Mine (Real, #2)(5)

“Well, hello there, Miss Riptide,” Pete jumps in, his brown eyes glowing in amusement.

I smile. Because I not only want to wear my Riptide’s clothes, I wish he’d ask me to wear his name even when I’d once told my best friend I would never, ever, marry because my career would always come first. Snort!

“Hey, Pete and Diane,” I say in a sleepy voice, but my eyes are on Remington, and my heart won’t stand still.

Will it ever stand still when I’m around him? As I stare at him this morning just like every morning for the past few months, I tell myself I am not dreaming, he’s not a fantasy, he is real. My REAL.

He saved my sister from the claws of a man I can’t even name. Remington threw last season’s championship fight in exchange for her freedom—without even hesitating. Without even telling me. He lost his title, a huge amount of money, and could have lost his life, all to rescue my sister, Nora.

But I didn’t know it was for me.

All I knew was that suddenly he was at the last season’s fight. Losing. Being beaten. Battered. Falling down. Getting up. Spitting at Scorpion.

I wanted to die.

My fighter, always so driven, persistent, passionate, and determined, refused to fight.

God, I was so, so wrong.

He wasn’t punishing me—he was saving my sister for me.

If he hadn’t come back to my hometown of Seattle, with Nora delivered back safely, I’d have made the biggest mistake of my life, and I’d have paid for it for the rest of my life.

I’d have lived the rest of my days loveless, smileless, and, worst of all, Remyless. Like I would have deserved.

As I struggle with the thousand pounds of remorse this memory gives me, his dimples flash, and if I thought I was happy moments ago, nothing compares to this avalanche.

“Hey,” I whisper.

“So my little firecracker lives,” he says with a devilish glint in his eye.

“Only barely after you.”

He bursts out laughing, and Pete coughs. “Guys, I’m kind of still here, and so is Diane.”

My smile fades, but although Remington’s doesn’t, his smile softens, and so does the look in his eyes. Suddenly, he makes me feel shy. Virginal. Like he stripped me naked last night and this morning I am without all my bravado, without any stitch of protection, wearing only something that belongs to him.

Still using those dimples like lethal weapons against me, he comes over.

My body is all over the place as I force myself to walk and meet him halfway, and I bite back a squeak when he reaches out one muscled arm, hooks one finger into the sash of my robe, and pulls me the last distance to him. “Get over here,” he rumbles.

He bends his head and sets a kiss on the back of my ear as he spreads his hand open on the small of my back, stroking up to the RIPTIDE letters on the back, as if to remind me they are there. I’m breathless when he ducks his head to my neck and drags in a long, deep inhale of me. Shit, he kills me when he does that, and between my legs, I feel a painful little clench of need.

“Remington, are you listening to me?” Pete asks.

Remington growls my name softly, low and deep, in the way he does when he f*cks. “Good morning, Brooke Dumas.” My tummy clenches in response to that, and with the soft kiss he sets on my ear, my knees going buttery, because he always does this to me, and as Pete’s voice repeats what he just said, I start stepping away, but Remington won’t let me.

He kicks the chair farther out and drops down, hauling me with him. Then he shifts me to one of his thighs so he can grab his sports drink from the table and finally looks at Pete, his voice low but firm. “Double our scouts and follow theirs.”

His fingers trace down my back as he downs the bottle, and Pete is left scratching and shaking his head in complete confusion.

“Rem . . . dude . . . the f*cking bastard cheated to win, and he knows he’s going to lose as long as you’re fighting this season. He’s spying on us now, and he’s going to do his best to sabotage you this year. He’s going to try to screw with your head. Provoke the shit out of you!”

I’m barely wrapping my head around the topic, but whatever it is, “provoking” Remington is not a good idea. He’s got a temper, usually. He’s hardheaded and insistent and stubborn, but especially, he is Bipolar 1, and you don’t want to rouse his black side unless you’re prepared to deal with more than two hundred pounds of reckless that doesn’t sleep.

I like my more than two hundred pounds of reckless, but his reckless still worries me even if he doesn’t seem in the slightest perturbed by Pete’s warnings.

Instead of answering his PA, he turns to me and threads his fingers at the hair on my nape. “Do you want breakfast?” he asks me.

Biting the inside of my cheek, I lean over and drop my voice to spare Pete. “You mean aside from the one that walked out of my bed?” He pinches my nose and now leans to me. “Business called your breakfast out of bed today.”

“I actually feel strangely hungover this morning, I’m not hungry at all.”

“Hungover from what? My mouth?” he asks, his eyes dancing.

I look at his mouth and it is so full and perfect. The way he uses it is perfect. Every measured word he speaks is perfect. Sexy bastard. Of course he gives me hangovers, the kind I’d never met until him.