Ripe.
Unsettled with conflicting emotions, Cannon drove by Tipton’s house, but when he knocked, no one answered. He had a key, but it didn’t seem right to go in before talking to Yvette. He went by the pawnshop next, but it remained locked up, dark and empty. Like him, Yvette had probably found a motel room.
He’d track her down soon enough, and then they could get reacquainted all over again.
Damn, but he could hardly wait.
CHAPTER TWO
SHE’D BEEN GONE for hours. After making a very brief stop at the pawnshop, disappointed to see the shape it was in, Yvette had shopped for basic groceries she knew she’d need. After that, she’d bought a few new security devices, preparing the best she could for her stay at the house.
Anxiety still churned inside her, but it didn’t matter. She had outgrown that embarrassingly timid girl who’d allowed herself to be a sniveling victim.
Never again.
She concentrated on presenting herself as a proper, poised woman, using that facade to hide the truth. So many dreams had died, but no one else needed to know that.
Preparing to see Cannon, she made herself as polished as possible and then set off.
Because of the mid-August heat wave, she wore a white tank top with her skinny jeans and sandals. She’d pulled her freshly washed hair in a high ponytail that hung down between her shoulder blades.
On the walkway outside Rowdy’s bar, she hesitated. Judging by the noise alone, the place was packed. Being in such a crowded atmosphere would help keep her attraction under wraps. She had to see him, but she wanted to do it without embarrassing herself in any way.
A trio of men stepped out, gave her double takes and leered. She heard “Well, hello,” and “Hot damn,” along with a low whistle from the third guy.
Yvette made a point of not encouraging that sort of thing—really any sort of thing—with men, so she merely nodded and stepped inside. The place looked exactly as she remembered it, with people laughing, a small crowd dancing to the jukebox, every stool lining the bar taken up with a body.
More men checked her out and, wondering if she looked as out of place as she felt, she smoothed her palms over her thighs. Only on very rare occasions had she ever visited bars. Rowdy’s bar was different than most, friendlier, a part of the community she still loved and missed, but it left her self-conscious all the same.
Rowdy himself worked the bar tonight, and when she saw a flash of red hair, Yvette knew he had his wife by his side. She heard him laugh about something his wife said and she smiled with them.
Cannon used to work here, right up until his fighting career took off. She knew that whenever he came to the area, he stopped in to visit, so she hoped to find him here tonight. And if not, then surely someone could tell her where he’d be.
Before people started to wonder if she’d gotten lost, she began searching the room, making her way past the front tables, the dance floor—and finally she found Cannon back by the pool tables in the company of men and women alike.
As if her senses had been starved for him, a dozen emotions made her muscles weak. He looked even better than she remembered. In an otherwise dim room, fluorescent lamps over the pool table added blue highlights to his dark, unruly hair, still a little too long, curling on the ends. As he bent to take a shot, his T-shirt stretched over those impossibly wide and strong shoulders. Muscles flexed, making her stomach flutter in an expected way.
That particular reaction to Cannon was nothing new.
A woman was draped over him, whispering in his ear, and he grinned, his blue eyes bright. The lady kissed his jaw and stepped back.
Taking the shot, Cannon sank three pool balls.
Yvette had never learned to play pool, but given how the others reacted, that must’ve been a good shot.
Laughing, two of Cannon’s male friends handed over bills and the women lined up for hugs. Part of the bet, maybe?
Or just because they all wanted an excuse to touch him? She’d bet on the latter.
Watching it all, Yvette noted the five-o’clock shadow and a few colorful bruises that darkened his handsome face. He’d always had a lean, strong build, but now he was positively shredded, his muscles bulkier and more defined, not an ounce of extra weight on his large frame.
Thinking of the number of fights he’d had in such a short time, she smiled. It was a running joke in the SBC that if a fight became available, if another fighter got sick or injured and had to drop out, Cannon was always there, ready to jump in. Drew Black, the owner of the SBC, loved it—especially since, so far, Cannon always won.
He’d had a few close calls, but every time he managed to pull it off. That last bout... It still amazed her how he’d finished the fight before it finished him.
Shifting inside the doorway and taking up an unoccupied spot against the shadowy wall, she studied him for a while, content to refamiliarize herself with how he moved and how his lips formed that particular cocky smile. Not that she’d ever really forgotten. He drew people like flies to honey, and occupied the entire room with his presence.
Thinking of the antics her grandfather had pulled, her brows twitched together. Cannon already had so much on his plate. He was out of town more than in, and he traveled all over the world.
He had to be wondering how he’d find the time to take on even more. Shortly, Yvette would relieve his mind. She knew her grandfather had always felt seriously indebted to Cannon. But this was not the way to repay him. As a fan favorite in the sport, he made a considerable amount of money with each fight. Endorsements were lining up for his approval. He’d been in a few commercials, done some commentating. He didn’t need her grandfather’s meager inheritance.