Fighter's Kiss: An enemies-to-lovers MMA romance (Irish Kiss Book 3), page 6
But this time I wouldn’t give in so easily. Not for her.
In my dining room, alone just the way I liked it, I shovelled the cold and mushy, oily and yet somehow burnt, tasteless and ugly spinach into my mouth like I was a starving man and it was a five-star Michelin meal.
It wasn’t even a good camera. I’d seen enough cameras outside the cage, along the red carpet, hidden in the goddamn bushes to know what a professional-level camera looked like. Hers was a piece of shit. Really, I did her a favour.
I wasn’t going to apologise for doing someone a favour. That was madness, after all.
No, I wouldn’t apologise.
My knuckles were white from where I gripped my fork as I stabbed the wilted spinach, squelching from the overload of tasteless oil.
All she had to do was delete the picture. That wasn’t an outlandish request. Really, it was quite reasonable. I was perfectly reasonable.
I chewed the spinach and resisted the urge to immediately spit it out.
Chef told me the girl hadn’t been out of her room since yesterday afternoon. Like I was supposed to care? I didn’t.
I didn’t.
As I forced down the spinach, it occurred to me that she should apologise to me. She broke the rules. She invaded my personal space. She took a picture without permission, a picture no one could ever see, especially not me.
I knew I was pushing myself too far. I was spending just as much effort on attacking the dummy as I was on keeping myself from screaming or passing out or both. Every inch of my body was in agony, but I kept going. Because I had to. I needed to feel strong, to feel powerful, to feel ready.
And I was terrified that if I saw that picture, I would see a man who was weak, helpless, never to fight again. A picture is a permanent mirror and I couldn’t face mine. So I shattered it.
But it was her fault.
Her fault.
Not mine.
Fuck, this tastes like shit, I thought as I scooped up another forkful.
But why did she have to look at me like that after I broke her camera? I was fine till she looked at me like that, eyes watery and filled with hurt despite the resolute set of her jaw. That one look stabbed a part of me I thought was long ago callused over with thick scars.
Fuck her.
Fuck her camera.
Fuck this food.
I was attempting not to gag on the hard, lumpy sweet potato when I heard the front door slam shut and angry footsteps echoing toward the dining room.
Three…two…one—
“Declan, you need to go apologise.”
“Hey there, Seamus.” I jerked my chin toward him before returning to my delicious plate of food. “Nice of you to let yourself in.”
He pulled out the chair closest to me and slouched into it, scratching irritably at his beard. “Stop fucking with me, Declan,” he grumbled. “Just go apologise. Go apologise now, you hear me?”
I ignored him as he scooped up the nearest fork and stabbed a piece of chicken from my plate. I held back a laugh when he immediately spit it out into the silk napkin in front of him.
“Chef’s trying to give you salmonella, Declan.” He paused to rub the napkin against his tongue. “You know if Chef’s pissed, you need to go apologise. Is the spinach any better?”
I shook my head before I proceeded to dig my fork into the unappealing lump.
“So are you going to go apologise then?” Seamus asked as he reached for the bottle of wine in the centre of the table. He quickly found out, like I had just earlier, that Chef poured it all down the kitchen sink before setting the bottle back out. “Shit, Declan,” he said as he sagged deeper into the chair. “Just go apologise already. I need a fucking drink.”
I kept my attention on my meal.
Seamus finally grew irritated enough to lean forward and prop his elbows on the table. “Declan?”
“Buy her a ticket home,” I finally ordered. “Or a ticket to wherever the fuck she wants to go. Just as long as it’s not here.”
Seamus’s forehead thudded against the table, making the silverware clatter and a wine glass wobble. “Please don’t do this to me!” he wailed. “Please, Declan, I can’t go through the process of finding you yet another assistant again. I just can’t.”
“She’s no good,” I grumbled after forcing down the last bite of sweet potato. I wasn’t going to give Chef a crumb of satisfaction, literally. “She has to go.”
Seamus sat up and threw his arms into the air. “No good?” His voice echoed around the dining room. “No good?! Declan, we both know she’s the best assistant you’ve had.”
I slammed my knife down onto the table. “She made me blueberry pancakes,” I argued. “With enough syrup on them to fill up a plane. A plane like the one she needs to be on. Now.”
Seamus rolled his eyes. “Blueberries are high in antioxidants.”
I scoffed. “And syrup?”
“Eh…” He waved his hand at me dismissively. “Surely, there’s some anti-inflammatory shite in there or something.”
“She kept me awake during my scheduled rest hours.”
Seamus crossed his arms. “We both know you couldn’t hear her.” He lifted his eyebrow as he gave me a pointed look. “And we both know you don’t sleep.”
“She wears too many colours.”
“You’re reaching now, Declan.”
“She asks too many questions.”
Seamus shrugged. “Why don’t you answer them? Maybe it’d be good for you.”
I spit out a laugh at that.
“You need to talk to someone someday.”
I ignored that too. “She took a picture of me during my training,” I said with finality. “That’s unforgiveable, Seamus.”
Seamus sighed and rested his elbows on the table as he leaned closer to me. “Tell me this, Declan…” he nodded back toward the door, “…that stability ball in the gym back there. Why do you use it?”
I frowned in confusion. “What the fuc—”
“Just indulge me, asshole,” Seamus grumbled.
Sighing, I leaned back in my chair and sighed. “It makes you stronger and better balanced by forcing your muscles to adjust to the shifting beneath your feet,” I said rather irritably. “The stable floor can’t give you that.”
Seamus grinned and tapped his nose. “That girl is your stability ball, like it or not.”
I stared at him.
He pushed back his chair from the dining room table. “You need her in your life, Declan.” Seamus stood and squeezed my shoulder. “And I need those blueberry pancakes in mine. So for the love of God, just go apologise.”
I watched Seamus disappear into the hall and heard him cup his mouth to shout toward the kitchen. “Chef, please tell me you didn’t dump all the wine. I need wine!”
I stared at my empty plate while somehow feeling emptier than when I started eating. There was no fucking way I was going to go apologise to the girl. Seamus was dead wrong. Dead wrong. No, it wasn’t going to happen. Chef could punish me as long as he wanted. I would never taste a grain of salt again before admitting to her that I was wrong. I wasn’t going to apologise.
I wasn’t.
No fucking way.
Absolutely not.
No.
No.
No.
River
My duffel bag was packed.
My passport was ready.
My mind made up.
All I needed before heading to the airport was a ticket.
I had no ticket.
Seamus, I sent you my resignation at 3:43 p.m. two days ago and I still haven’t received my ticket home as per the employment conditions we both agreed upon. In case the problem is that you somehow missed my resignation email (or the ten I sent after that) I will summarize it for you: I quit. I’m leaving. Send me my ticket. So, in conclusion, send me my ticket!
- River
Ps. I quit.
Pss. Send me my ticket.
I pressed send on the email and groaned as I rolled over on my bed to wait. If I had enough money to cover the cost of the flight home, I would have paid for it myself and been out of there after a quick goodbye—and good luck—to Oisin, David, and Joan. Hell, I would have upgraded to first class just to drink that fancy champagne in celebration of escaping this place. But I was broke.
So I was stuck.
My phone beeped as I stretched out to grab it and check the message.
River, I’m sure there is something I can do to convince you to stay. Please, just name it and it’s yours.
I read through quickly and typed in a quick reply, Anything?
Moments later, he responded again, Anything. Seriously anything. You can’t leave. You just can’t. Anything, anything, anything!
Great. I’ll tell you what I want, alright?
Yes. Tell me. I’ll make it happen.
Promise?
Seamus messaged back, Yes. Absolutely. What do you want?
I typed in, A flight back to NYC ASAP. Is first class too much to ask? I mean, he did shatter my only camera. So I think it’s fair.
My phone was then silent. Crossing my arms stubbornly despite being alone in my room, I grumbled at the ceiling. There was nothing that could convince me to stay. Nothing.
It wasn’t till a few minutes later that Seamus replied to my list of demands, well, demand.
River, listen, I’m begging you to reconsider your resignation. You’re needed here, believe me. Probably more than you know yet. I know what Declan did was terrible. Just terrible. And I know he’s difficult. That’s hard to argue. He’s been different since the accident. But he’ll get better once he fights. Please, just give him a little more time. That’s all that I ask—a little more time.
I skimmed over the email, shaking my head in disgust at every other word. I was about to reply with the classic American threat that “my uncle is a lawyer” when I paused and frowned in confusion. Accident? What accident?
A sudden knock at my door startled me and my phone slipped from my fingers. I clutched my chest and rolled my eyes.
“Unless you’ve got that ticket you can go away, Seamus,” I called out.
His answer was simply to knock on the door again.
“I prefer window seats,” I said. “Aisles are alright. But I will not accept a middle seat under any circumstances.”
When another knock on the door reverberated through my room, I groaned, rolled off the bed, and stalked forward to yank at the door handle. “In-flight entertainment, too—oh.”
Standing outside my room was not Seamus, but Declan.
I stared into his blue eyes for a second before promptly slamming the door in his face. I hopped back onto my bed even as another knock, knock, knock rattled my door. “Go away,” I called out.
There was silence for a few moments as I listened for the sound of his footsteps moving away down the hall. Surely, he would leave. But right when I was certain he was gone another knock came at my door.
“Seriously, Declan,” I shouted. “I don’t want to see you. Go away.” I stared at the closed door. He would leave this time. But the hall was silent.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
I was starting to inform him where exactly I wanted him to go when the door handle twisted round and Declan stepped into my room.
“Hey!”
Declan ignored me, strode forward, and extended a box toward me. “Here,” was all he said.
I glared up at him.
He was avoiding my eyes, clearly uncomfortable as he stood before me.
“Get. Out. Now,” I hissed.
Declan just moved the box closer to me. “Take this.”
I crossed my arms and shook my head defiantly. “No.”
Declan’s tense jaw twitched, his eyes still on the floor. “Just take it.”
“No.”
“Take it.”
“No.”
Instead of just leaving, Declan then tucked the box under his arm, pulled my arms easily away from my chest despite my struggles, and then plopped the box down on my lap.
I tried to grab it and shove it back toward him, but he quickly stepped away, just as fast as he was in the cage. “I don’t want this,” I told him. “Whatever it is, I don’t want it.”
“Just open it.”
“No.”
“Open it.”
I spit out a laugh. “I said, ‘No.’”
Declan stepped toward me as if to forcefully open the box himself, and I relented after shoving him away with my palm against his rock-solid chest. “Jesus, alright,” I complained. “I’ll open the damn box.”
After glancing over at him to find him shifting from foot to foot and still avoiding my gaze, I tugged open the cardboard flaps and pushed aside the packing peanuts. My eyes widened as I pulled out a brand new, top of the line, I’d-stab-Miley-to-get-my-hands-on-one-and-not-even-feel-that-bad SLR camera. I stared up at Declan.
“This is your apology then?” I asked him.
His eyes flickered over to me as his fingers fidgeted in front of him. “You can stay on past the trial week,” he said without looking over at me. “As my permanent assistant. I, umm, I want you to stay.”
His words sank in while I held the beautiful camera gently in my hands as if it was the rarest of butterflies with the most delicate of wings. This camera was a dream, my dream.
But it came with a nightmare.
“No.”
Declan looked over at me in surprise. “What?”
I placed the camera back in the box and held the box out for him. “I don’t accept,” I said. “You can take it back.”
Confusion played out across Declan’s sharp features, making him look younger and more vulnerable than I’d ever seen him. “I don’t understand.”
I nodded toward the box I still held suspended between us. “It’s just not enough,” I answered. “Please take it.”
Declan shook his head. “That’s the best, most expensive camera on the market right now,” he said more to himself than to me. He looked up at me with hints of anger and frustration in his blue eyes. “How could that not be enough for you?” he demanded. “I can’t get you a better camera. I—how—it doesn’t, you—”
“I don’t want a camera,” I said.
Declan stared at me, his eyes searching mine. Slowly, hesitantly, he asked with narrowed eyes, “What do you want?”
I set the box next to me on the bed and stood up. This was a negotiation, after all. I wanted Declan to know that we were on equal footing.
He eyed me suspiciously.
I squared my shoulders. “I want two days off.”
“Two?” he sounded incredulous.
“Two. Per week.”
I watched as Declan considered this. “You’ll prepare my breakfast smoothies in advance, I presume?”
I chuckled. “Presume again, Mr Gallagher.” I pointed a finger at his chest. “You’ll be preparing your own breakfast smoothies.”
He opened his mouth to protest, but I interrupted him.
“I’ll show you where the power button on the blender is.”
Declan’s hand curled into fists at his sides, but when he caught me noticing, he slowly relaxed. “Fine.” He sighed. “Two days off and you agree to sta—”
“I want to eat dinner with you.”
Declan stepped back as if we weren’t in my room but in the cage, and I’d just punched him in the face. “What? Why?” He asked the question as if I was asking something preposterous.
“Because I’m tired of eating alone,” I answered simply.
Declan bit his lip and hesitated. “I eat alone,” he said, eyeing me warily.
“Then buy me a ticket.”
He dragged a tired hand over his face. “I don’t have to talk to you, do I?” He looked nervously over at me. “Ask you about your day or the weather or that kind of shit?”
I shook my head. “Nope. I just have to be there.”
Declan considered my term and finally nodded. “Fine.” He turned toward the door to leave.
“And finally—”
“You’re pushing it, girl,” Declan said, turning around again to face me.
I could see in his face and hear in his voice how hard he was struggling to maintain his composure. Why? What did this man care if I stuck around? Could it be that hard to find another personal assistant? Why was Declan, a hardened, callused fighter, bending over backwards to please a flower girl from NYC?
“I want permission to paint my room,” I finally said, studying the reaction in his eyes.
They flickered toward the stark white walls around us.
“White walls remind me of a hospital room.” I answered his question before he had to speak it.
I expected a struggle for this last concession. I was asking to change Declan’s home. I was asking to take something from him and make it my own. I was asking to make this place, his home, my home as well. That was commitment. That was finality. That was permanence.
But Declan did not protest. He merely nodded. And that was that. “Anything else?” he asked sarcastically.
I shook my head.
“Good,” he said.
I watched Declan hurry to my door as if eager to escape my presence.
Why did I have such an effect on him? Was it the same effect he had on me?
Declan was halfway out my door when I suddenly called out to him, “Wait!”
He leaned back inside my bedroom with an annoyed, quirked eyebrow.
“I want one more thing,” I said.
Declan waited.
I swallowed, for some reason more nervous to ask for this than any of three requests earlier. I forced myself to keep Declan’s gaze. I raised my chin. “I want you to call me by name.”
He stared at me for a silent moment. “Is that it?”
“Yes.”
He nodded. “Goodnight, River.”
Declan
“Where is the kale? Where the fuck is the goddamn kale?”
Grumbling irritably to myself, I shoved aside tomatoes, eggplants, and zucchini in the walk-in fridge at the back of the kitchen. A red pepper rolled off the shelf and after leaning down to grab it I smacked my head on the wooden shelf above me.
