“Bird, this is my stepsister, Cypress,” Knox introduces us. “Cypress”—he nods toward the other man—“Bird. He’s a fighter with the BFC.”
Even I know what BFC stands for—Bellum Fighter Championship, the internationally known MMA organization. I don’t know this guy, but I wasn’t far off with the gladiator impression.
“Nice to meet you,” I say. “Your tattoo is gorgeous.”
“Cool meeting you, too.” He grins. “And thanks. Jude hooked me up.”
“Hell, it’s an honor, man,” Jude replies, drawling, “Besides, having my work televised and on display for millions of people isn’t a hardship.”
Bird laughs. “True that.”
“He’s fucking good,” Knox states in a gruff, no-nonsense manner that practically dares anyone to say different. “Good enough to run his own shop.”
If I wasn’t a complete Jude-creeper, I might’ve missed the tensing of his body. But I noticed it, and the weird vibe running back and forth between him and his brother. In the next instant, though, Jude has reverted to his laid-back self, cracking jokes with Bird as he applies ointment to the new ink and covers it with gauze. When Knox and the other fighter start talking about an upcoming BFC event in Detroit, Jude turns to me.
“That for me?” His gaze briefly dips to the plastic bag I’m still clutching—the bag I’d forgotten about until this moment—before returning to mine. I’ve never known a man who can convey so much with a single look. And right now, the warmth, the surprise that’s there no matter how many times I show up with food for him, always seizes my heart and squeezes for all its worth.
“No, for Hakim. But since he already ate…” I shrug a shoulder.
The corner of his mouth quirks. “I would say something about it being only fair since Hakim gets a lot of my leftovers, but I’ll refrain…”
“I’msotelling him you said that,” V sing-songs as she strolls past the open doorway.
He laughs, taking the bag from my grip and, settling a wide palm low on my back, guides me from the room. “Snitches get stitches. You just remember that, V,” he calls after her.
Her snicker echoes in the hall as she returns to the main part of the shop.
The camaraderie and obvious affection among the staff here is fun and would put anyone at ease. Another pang of envy resonates within me before I can shut it down. There was a time I believed my department at UHG shared the same comfortable solidarity. But I’d been blissfully unaware of the stench-filled underbelly of sexual harassment and intimidation for most of the four years I interned and worked there. And once those blinders had been ripped from my eyes, there was no returning to that place of willful ignorance.
“You good?”
Jude’s question snaps me out of the past, and I offer him a smile that feels strained on my lips. “Yeah.” I rub my hands up and down my arms that are bared by my work T-shirt. “It feels good out there, but I swear the temperature in here is always cold-as-hell degrees Fahrenheit,” I mutter, nodding at the bag he held. “I brought burgers and fries tonight. Hope that’s okay?”
He studies me for a long moment, setting the containers of food on the table. “You know it is, Cypress,” he finally murmurs, addressing my question, but his steady, incisive stare lets me know I’m not off the hook with my clumsy subject change. “I thought I told you this isn’t necessary.”
I wave off his reminder, sinking to the battered but comfortable couch. “I know, I know. You said something like that.”
He snorts. “Be right back.”
He strides out of the room, and I’m thankful, not wanting to get into another discussion about why I need to stop trying to compensate him for letting me stay with him. I haven’t listened yet and don’t intend to start.
After my first week at his apartment, I tried to give him money for rent, and he refused to accept it. The second week, a repeat of the first.Save for your place. That’s why you’re here. That’s been his unchanging answer every time. Since he won’t take my money, I’ve been repaying him in other ways. Keeping the apartment clean. Getting up and fixing breakfast on his days to open the shop. And bringing dinner by on his late nights before I head to work.
I’m used to paying my own way…and that of others. This—having someone take care of me without expecting or asking anything in return—is like living in an alternate reality where I’m not certain of the rules. And it leaves me constantly on guard, waiting for the hammer to drop when I violate one.
And I’m definitely about to violate one.
Glancing at the closed break room door as he reenters moments later, I inhale, hoping to smother the sudden flutter of nerves beating the hell out of my stomach. One of those rules we’ve established by tacit agreement is: You mind your business, I’ll mind mine.
Except for my confiding in him about the state of Mom’s finances, we haven’t crossed that line, but now I’m about to step over it, then kick dirt on it for good measure.
“Here.” He hands me a gray hoodie with #TeamTyrion across the front.
“Really?” I snicker, accepting it and pulling it over my head. The soft cotton contains his scent, and it encloses me like a hug.
He shrugs, a corner of his mouth quirking in a half grin. “Eden came in one day with one that said #TeamDaenerys, so I had to out-Game of Thronesher. She started it.”
“Thanks for this,” I murmur. Clearing my throat, I reach for my to-go box and open it. Procrastinating. “What was that about between you and Knox back there? After he made the comment about being good enough to run your own shop, you kind of looked like you wanted to junk-punch him.”
