“You okay?” Tyson asked as she hit the targets he held later that day.

“Yeah . . . I’m fine.” She jabbed several more times, desperate to take her frustrations out in training. Since the call from Brantley that morning, she’d struggled with mixed emotions about the project. Obviously Kilroy Clarke’s attempt at gathering interest and funding by casting her had worked, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about that. But the biggest thing bothering her was she didn’t trust Brantley not to mess with the movie, despite his claim that they were sticking to the original script. She dropped her hands. “Actually I’m not fine. The movie rights were sold to Blue Cloud Pictures.”

The words were met with a blank stare from Tyson.

Right. She forgot she was talking to the guy who lived most of his life under a rock. “The movie is now in the hands of Brantley Cruise. Blue Cloud Pictures is his company.”

Tyson studied her, obviously not getting the problem. “Isn’t that a good thing? More exposure for the film? I thought that’s what you were hoping for.”

“I used to sleep with him,” she said. It was true. To say there had been more to her relationship with the man would be stretching the truth. She knew that now. They’d made movies together and had mediocre sex. They’d never shared the same passionate connection she had with Tyson. Nor had Brantley ever evoked the same gut-twisting, chest-tightening anxiousness she experienced whenever she was with Tyson.

“Where is he?” Tyson said, offering the appropriate response, for which she wanted to kiss him. But she held back as they’d agreed on keeping it professional in front of the other fighters. Not that they were really fooling anyone.

“Don’t worry. It’s not like that.” At least, she hoped it wasn’t. If Brantley thought she would be falling into bed with him again just because they’d be working together on set for six weeks, he was going to be disappointed. Their breakup had been final. Catching him with his assistant had been more than enough of a wakeup call to make her realize that there was no future with him. And the fact that she’d been more depressed about what that might mean for her career and not her heart told her everything she’d needed to know. “He’s just going to be in town with the other cast members in a few days. They want to do a read-through . . .” She’d received the e-mail with the schedule from Lucy an hour ago.

Tyson shrugged. “That doesn’t sound so bad. I mean, at least he isn’t asking you to fly out there, right?”

“He also expects me to throw a cast party at my place—a way for everyone to meet in an informal, relaxed setting before the read-through.” She hated cast parties. They had always been just an opportunity to try to schmooze with industry executives. It was at one of those parties years ago that she’d met Brantley in the first place.

Tyson nodded silently.

“Will you come?” she asked quickly, hoping she didn’t sound as desperate as she felt.

“No.”

“Please,” she said. The last thing she wanted was to throw this get-together, and she really wanted him there. She’d feel so much better with him at her side, coming face to face with her ex for the first time since the break-up.

He hesitated for just a second longer and she held her breath, her eyes pleading with him to say yes.

“Okay. I’ll come.”

“Really?” Relief washed over her.

He moved closer and touched her cheek; the cool leather of his training glove against her skin wasn’t the intimate contact from him she longed for, but she’d take it. “Yes. Now stop stressing and try to focus, okay?”

She nodded, and suddenly the weight from that morning’s phone call lifted. Tyson would be there with her. She wouldn’t have to face Brantley alone. She could do this.

*   *   *

“The black.”

Tyson stared at the two dress shirts—one black, one white—the only two he owned. The only time he wore them was for MFL events and then only because the organization insisted on a dress code, not trusting their fighters to not show up to media events looking like bums. “Are you sure? Black shirt, black pants . . . I don’t want to look like the man in black.”

“You mean Men in Black?” Connor asked.

“No. I meant Johnny Cash . . .” He shook his head. “Never mind. So, the black one? Really?”

“Yes. Look, this chick is probably hiring caterers who will most likely be wearing black pants and white shirts. You will already stick out like a gang member in church—you don’t want to be confused with the hired help.”

Good point. “Fine,” he said hanging the white one back in the closet and removing the black one from the hanger. He still couldn’t believe he’d agreed to attend, but Parker had looked so nervous about this party . . . or was it seeing her ex again? He wasn’t exactly thrilled to be meeting the guy either and the more he’d thought about Blue Cloud Pictures buying the rights to the movie, the more it annoyed him. It meant that when Parker left in a few weeks to start filming in LA, she’d be spending days and nights with Brantley Cruise— hotshot director she’d already been naked with. He hated the idea. And he hated that he hated the idea. A lot.

Connor looked past him into the closet. “Why isn’t your championship belt in the display case?”

Tyson buttoned his shirt from the bottom, having learned his lesson about missing a button the hard way when it was all the focus on Sportsnet after his first media press conference. One of the best mixed martial artists in the sport, but miss a button on a dress shirt and they jump all over it. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because I don’t want anyone breaking into the gym and stealing it.”

“Very funny. I told you—I wasn’t going to take anything.” Connor reached past him and took the belt from the closet. He ran a hand along the center, removing the thin layer of dust on the symbol of the cage in gold and the MFL logo. “My little brother—best pound-for-pound fighter in the light heavyweight division. This should be in the display case.”

Tyson ignored him. Connor wouldn’t understand the concept of delaying praise until it was truly deserved. He tucked the edge of his shirt into the dress pants and zipped them. Holding up his reversible leather belt, he said, “Which side—the black or the red?”

“That depends. Do you want to look classy or like a twelve-year-old at his junior high dance?’

He gave his brother a blank look. “So—which side?”

“The black side out,” Connor said, shaking his head, putting the championship belt back on top of the closet.

“I can’t believe I’m asking you for advice. Look at you—when are you going to get some new clothes?” His brother was still wearing the torn old, baggy jeans he’d shown up in and the gray Punisher Athletics T-shirt Tyson had given him.

“When I trust myself enough to leave the house.”

He nodded. So far, so good. Six weeks and his brother was sticking to his word—no drugs, no alcohol. He was gaining weight now that he was eating again, and his eyes looked clear. “We can . . . ah . . . go out this weekend and pick up a few things.” He cleared his throat and avoided his brother’s gaze in the mirror.

“Thanks, man,” Connor said, touching his shoulder for half a second, before letting his hand fall away. “You look good,” he said, stepping back as Tyson turned.

“Movie star good?”

“Those cauliflower ears, twisted nose, and tattooed head destroyed any chance of that long ago . . . but somehow your girl still finds you hot.” He shook his head. “Women are crazy.”

“Agreed,” he said, thinking about what his brother had just said. His girl? Parker wasn’t his girl. But he sure as hell wasn’t cool with her being anyone else’s girl and that was a first.

*   *   *

Parking his motorcycle in the driveway, Tyson removed his leather jacket and helmet and made his way around to the side of the house, where Parker had told him to go. He walked in through the open backyard door and went inside. Scanning the crowd inside Parker’s home, he was relieved that there were only twenty, maybe thirty people lingering in the open-concept kitchen and living room and out near the pool. He tugged at the sleeves of his dress shirt, but when they slid back up his arms, he unbuttoned them and rolled them several times. Fuck it.