Geez.
Fuming, I jerked the backpack on the rest of the way, grabbed the bike handles, and had one leg almost over the bike when a hand grabbed my ankle.
On reflex, I kicked back with a grunt. Whoever had my leg shuffled at the shifting weight, but didn't budge. They released me. I whirled around to find Benjamin there. My helmet swung from my hand as I wheeled it toward him, but he dodged the flying foam missile like a featherlight ninja, then took a step back and held up two hands.
"Sorry," he quickly said, "I shouldn't have touched you."
Chest heaving, blood thumping, I let my hand rest at my side. The helmet hit my thigh uselessly. Embarrassed at my overreaction—but seriously, he grabbed my ankle?—I took a deep breath.
"What?" I snapped again. "You made your position very clear."
"I want to help."
In the dimming spring light, his face was bathed in shadows. A glimmer of something showed in his eyes anyway, and he tucked two hands into his front pockets. He normally stood with his arms at his side, like a god come to life. His face was usually analytical and serious.
Now it was . . . concerned.
Fantastic. I engendered pity in the man I'd secretly tried to ignore for months now. And maybe—just maybe—that had been a bit of an overreaction. Mama always said that defensiveness meant there was truth in what the other person said.
So . . . there was that.
"I'm sorry," he said. "That came out arrogant and not entirely true. I don't see you as a damsel-in-distress or whatever. I just . . . I want to help you better your situation however I can. I want you to be safe."
My racing heart calmed. I studied him for another short eternity. "I overreacted," I said. "I'm sorry too."
He lifted his eyebrows. Was it surprise or a follow up question? Going with the latter, I stumbled over my own thoughts. Did I want to trust him? Yes. Could I?
Yes.
At least I could sense that much beneath the layers of vulnerable bravado and muscle that I sensed held something of a charming man. He was coiled quiet. Deadly precision. Probably moved faster than I could think.
Not probably, he definitely could.
I'd seen the videos of his last fight where he'd destroyed his opponent in a crushing career-builder, then retired and left the MMA world in a sense of reeling shock. No explanation, just walked away and disappeared into a quiet bubble.
There was nothing normal about Mercedy, but something told me that everything in him wanted to be.
"I just need someone to teach me the basics in case I need them." I ran a hand through my hair, which had fallen from the loose ponytail and gone full-curl-powered-frizzy at some point after leaving the restaurant. "Like poking eyes or groin kicks or something. I'm pretty open in the afternoon. I work from six to three at the diner Monday through Thursday and to closing on Saturday."
His gaze followed my gesture to The Diner across the way. For several moments, a machine seemed to move behind his eyes.
"Come at 9:00 tomorrrow," he finally said, "just after we close. I'll teach you what you need to know. But it's not going to stop someone that's determined to hurt you. If—"
"You'd do that?"
"Yes."
I rolled my eyes. "Because you want to be the hero?"
"No," he said softly. "Because I want you to be."
My natural snarky response froze in my throat, and all I could do was nod. Geez, what was I doing? Giving Mercedy—it was easier to picture him as a non-god if I called him by his last name—attitude. Not only that, but I'd be alone with him.
For an hour.
"Okay, I'll take that." I nodded, hair waving around my face, and held up a finger. "Can I pay you?"
"I don't need the money."
"Great! Then I'll bring food," I said quickly. "Dinner is on me. And it won't be from the restaurant. I'll make it."
A hint of amusement appeared like a crack in his veneer. "It doesn't matter where it's from. And you don't have to bring me food."
I tilted my head back and forth. "Well, I really shouldn't steal food from the place I work, you know? And yes, I do need to give something back. I demand it. Is this a deal?"
Feeling a sense of euphoria for the first time in weeks, I stuck my hand out. It had been too long since I had a real win. Only a few seconds before our hands came together did I comprehend that I'd be touching him.
Him.
Mercedy.
Whom I quietly stalked from behind the diner windows and tried to ignore all at the same time.
When he gripped my hand in his, tiny little fireworks erupted under the skin of my palm and electrified the rest of my body. I hated that physical response. The pooling collection of heat in my belly that just seeing him caused.
He gave me a short nod, and I couldn't help but wonder if he ever smiled.
"Deal," he said.
"Thank you. I appreciate it. Oh! Do you have any allergies?"
"Nah." He took a step back, our hands falling apart. "I eat just about anything."
Like a madwoman, I wanted to rush forward and snatch his hand back. To cradle his in mine. To imagine what that thrumming touch would feel like on my shoulders. My neck. My cheek. Instead, I let my arm drop back to my side.
"Thanks, Mercedy."
His head tilted back in amusement, as if he didn't know what to make of me. He certainly wouldn't be the first. I climbed on top of my bike, one leg bent as I put a foot on the pedal.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Serafina. You can call me Sera."
I shoved off, my bike tires humming on the pavement as I pedaled away.
I hope you enjoyed that
