The fine muscles flanking her spine tensed and quivered. She stared down at the cutting board. “Why is it so much…more when we’re alone?”

The quietly asked question went straight to my dick. I had to let out another slow breath. “Because it feels real.”

I hadn’t meant to say that.

Her smile slanted when she glanced up and met my eyes. “It’s easier to act when there are eyes watching the performance.”

She was still twitching against my palm, as though she was fighting the desire to move away. I kept my hand on her, letting her feel my heat, the weight of my touch. “All actors have rehearsals. That’s what this is.”

With a quick, efficient nod, she reached for the avocados. “You ever do any real acting?”

“Me?” I laughed at the absurd image. “No. Wait—scratch that. There’s definitely an element of acting in boxing. Playing it up for the crowd before a bout, promotional crap. The shit you do to psyche out your opponent.”

“You mean when you guys go nose to nose and say terrible things to each other?” She seemed amused.

“I keep forgetting you’ve never watched me fight.” My ego was just fine but, without even trying, she was surprisingly good at taking it down a notch. “Yeah, sweetheart, that’s what I meant. But,” I added, “I hated that bullshit. It used to make me laugh when a guy got in my face and went off on some tangent. Shut up and fight already, man.”

The corners of her eyes crinkled. “That’s exactly what I think whenever I see one of those clips.” Because Parker hated bullshit as much as I did. Which was a bit of a revelation. Her smile grew sly. “Also, I have seen you fight. I watched a YouTube video.”

Surprise licked down my center. “You did, huh?”

Her nose wrinkled when she grimaced with apparent embarrassment over her confession. “It was…illuminating.”

“Illuminating?” I chuckled, but inside I was starting to squirm as much as Parker. What the hell did that mean? Had she been turned off by it? Turned on?

Her fingertip touched the edge of my sleeve where it met my skin. I felt it down to my balls. “You were fierce, relentless. The way you’d take those blows and just keep at it.” Her breath hitched. “I don’t know how you did it.”

I could tell her, but she was standing there all soft and open to me, her eyes holding something that felt strangely close to admiration. I didn’t know what to make of that. Didn’t really matter because I was growing aware of other things: her smoke and roses scent, the fact that we were standing close enough that our bare arms brushed.

The touch of her warm skin against mine raised the little hairs along my arms. I had to break this hold she had on me. I cleared my throat and copped a cocky tone. “Like I said, it’s all for show.”

With a wide, fake-ass grin, I swooped down and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek.

She flinched, lips parted with a gasp.

I turned away so I wouldn’t be tempted to kiss her again. “Gotta make dinner.”

“Are you going to be doing things like that all night?” she asked after a minute.

All night. Jesus, she put the wrong images in my head.

“What? Kiss and touch you?” I glanced over my shoulder to find her leaning against the counter, salad done, her eyes on me once more.

“Yes, that.”

So prim. She was wearing slim dark jeans and a sleeveless blouse buttoned up to her neck. Aside from her bare arms, not an inch of skin showed. Before meeting Parker, I had no idea how enticing that could be. It distracted me, made me want to peel off those jeans and see …

I cleared my throat. “Isn’t that why we’re doing this? So you could get used to my touch.”

A thoughtful look passed over her delicate features, and she made a short, precise nod before pushing off from the counter. Determination radiated from her small body as she stalked forward, and I had the insane notion to back away, run for it.

Ridiculous.

I was over a foot taller than she was. I was an ex-pro boxer. I had no fucking reason to feel nervous.

But when she placed her palm on my lower abs?

I nearly yelped.

She didn’t move away but lightly stroked me. Holy hell, what was she trying to do here? Kill me?

“I need to get used to touching you too.”

“Uh-huh.”

Touch me lower, woman. I’ll do anything you ask.

I cleared my throat again, but couldn’t think of a word to say. Aside from the sizzle of pancetta in the pan, the room had gone utterly quiet. Her warm hand pressed a little harder into my abs, the tips of her fingers dragging over my shirt. Sweet mother of mercy, the light exploration nearly buckled my knees.

Endless brown eyes stared up at me. “Is this okay?”

Was it hot in here? I sucked in a quick breath. “Yeah, sure, sweetheart. Why wouldn’t it be?”

Pink lips curled into a sly smile. “You’re blushing.”

“I’m not blushing. I don’t blush.” I gave her a proper warning glare. “I’m cooking. It’s hot over here.”

“Hmm …” She didn’t break my gaze. “You do feel a tad warm.”

Fucking hell.

Get it together, Morgan.

I turned back to the stove, and her hand slipped free. “Don’t want the pancetta to burn.” Or my dick to poke its way out of my jeans. “Hand me that plate?”

Giving her something to do got her away from me. She did as asked, and I started in on the rest of the pasta dish. She remained silent as I finished up.

“You want to eat outside?” I jerked my head toward the terrace at the south side of the building. During the warm months, it was my favorite feature of the loft. Big enough to hold a long L-shaped outdoor couch and a table for twenty, I’d filled the edges with potted trees and plants. Carlos had helped me build a pergola that was now twined with wisteria. “It’s a nice night, and I’ve got a fire pit we can light.”

Parker took one look at it and beamed. “Oh, yes, please.”

I really had to stop reading sexual things into everything she said. It wasn’t healthy.

“First time I stepped into the ring, I got knocked out.”

Parker’s dark brows lifted high. “No!”

“Flat on my ass.” We’d had dinner, the conversation easier once we’d gotten over our initial awkwardness. We hadn’t talked about anything deep but exchanged working information: our favorite movies, foods, preferred drinks for each meal, foods we couldn’t stand—all the stuff we’d need to know if we’d been dating for any length of time.

There hadn’t been many surprises, other than the fact that Parker’s favorite movie was The Godfather II. I’d expected something lighter and with a save the world message. But she loved the drama, the layers of meaning—her words, not mine.

She’d been equally stunned to find out my favorite was the first movie in the franchise, The Godfather. We had similar reasons, but I liked the original because that’s where we got to see Michael succumb to The Family.

Now we were on the outdoor couch, the fire pit flickering and giving off enough heat to keep us warm.

Parker rested her head on her hand and smiled wide. “So, the great Rhys Morgan got knocked out. Who did it? The current champion?”