Knock Out (Worth the Fight) (9 page)

Keane jumped to his feet, and belatedly, she realized he’d spoken. Wide-eyed, she stared at him, hoping his intense focus prevented him from picking up on the fact she was turned on—so turned on she felt like running her hands beneath his sweatshirt to feel the warmth of his abdomen from all those sit-ups. Or touch the bulging arms, thick with muscle. Or...

“Ready?” he asked while jogging in place.

Am I ever
. Logan wanted nothing better than to sprawl out on the sidewalk, preferably with him cuddled up next to her—but Keane was a machine in motion.

For a split second, she thought he was going to hit the ground and pump out a few more.
God
,
yes
,
please.

With a brief, quizzical look, he said, “We’ll take it slow. Cool down.”

Take it slow.
Cool down.
The sexy innuendo had her heart doing push-ups. If they weren’t standing on a crooked concrete sidewalk on a soon-to-be-busy street...

Keane stood with his head angled to the side and his hands on his hips, studying her.

Fearing he’d guessed her thoughts, she hurried to reply. “Ha, who are you kidding? Your slow is like Manhattan during rush hour. As I said much, much earlier, don’t wait for me. I’ll either catch up or meet you back at your house.”

“No need. We’re done for the morning.” He nodded toward the roadway and waited for her to jog ahead. Yet, true to his word, this time he ran next to her at a comfortable speed.

“Time to refuel. Are you hungry?”

“Uh-huh.”
Yes
,
but for a taste of you.
How in the heck was she going to make it through the week with him? The man was sexy as sin, and as she spent more and more time with him she discovered that beneath that heart-dropping body, lay a humble soul.

She’d come to that conclusion last night during his house tour. He’d painstakingly answered her barrage of questions with short, concise explanations—no surprise there. But something had been playing out within him, an intangible tension she couldn’t put her finger on. He seemed almost uncomfortable. Modest about his renovations. Which Logan couldn’t quite understand.

His old Victorian house was the home of her dreams. She itched to pick up some sandpaper and scrub off the chipped windowsill paint in the guest room. Paint an eggshell cream color for the plywood walls and fix a new mantel for the fireplace. And she had told him so.

Painfully embarrassed, that’s what his reaction last night seemed like. Clearly, he felt funny about owning such a magnificently dainty house. And this show of fragility made her want to tug him in close.

They jogged through Market Square, side-by-side, passing a woman cleaning a For Sale sign on the window of Rachel’s Antiques, and other early-risers preparing for the day.

“Here we are,” Keane murmured. He had stopped in front of a small luncheonette with warped marine-blue siding and a crooked neon sign in its window. The word
open
flashed brightly.

She shot him an arched eyebrow. “I’m a mess, even for a place like this. When you said breakfast, I thought we would be eating at your house. I haven’t showered.”

The appraising look he gave her stopped her short.
He likes my just-rolled-out-of-bed-and-sprinted-the-Pittsburgh-marathon look.

He opened the door and ushered her inside.

The place was packed. The aroma of fresh coffee and sweet buttery pancakes caused her stomach to pull a plié. With all the exercise, she was famished.

A kind, old Irishman greeted them. “Keane, my boy. It’s a mighty fine day when you come strolling on in here. It’s been too long.”

In typical Keane style, he didn’t say much but Logan saw him soften beneath the older man’s greeting. “Is there a table, Joe?”

“For you, me bucko, there’s always a table. Especially when you’ve such lovely company.”

Logan smiled at the elderly man, whose heartfelt greeting was like a warm hug.

Joe led them down the narrow aisle to a back booth. She was surprised how cozy and clean the place was, with its old-fashioned table-top jukeboxes and red-checkered linen tablecloths.

Settling into the seat across from her, Keane pulled off his cap, lowered his hood and unzipped his sweatshirt. The black shirt layered beneath hugged his pecs but hung more loosely over his abdomen. Logan fiddled with her own layers as she imagined his naked torso beneath.

She had thought her favorite part on a man was his biceps, having grown used to Pierre’s strong, firm ones—which in retrospect seemed like ant hills to Keane’s Mont Blanc. Yet, the breath-catching glimpses of Keane’s bare abdomen each time his shirt rose up...nope, she was a certifiable abs-aholic, wanting more and more.

“Need something?” His eyebrow raised, and damn, if his eyes weren’t twinkling. Totally aware of her perusal.

She looked down at the checkered napkin and fiddled with the brass ring. Wishing her embarrassment would steal away with her lustful thoughts. If Pierre could only see her now, all hot and bothered. She wanted to laugh, thanks to the handsome man across from her. A virtual stranger responsible for saving her job, her livelihood
and
her sexuality.

Joe returned and distributed the menus, along with a pot of coffee and some cream.

Chancing a glance up, she nearly dropped the menu. Keane wasn’t even looking at it. Instead, he’d put a toothpick in his mouth, sprawled back in his seat, and with something that looked like a predatory grin, was studying her.

Not knowing what to say, she muttered the first thing that came to mind. “Do you know what you want?”

“Yep. Sure do.” His reply was immediate, and given in such a low, sensual voice, that this time the menu did slide from her grasp.

“Ah, hum,” Joe cleared his throat, breaking the moment. “What will it be this morning? The usual for you, Keane?”

“With a glass of water, too.”

“And you, young lady?”

The heat rose in Logan’s cheeks. She’d been so busy devouring the man-candy across from her, she hadn’t any idea what was on the menu. “Um, how about a grapefruit sprinkled lightly with sugar. And a Greek yogurt. If you don’t have Greek, any old regular yogurt will do, I’m not too picky.”

Joe chuckled, and kindly remarked, “What does this look like, the Ritz? Me dearie, you’re in an around-the-clock meat and potatoes type of place. However, let me see if I can whip up something more refined for a sweet lass like you.”

“No, I don’t want to be any trouble. Whatever Keane is having will do for me.”

A few minutes later, she was regretting her decision. Joe placed not one, but three dishes in front of Keane. One was a steaming plate full of vegetables, mostly broccoli mixed with carrots and a sprout that looked like alfalfa. The second plate had a tower of buckwheat pancakes—Joe had informed her of the special batter he made just for his boys. But the thick sirloin on the third one, rare enough to jump off the plate and bite you back, made her glance around nervously. No way was she eating an enormous slab of meat. Steak was reserved for special, once-in-a-blue-moon splurges.

Frowning, her eyes shot toward Joe, who was watching her reaction with merriment. The same in-on-the-joke look was etched into the raised corners of Keane’s mouth. Joe’s laugh, when it finally came, was a loud burst of pleasure. Keane’s, however, was a low, melodic rumble which caused her heart to thump wildly.

Logan rolled her eyes. “Very funny, you guys. I almost had a heart attack thinking I’d have to eat all that.”

To her relief, a plate of cottage cheese, mixed fruit and Canadian bacon was set in front of her. Her stomach growled out a hello.

“I’m thinking you’ve been in me place before,” Joe commented, studying her thoughtfully. “You look familiar.”

She glanced around nervously and spotted the television on the wall over the counter.

“Food’s getting cold.” Keane’s comment sent Joe on his way.

Logan tried to convey
thank you
with her eyes, but Keane was looking at his plate while stabbing at the vegetables with his fork.

They ate in silence. He wasn’t one for long conversations, that was as clear as day. But it wasn’t an awkward silence. It was more like a contented lull between two people who’d spent an active morning attaining endorphin buzzes from well-worked bodies.
His
well-worked body.

Logan grinned at the thought.

“That good?”

God, she would have to stop doing that—the object of every fantasy she’d ever had was sitting right in front of her, and wouldn’t you know it, she was blatantly eyeballing him with the same consideration that he’d given the steak.

“Really good. The cottage cheese melts in your mouth,” she said sarcastically. “Now, how about you fill me in on this week’s plan. From what I understand, you’re expected to fight two different opponents in two different bouts each night, for three nights straight. That’s six consecutive fights.” She paused, thinking how crazy it sounded. He must have read her expression.

“It’s not like championship boxing. You’re in for twelve rounds if you’re lucky, and done. In MMA qualifying bouts like these, the fights end quicker. You win and move on until you’re the last guy standing. That’s how you make it into the big event. That’s what getting to Tetnus is all about.” His tone had lost its playful quality and she gave herself a mental kick for turning their light-hearted morning into something heavier.

When it came to the topic of fighting, Keane was all business. Instantly serious, more somber, and downright surly at times.

Right now, she was hoping for the least of the three evils—serious.

“Is it enough time for you to get ready?” she asked casually. “You have to win...”

“So, you’re suddenly an expert on training fighters?” He chewed a piece of meat and stared at her. A bit of juice coated his full lips and instead of feeling intimidated, she felt...warm.

“Why are you giving me such a hard time about this? You agreed to fight—which I really appreciate—but I don’t want to see you lose. Or get hurt. Sal said the key to winning a fight was something about the right balance of technique and strength when grappling on the mat.”

Keane snorted, then licked at the pool of juice in the corner of his mouth.

Joe cleared his throat from his spot by their table. “If this doesn’t beat all. You’re riding me boy about
his
training? Not to butt into your conversation or anything, but you don’t know who you’re talking to, lass. He wadna have any problem grappling, boxing, or with anything else. This boy’s a MCMAP, a Marine Corps martial arts teacher with a fourth-degree black belt. He trains the other blokes how to fight. Jimmy, me nephew, was always brimming with wild tales about Keane, and how...”

Drop it, Joe,” Keane rasped in a hoarse, raw-sounding voice.

Logan straightened in her seat, wondering at the change in him. Seconds earlier, he’d been devouring her with his eyes. But now, in a blink, his gaze had narrowed and his body was tight with tension.

Joe stopped, his mouth wide open. “Your gal, she doesn’t know about Jimmy?”

“We’re on a need to know basis. And she’s not my girl.”

Logan felt a rush of breath escape her. Keane’s words, and the brutal way he said them, cut like a knife.
Not my girl
. It was like he’d grabbed hold of their sweet morning rapport and mercilessly crushed it within his fist.

She wasn’t the only one shaken by his abrupt change in demeanor.

Joe folded his arms across his chest. “But you brought her in me place. I haven’t seen your mug in months, maybe a handful of times since Jimmy’s funeral. What else was I to think?” The Irishman’s eyes filled with sorrow. “His death...it wadna something you could control, lad. How were you to know?”

Keane shot to his feet and the plates on the table rattled. “Holy fuck, Joe, shut up.”

Logan sat back in her seat, and gaped up at Keane.

He’s lost a friend.

Sympathy welled up inside her, overshadowing her own hurt. She wanted to wrap her arms around him and comfort him. Ease the pain that had unexpectedly surfaced from somewhere deep inside of him. That’s what this was, right? Keane’s way of dealing with his friend’s death? Yet his rough manner made her think twice about consoling him.

Keane wasn’t a hug-loving type of guy. Especially now.

His abrupt shift in personality made him downright mean, uncharacteristically so, with the way he was glaring at Joe.

The Irishman looked wretched, wringing his hands and wavering on his feet, and studying Keane intently, as if he was looking at a total stranger, too.

Logan unclasped her numb fingers from the tight knot she’d made on her lap.

And Keane...
oh my God
. He seemed both furious, and
devastated
. Like someone who’d just found out about a close friend’s death. But hadn’t Joe said the funeral had already taken place?

This warrior, this handsome male with a strength and fortitude that was mind-shattering, this private man whom she’d stalked and pestered into fighting in the qualifiers, had some serious issues of his own.

Deeper issues than those she’d already picked up on.

The internal struggle playing out in him spoke volumes—his troubles reached way beyond the booze, the pills, the hard living. Issues that would take more than a few sips of herbal tea to resolve.

Would she be able to help him?
Had the teas
,
exercise
,
even her companionship
,
been a source of relief for him?

Or not at all?

Keane stared down Joe, and the Irishman fixed his gaze on Keane, until in the unspoken way of men, they came to some kind of nonverbal accord.

“Let’s go. We’ll sprint back.” His voice was deceptively calm. Normal. She wasn’t fooled. Still, relief washed over her. Whatever had played out in Keane’s head, he’d gotten a hold on it.

“Another time, Joe,” he said abruptly. Keane patted the old Irishman on the arm and softly added, “Sorry.”

She followed him out into the bright, Pittsburgh sunlight. With a nod in the direction of home, he took off running. She watched him sprint away, as if the devil had nipped him on the heels. With a sigh, she started after him.