I clear my throat. “Your what, now?”
“Assistant dog bather. I’m a dog groomer and I desperately—” She breaks off to clear her throat. “I mean, I guess I could use a hand around the shop.”
“Dog bather.” I’m not sure which idea is worse. Not having any money, or this job.
Grow up, Bash. Stop acting privileged, because you aren’t anymore.And I can’t deny that being part of my old-money family without any real responsibilities at twenty-five has unfortunately left me with a very narrow pool of work experience. I dropped out of college. I’ve never had a common job in my whole life. I’ve only ever done street fighting before I went professional, which is how I got noticed on social media and scouted by my agent, Max, who got me my Munera contract in the first place. And sporadically assisting with my parents’ prestigious auction house also doesn’t count as a common job, not by a long shot. But even then, my participation was limited to occasionally attending events, helping with private viewings, or mingling with clients.
I would make a terrible employee.
Romilly pulls her bottom lip between her teeth as she watches me ponder. It makes warmth flood my chest and my brain go foggy.
“I’ll do it,” I say. “I’ll take the job.”
“Which one?”
“Both. Even the dog bathing one.”
For the first time, her smile slips from her mouth. “Wonderful.”
“Does that…upset you?” I search her face. “Because you don’t exactly seem thrilled.”
She shakes her head. “No. Of course not. I’m just thinking of all the training you’ll need.”
I try to muster up some false confidence. “I’m sure it’s not as hard as it seems, washing a dog or two.”
Her mouth twitches. “I’m sure you’re right. Can you start Wednesday?”
Training outdoors isn’t at all ideal. MMA is a sport only the strongest can endure, and not being able to prepare for my next match properly makes me feel on edge.
I should be in a gym.
I should be sparring right now and maintaining my jujitsu and kickboxing skills. But all I can manage is running and using my body weight or objects around the woods to build muscle. I could ask Logan to spar with me, but he’s gearing up for a surfing competition and can’t risk possibly getting injured. And thanks to the lack of protein at the house, I’ve already dropped weight. If I can’t maintain my current weight, I might not qualify for my weight class, Middleweight, anymore.
The pressure from my agent should be enough to keep me moving, especially since his last message, which let me know my former opponent got injured in a match, and I’ll now be fighting Connor Stronghold—someone slightly more experienced than me and undefeated.
But I can’t deny, it feels amazing to get the sweat pumping during my run. Jogging always helps me feel calmer. It’s one of my favorite ways to drown everything else out. So I keep doing it. And after spending the rest of the afternoon training, I grab burgers with Logan—his treat, bless him—before I head home.
When I get inside, I set the Bible down on the kitchen island and flip the lights on. The modern, black cabinets come into view, but I almost jump at the sight of Ingrid slumped over in one of the seats, her face pressed against the sparkling, black quartz countertop as she snores.
She’s still in her waitress uniform. I can’t help but notice how exhausted she looks, even while asleep. She must be working long, difficult shifts. Something in my stomach tightens.My poor sister. She’s only nineteen and this is her first job.Hopefully accepting Romilly’s offer will help to take some of the pressure off her.
I turn from the kitchen, about to head upstairs, when she opens her eyes. Stretches. “When did you get back?” Her voice is still a sleepy haze.
I grin. “Just now. And guess what, little sis? I got one of those job things, just like you.”
I have her full attention now. She sits up straight. Opens her eyes all the way. Frowns. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“I’m officially an employee of The Paw Spa.”
A moment of silence ensues, and then she bursts into laughter. She holds her stomach, almost tipping out of her stool.
I frown. “It’s really not all that funny.”
But she doesn’t stop laughing. Not until a full minute passes. Her laughter finally dies down, and she breathes deeply, like she’s trying to prevent another bout from starting up. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I thought you said you got a job at apet salon.”
“Romilly’s pet salon,” I growl. “And be grateful. Because now you won’t have to work so hard.”
“Where did you meet this Romilly gal, again?”
