She shook her head, her gaze glued to the event happening around them, making sure everything was going according to plan. “Sorry, Tys, I’m just as shocked as Walker. I thought I was the only woman you could successfully keep in the friend zone.”

He looked away. He hadn’t said anything about a friend zone.

“Ah, there’s the look,” Walker said.

“What look?”

“That guilty-as-shit look. She’s not in the friend zone. You already had sex with her.”

“So? I’ve had sex with a lot of women. Sorry, Grace,” he said, but she was barely listening anymore.

Walker grinned. “Yes, but the difference is, this time you’ve had sex with her and now you’re hanging out with her . . .”

His cell phone chimed with a text message in his pocket and, retrieving it, he grinned as he read it. He was being summoned to the women’s restroom.

*   *   *

Parker woke to the sound of her cell phone ringing far too early the next morning. Struggling to see through tired eyes, she rolled across the bed and glanced at the call display. Her grandmother. She looked at the time. Seven thirty-eight.

She answered quickly, sitting up and shaking off the sleep. “Grandma?”

Abigail sighed. “Okay, I guess we’re going with Grandma . . .”

“Are you okay?”

“My face is still swollen and wrapped in bandages and I’m sure I terrified the life out of all of the children who came to my door last night . . .”

Parker cringed, feeling guilty for bailing on the older woman the night before, but seriously—three face-lifts? Enough was enough. She was almost eighty; it was time to look old.

“But actually I was calling to ask if you were okay.”

Parker frowned, collapsing back against her pillows, streaked with the airbrush makeup she’d been too tired to wash off the night before. Her grandmother would throw a fit if she knew Parker didn’t always wash her makeup off before bed. “I’m fine.” Exhausted, not having made it to bed until midnight . . . and not getting to sleep until hours after that, once Tyson slipped away in the night. She pushed the annoying thought of his late-night exit aside. “Why do you ask?”

“I take it you haven’t seen today’s paper yet.”

She bolted upright. “No . . .” she said slowly, getting out of bed, tossing on her robe and hurrying down the stairs to the front door.

Her cell chimed with an incoming call and she glanced at it quickly. Her agent? It was six thirty on the coast. What did he want so early? Her stomach knotted—she suspected it had to be the same reason her grandmother was calling. “Can you hang on just a sec, Grandma?” she said before clicking over. “Ian?”

“Are you trying to sink your career?” he asked.

Shit. What the hell was in that paper? “I have no idea what you’re talking about . . . Give me a minute to catch up. I’m going to get my paper now,” she mumbled, opening the door and retrieving that day’s paper from her step.

“Let me know when you see it,” he grumbled.

Laying it on her kitchen table, she was relieved to see whatever it was hadn’t made the front page at least. “Help me out here. What section?”

“Entertainment.”

She quickly flipped to it. Her stomach took a dive. First page news of that section was the headline “Is Parker Hamilton’s career that bad?” above a picture of her in the Zombie Burlesque costume inside the nightclub. She groaned and buried her face in her hand. “Damn it!” She should have known press would be there—a new club opening in Vegas was a big deal. She just hadn’t expected this spin to be put on her good-natured attempt at making the best of last night’s costume mixup. So much for people not recognizing her.

Remembering her grandmother on the other line, she said, “Hold a sec, Ian.” She switched to the other line. “Grandma, I see the article and it was all just a misunderstanding. I thought it was a costume party.” She shook her head as her eyes skimmed the article. Career over . . . washed-up child actress . . . Oh, crap.

“Not exactly a great way to keep a low profile until your new movie is announced,” Abigail said.

“I know . . .” Damn Tyson! Or Walker or whoever was to blame for this.

Herself.

Tyson had suggested they leave. She’d been the one who’d offered to stay. This was her own fault. “I wasn’t expecting any media attention. I haven’t had any in so long,” she mumbled. Of course the paparazzi preferred to strike when the story could be twisted to stir up drama and controversy.

“They always find you on your worst days, sweetheart. Chin up. It will blow over,” Abigail said.

She doubted she would get the same reaction from her agent. “Thanks, Grandma . . . I’ll talk to you later.” Clicking back over to Ian, she said, “Look, this was supposed to be a costume party, that’s all. I’m not the newest member of the . . .” She scanned the article. “Sexy Zombie Squad.” She slumped in her chair. “How do we fix this?” Her head hurt. It was too early and she was just a little too hung-over to be dealing with this right now.

“I’ll call Marsha.”

Her publicist. If anyone could fix this, she could.

“We’ll release a statement. Unfortunately, I think we will have to announce the movie role in an attempt to try to steal the focus away from this.”

She frowned, taking another look at the picture she barely remembered posing for with the sexy zombie squad. She was laughing and she looked relaxed. “Do you think it’s really that bad?” Maybe her grandmother was right—it would all just blow over in a few days. Who really cared about this stuff anyway? she thought, but her stomach was queasy.

“Let me quote—‘Ms. Hamilton’s desperate attempt to remain in the spotlight and out of her grandmother’s shadow knows no bounds.’ What do you think?” Ian said.

Shit. “Okay. Release a statement about the new movie.”

*   *   *

Is MFL Light-Heavyweight champ, Tyson Reed headed for Hollywood or heartbreak?

Fuck.

Tyson leaned closer to the screen as he read the article on the MMA Fanatics website—one of the biggest and most popular Mixed Martial Arts online news center. He always started his morning reading the latest MMA news on the site, and he’d been the hot topic before, but not like this.

He groaned as he scrolled through the article about him and Parker at the Zombie Burlesque party the evening before. Whoever had taken these shots of them together had been pretty close. Pictures of them laughing, dancing, kissing . . . filled the screen and his gut tightened.

Should we expect to see the champ in Parker Hamilton’s next movie or has the playboy of the MFL finally fallen in love?

No. And no. Fuck me, he thought, leaning back in his chair. This was the last thing he needed. Press about his upcoming fight was great, but not when it was framed like this.

He stared at the picture of the two of them in the hallway outside the club’s restrooms. She was leaning against the wall and he had his hands on her hips, his lips just inches from hers. She was smiling . . . but it was the look on his own face that made him ill—the intensely intimate way he was staring at her.

He sighed, resting his head against the seat and closing his eyes, though the attempt to block out the image was unsuccessful. He’d never looked at a woman like that before. He knew it, the press knew it . . . he wondered if Parker knew it?

He couldn’t let this get out of hand any more than it already had. Relationships were not his thing. Getting hurt inside the cage he could handle. Getting his heart broken was a different story. He’d never let himself get close enough to a woman to find out the damage it could have on his heart and he wasn’t about to. Not this close to a fight that mattered more to him than anything.

His cell phone chimed with a new message and, picking his phone up, he hesitated, seeing Parker’s name on the screen. He was getting in over his head with this woman and it had to stop. Telling her they’d have to cool things wasn’t going to be easy and he couldn’t help but think it might be harder on him than it would be on her . . .