Chapter 19
Vaughn could turn five hours of ranch chores into a last-ditch weight-cutting effort. Sure. No problem.
Maybe at the same time, he could sweat out the memories of a certain woman who woke up in his arms a few hours ago.
While he was at it, maybe he could go backward in time to the pointbeforehe had flipped a switch this morning and turned into an ass. For all the help his power gave him in detecting danger, it had a massive blind spot when Vaughn was personally about to create an epic disaster.
Like how he covered for his insecurities by insulting a nice woman. Real smooth move, there. Some days, his life truly emulated a slow-moving train wreck.
He cursed as he slung more bales of hay. His mouth had gone dry, but no way could he drink anything. Not yet.
The electronic scale in the house was a tough taskmaster.
If he hadn't slept at Mariah's house, he could have started earlier on his final weight cut. But he couldn't leave her all alone last night. Hell, if he hadn't stayed in the house, he would have sat outside in his truck all night, so insistent was his ability to protect her.
He stood and wiped his sweaty forehead with his forearm.
Now he was distracted right before his bout.
Actually, seeing his competitor at the Brand family ranch had distracted him already. Linc was a nasty bastard. That guy hit hard and fought dirty. It would take all of Vaughn's skills, both physical and mental, to beat the guy tomorrow. He needed all of his focus if he had any chance to not just win but also survive the fight. He spun in a slow circle in the barn, breathing hard.
At least Vaughn's family had given him some space.
Kerr hadn't questioned the request to move Mariah's car to her house. He must have done it way late last night, because sure enough, when Vaughn exited her house at 6:00 a.m., the keys hung from the ignition of her car parked in her driveway. Moving the car was a two-person job, so another friend or family member must have participated. Vaughn needed to thank them later.
But he'd be damned if he would explain to anyone what he was doing at Mariah's house last night. Or not doing.
How exactly would he label last night's spoon-fest disaster?
That moment when she woke up and gazed at him with that vulnerable expression would stay etched in his mind forever.
After all these years, he had experienced the perfect night with a woman, and they had both remained clothed. Hell, he had volunteered to freeze his ass off by remaining on top of the covers.
At what prior point in his life, ever, had he resisted a beautiful woman?
Maybe he had finally learned something from that fuckup with Garrison's ex-wife and after being used by that social climber back in New York.
"Want to take a break?" Garrison's even voice startled him.
Vaughn tugged the hoodie tighter around his head and kept on heaving seventy pound bales of hay from one location to another. "Can't. Two more pounds to go."
"Yeah, thought you'd gotten pudgy."
He snorted. "As if."
Garrison jutted out his chin, begging Vaughn to take a swing at it. "Trying to impress someone?"
"Yep. The fight official at the weigh-in tonight."
"Right." His brother didn't say anything for a solid minute. "Why do you keep fighting?"
Wiping sweat, Vaughn said, "One. I'm good at it. Two. I like the sport itself. Three. I like the discipline of staying in shape and improving my sorry self. Four. It keeps me sober."
"Don't you think there's an unfair advantage?"
"With my power? Maybe. It's got me out of a lot of bad situations over the years, but not all of them." Obviously. "There's something satisfying about beating the crap out of someone who very much wants to beat the crap out of me. What's even better is turning the fight into art. Using the fancy techniques to put someone on their ass or submit them. If I can get an ankle bar submission, that's cooler than a plain KO. The submission takes more planning, more strategy and leverage. More subtle proficiency."
"Okay, okay, I get it, Mr.Artiste. You're the Rembrandt of MMA. But you and I both know you're perfectly happy knocking someone out cold with bare knuckles."
