“My grandmother is all Hollywood—she’s glamour and glitz, she’s elegant, and she’s an icon in the industry . . . It’s a lot to live up to.”

He waited for her to continue. They were more alike than she knew. Living in the shadow of Alan “The Steel Fist” Reed hadn’t exactly been easy either. His father had set standards no one could live up to.

“My parents were the complete opposite—so down to earth. My mom was a literary agent and my father was a lawyer. When I was born, my parents moved away from California to keep me as far away from the acting world as possible but as I got older and spent time with my grandmother during the summer and watched her old films . . . I just fell in love with it all. My parents hoped it was just a phase, but I knew from early on I wanted to be just like her.” She paused. “After my parents died and I moved in with her, she started sending me to casting calls, which I loved, but the feedback for an eight-year-old who’d never been exposed to this world before was devastating. They would say I was too fat, or too thin, or my nose was too big.” She shook her head.

“Idiots,” he mumbled.

She smiled softly. “Unfortunately, I didn’t think so—I thought they knew what they were talking about and by the time I was sixteen, I’d been on too many diets to count, I’d had plastic surgery”—she motioned her chest—“and I’d had a slight nose realignment.”

“At sixteen?” He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Her grandmother should have been charged with child abuse. Then an image of his father waking him up at three a.m. at the age of twelve to run eight miles before school flashed in his mind . . . followed by the intense weight training he’d insisted on before his body had had time to develop. Okay, maybe parents fucked up often in their attempts to give their children the futures they wanted . . . or the ones they wanted for them.

But he wouldn’t fault his father for anything, the same way he suspected Parker would never hold any of this against her grandmother. Ultimately, they’d both succeeded because of the intensity of the guidance they’d received—depending on the definition of success.

“Anyway, as you can tell, image is important to me and a lot of my self-worth is tied to that. My career, my passion for making movies relies on it.”

He understood. He also knew changing her body was the easy part; changing her mind-set about nutrition and body image was the challenge. Standing, he took her hands. “Come on . . . let’s go train. Do you still want to look the part?”

She nodded. “Yes, I do . . . I’m just freaking out a little.”

“Well, stop. I’ll make a deal with you,” he said, “Keep training and eating the way I’ve told you to for now and then after you’re done filming, I’ll help you get your old body back. If you want it back.”

A momentary look of surprise and something else in her expression made him a little uncomfortable, before she grinned. “Did you hear what you just said?”

“Yes.”

“So, you realize you just offered to train me again . . . beyond our original agreement.”

He nodded, his mouth too dry to speak.

“I mean, in a few weeks you could be done with me, never have to see me again, yet you’re offering . . .”

“Okay! Stop, don’t make me retract the offer,” he said with a grin.

She laughed as she walked away and headed downstairs. “I won’t let you, and you can count on me taking you up on it, Coach.”

Alone, he ran a hand over his head. She was right—he had just extended his time with her, which was counterproductive to his vow of never being with her again. In a few weeks, the temptation would have been gone, but he’d opened his big mouth and invited it to stay.

Now it was his turn to freak out a little.

Chapter 9

As Parker collected her training gear later that day, she noticed Tyson’s brother, Connor, wiping down the cardio equipment upstairs. She’d seen him around the gym a lot lately—mainly keeping to himself as he collected used towels or mopped the floor or Windexed the mirrors near the free weights. The guy didn’t stop. Tyson hadn’t said anything about him being there, and she was curious. Not that she thought for a second she was going to actually get an answer from him.

Regardless, clearing her throat, she asked, “What’s the story on your brother?” She nodded toward Connor.

Tyson didn’t turn to look as he continued unwrapping his hands. “No story.”

Bullshit. “The guy doesn’t have laces in his shoes and he has track marks on both forearms. I could probably guess . . .”

He sighed. “And you’d be right. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. He’s just here helping out for extra cash.” He paused before adding. “Just stay away from him though, okay?”

She nodded. “He’s younger than you?” She couldn’t determine his age. He was so thin and pale—he could be sixteen or sixty. She was just guessing based on Tyson’s protective attitude he’d displayed toward him.

“Older.”

“Does he fight too?”

“Funny thing. The MFL doesn’t really have a crackhead weight division,” he said harshly.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, stashing her gear inside the bag. Clearly this conversation was over.

He sighed, grabbing her arm as she turned to leave. “That was rude,” he said tightly. “I’m sorry. Connor is just a hot topic for me, okay?”

“Yeah, I get it. I was just curious.” She shrugged as she studied his conflicted expression. She wanted to know more about him . . . wanted to spend more time with him outside of the gym . . . was desperate to somehow get back to being in his arms, even if there was no future and only heartache in them.

“He’s harmless though, so you don’t have to worry. If you feel uncomfortable at all, just say the word and he’s out of here.”

She suspected Connor was already struggling with having his brother there in the first place.

“Can I just ask one more thing?” She bit her lip.

He sighed. “Sure.”

“That tattoo on his neck . . . is that a prison tattoo?” she whispered, as the man in question descended the stairs, carrying disinfection spray and an armful of towels.

Tyson laughed. “No.” He leaned against the wall and slid his back along the length to the floor, patting the mat next to him.

She sat and waited, hoping she was finally about to get another glimpse into his world and eager for it.

“It’s a homemade tattoo of our family crest.”

“Wait—homemade as in he did it himself?” she asked in disbelief.

“Yep.”

“And it’s your family crest? What is it?”

“Have you ever noticed the symbol on the Punisher Athletics sign out front?”

She nodded. “The suit of armor helmet and some kind of bird?”

He smiled. “It’s a dragon bird. It’s cool,” he reassured.

She laughed, holding her hands up. “I wasn’t judging. There’s also words—Pax . . . something?”

“Pax Copia—it’s our family motto. It means Peace, plenty.”

“Ironic for an MMA gym, don’t you think?”

“Maybe . . .”

“Anyway, I have to say that thing on his neck looks nothing like the picture on the sign.” It didn’t look like much of anything, the ink faded and missing in sections. Made sense now that she knew it hadn’t been done professionally.

Tyson stood and extended a hand to help her up. “I know, and the worst of it is, I’m branded with one as well.”

Her eyes widened. “Noooo.”

“Unfortunately, yes,” he said, turning and lowering his gym shorts down over one butt cheek.

One sexy, tight butt cheek . . . branded with the same weird design. Parker stared at it in disbelief. She hadn’t noticed it the few times she’d gotten him naked. Of course there had been plenty of other things to focus on then—like his sculpted pecs and abs, the large biceps, and thick thighs . . . She shook the thoughts away. “You let your brother do this to you?”