Free Raw by Katy Evans

of ice cream, then go knock on the door of the master bedroom. I hear shower water in the background when Brooke opens the door with a towel clutched to her chest. I force myself not to look inside because when I’m around them, I almost feel like I’m intruding on the incredible chemistry they share. “Can I go out for a walk? Racer’s tucked into bed. I want to burn some calories.”
    “Sure, but . . .” She glances into the bedroom as if to check the time.
    “I’ll be fine,” I assure, dipping my hand into my bag. I take out the pepper spray she gave me.
    She grins. “Okay, then. You’re set. Be careful, Reese. One hour back here or I’m going to bust your phone.”
    “Yes!” I cross the living room and head outside.

TWELVE
FIRST AID
    Reese
    T wenty minutes later, I’m at the lobby of his hotel. I pretend to be his girl, the dumb-wit who forgot the room number, just got into town, and wants to surprise him. Because I’m young and seem sweet, the staff falls for it and dishes out the room number, and three minutes later, I’m a mass of nerves knocking at his door. “Just do it,” I hear, a low growl.
    Even through a door, the guy’s voice makes me shiver.
    Why are you here, Reese?
    “Maverick.” I knock again, then say, “Maverick, it’s me.”
    There’s total silence to the degree that I wonder if I made up the sounds I just heard coming from inside the room.
    He swears and three heartbeats later, the door swings open. Maverick Cage stands before me, utterly still. Tall. Sweaty. And intimidating. I inhale, because, hello? Intimidating.
    One eye is closed, bleeding at the eyebrow. The eye beneath it is swollen and bruised, and the power in his other eye’s stare is so absolute, it would thrust me backward if I weren’t so determined to get in there and help.
    It takes me a moment to realize that while I stand here and gape, he’s been checking me out, head to toe.
    Heat pops up all over my body, quickly following his stare.
    “What are you doing here?” His voice is about as raspy as sandpaper. There’s a world of frustration in his expression, and his throat is so tanned and thick and he’s bleeding and shirtless and he is so ripped. And glorious. Every muscle of his chest is chiseled and rock-hard, covered in the smoothest, most golden skin I’ve ever seen. His nipples—
    You are not staring at his small, pointy, brown nipples, Reese!
    “I can sew,” I blurt. “I mean, shirts and stuff but . . . my cousin insisted I learn first aid and more when I came to help for the summer.”
    His one eye once again runs over me and he waits a beat. It’s such a long beat, in my mind I have a chance of leaving the building before he opens the door farther. “Come in.”
    He’s reluctant about letting me into his space, and I’m suddenly just as reluctant when I step inside. If I thought by coming to his room, I’d have a clue as to who he is, I was on another level of fantasy. The place is as bare as a clean hotel room gets—except this room is littered with fighting gear. A duffel bag by a chair in the corner. Water bottles and electrolyte drinks. Plus a first-aid kit open and full of material that seems to have been shuffled around as something was extracted.
    Seeing the bed he sleeps on makes my chest feel so weird. Like somebody punched me there. There’s a pair of black boxing gloves on the nightstand next to a similar pair of older gloves. Those second gloves look old; they’re worn and torn around the wrists, taped haphazardly with a silver tape. They’re the kind of gloves one doesn’t keep around for fighting purposes. They look older than Maverick is.
    In the center of the Spartan room, a middle-aged man stands holding a shiny little needle with a slim blue thread running through it.
    The man has a belly, has clearly been running his hands through his white hair in frustration, and his eyes are bloodshot and confused as he scrutinizes me as if he’s not sure if I’m