toast with strawberries and basil. I like to use croissants instead of brioche, actually.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the girl struggling under the weight of the binder containing her Job Manual. My first thought was to hold it for her, but I immediately strangled that urge. Those were dangerous thoughts. I would kill each and every one of them.

  “Do you want to know my secret?” she asked with that endlessly merry singsong voice I hated so much.

  I walked faster toward my gym.

  “My secret…” she caught up with me, nearly running now, “…is to take the recommended amount of butter for the recipe and double it.”

  We passed the foyer where I should have given her the boot yesterday and still she didn’t shut up.

  “So what do you say? French toast tomorrow?”

  “No.” My voice felt raw, hoarse, rough.

  “No?” She shifted the binder to the other arm. “Okay, well, how do you feel about bacon and maple donuts?”

  “No,” I growled. “Christ, did you read the manual?”

  “Of course!”

  I hazarded a glance over at her when she paused. Her hair bounced wildly as she struggled to keep up with me. Why couldn’t she tie it back? It was driving me crazy.

  “I mean, most of it, at least,” she finally said quickly before moving on. “I’ve got a sure winner here. What about banana bread pudding? Just minus the raisins. Nobody likes the raisins. Maybe chocolate chips instead.”

  That was it…the last straw.

  I stopped so abruptly that the girl had to walk back a few steps to stand in front of me. She looked up at me with such sweet, innocent eyes.

  I had to crush that. “Banana bread pudding?” I crossed my arms. “For breakfast?”

  The girl looked oddly confused. “Sure, why not?”
/>
  I laughed incredulously. “Why not? Why not?” I shook my head. “Because banana bread pudding is a dessert, first of all.”

  “Says who?” she protested.

  “Second, it’s unhealthy.”

  “Very good for your mental health.” She lifted a finger to point out, nearly dropping the binder in the process.

  “And third, I don’t have the time for it.” With this, I spun on my heel and marched past her into the gym, shoving the doors open in frustration and enjoying the sound of them slamming against the walls. I grabbed my jump rope off the peg and started as the girl pushed her way inside, struggling against the heavy doors.

  “Don’t have time for it?” she asked. “How long can it take to eat banana bread pudding?”

  “Too long,” I answered.

  The buzz of the jump rope whipping past my ears soothed the anger that had been boiling up inside my chest since I saw the girl in the kitchen that morning. I spun it faster and faster around me, trying to block out the sight of her next to me. That worked well enough, but no matter how fast I went I still saw my memory of her dancing in the kitchen: carefree, happy, joyful.

  Disgusting.

  The girl bit at her plump bottom lip as she continued to muse over my words. Finally, she said, “Surely a minute or two can’t matter.”

  I dropped the rope and stalked toward her.

  She looked up at me in surprise, her eyes widening.

  “A minute or two is all that matters,” I growled. “A minute or two can mean the difference between knocking someone out and being the one lying there on the floor with blood in your mouth.”

  I loomed over her as I stepped closer.

  Her eyes flinched, but she did not retreat.

  “A minute or two more can mean the difference between reclaiming my title as MMA Champion or never stepping foot in the ring ever again.”

  Why wasn’t she retreating from me? I was shouting, my biceps were bulging as I clenched my fists at my sides, and anger surely burned in my eyes.