I’m jittery as fuck when I pull out my phone three days after I scheduled a date with Honor. I can’t seem to control my knees from bouncing all over the place as I sit on the bench in the locker room at my gym. I’m raring for some action of the physical kind. I need the release that comes with sparring in the ring or fucking the hell out of a beautiful woman.

Ever since my time in the army, I’ve needed regular exercise. Man-to-man, hand-to-hand, or hitting the sheets are the only things that work the nagging tension out of me. The shit I saw out in the deserts of Afghanistan taught me to stay up on my toes, hit a full run in a second flat, watch my six at all times, and learn how to pack a mighty punch. Those skills have not left me in the three years I’ve been home.

My time in the service was exactly what I needed just out of high school. I was a loose cannon, not knowing what to do with myself or my life. My grades were average—Cs, straight across the board in school. Nothing to warrant anything but a hard seat at a local junior college. Of course, my father wanted me to go into the winemaking business, and I could have. I know enough about making wine, what with all the shit my father drilled into my head over the years. Except something inside me just couldn’t do it. I needed to find my own way, be my own man, and the service was a stellar option.

I’ve always been a patriot. Proud American through and through. And when our country lost so many innocents on 9/11, that knife cut deep into our collective soul, the blood of the victims turning our soil red. I knew that I too had to throw my hat in the ring. Put up or shut up. Once I finished school, I went straight into an eight-year commitment with the US Army.

Those eight years were some of the best and hardest I’ve ever had. Each day I served taught me more about mankind and its ability to bounce back after repeated horrors and setbacks. It also taught me more about myself, the kind of man I want to be. I’ve killed terrorists and lost brothers on the battlefield. Every single last one of those wounds sits under the surface of my skin at all times. Unlike some of my brothers in arms, I’ve found a way to keep the nightmares at bay. Opening up a boxing gym, being able to let out my aggression, has been a natural way for me to heal some of the past hurts.

Yoga is how I deal with the mental side. Finding strength physically and mentally has been my way to cope, deal with the stress received in the desert. Still, I don’t regret going. I know in my heart, I fought for my country and did the best I could to help make the world a better place for me, my family, and my future family. I’m proud of the sacrifice I made and hold that time close to my chest.

One would think after serving two consecutive enlistments, having stared down the enemy and risked my life repeatedly, I wouldn’t be nervous as shit to text a willowy blonde about a date she’s already agreed to. And yet, here I am, running my hand through my hair, gritting my teeth.

Maybe I should wait until after the smackdown with Trent?

Immediately I toss that idea out the door. I want to let her know I’m thinking about her. Get her thinking about me and our date. I jab at the buttons on my phone and pull her up. Seeing the name I programmed for her makes me grin. Dove.

I read and reread the text several times, like a lovesick buffoon, before I decide “fuck it” and just send the damn thing. Why the hell I’m so worried about what this woman is thinking is beyond me. I haven’t been hung up on a broad in…hell, ever. Usually women are either one of my sisters, my buddies’ women, or the yogis at work. I spend an evening with women outside of my everyday sphere and move on about my business, no harm no foul. Those gals I see for a night of fun know the score. They’re not in it to win it or have me put a ring on it. I certainly don’t take them on dates.

Sure enough, a blonde with gray eyes, one helluva rack, and a penchant for not making eye contact, and I’ve lost my mind.

My phone dings in my hand. A buzz of excitement surges through my arms and legs.

I scowl at the three words. That’s it? No “Can’t wait to see you, Nick” or “I’m imagining you naked, Nick.” Nothing. This woman is harder to crack than a hundred-year-old safe. I rub my fingers through my hair and rest my palms against my temples. What do I say to encourage more communication? I thought maybe she’d give me something to go on, maybe flirt a little. Not this woman. Then again, I shouldn’t have expected her to be like anyone else. I’ve seen her all of two times, and she’s got my balls in a vise and my mind on overdrive, imaging all the ways I want to touch her.

Grinding my teeth, I crack my neck and then type out my response.

I read the message again. Yep. Okay, you have to use more than three words to reply to something like that. I click send and pick up the tape to wrap my fingers.

The phone goes off on the bench besides me.

When I read the two words on the screen, I about toss my phone against the cluster of metal lockers in front of me. Realizing my temperature is rising, I start my yoga breathing to calm down. It’s just a coincidence, not a big deal.

Nick, you already know she’s not a talker.

It’s going to be my job to bring her out of her shell, get her comfortable enough with me to say more than a handful of words. She’ll have to on Friday. I grin, thinking about where we’re going. I know it’s kind of cheesy to do Italian food and putt-putt golf, but I want something easy, and everyone loves Italian food. If she doesn’t, she’ll never fit into my family. My mother would have a hernia. And putt-putt will give us time to talk, get to know one another. If I take her to a movie, we’d spend two hours not saying anything to one another. Sure, it’s dark, and I can hold her close, but I’d end up spending the time with a semi from the smell of her hair alone and would not get anywhere near learning about her.

Honor makes me want to know her, inside and out, not just fuck her. Correction. I want to sink my cock so deep inside her slender body she never forgets me, but I’m okay with getting there slower. Taking my time. I haven’t been in this type of situation since high school, and I find I’m a bit rusty. The challenge, however, is rather exciting. This girl is different, and I wasn’t lying to her when I said I enjoy different. I don’t need another bimbo bouncing on my cock. I’m turning thirty years old in a month. I’ve got a gym that’s on the rise and solid clientele at the studio. I’ve got my own pad above the gym I’m happy in—for now—but one day in the not-too-distant future, I’d like to take a wife. Share my world with someone. Buy a home, fill it with children.

I can already see bringing Honor to Sunday night dinner with my family. My sisters would fall all over themselves in love with her. She’s the exact opposite of them. Blonde to their brunette. Willowy and tall to their petite stature and overabundant hourglass figures. Pearly pale skin to their darker-toned Mediterranean. She’s the opposite of every woman I love, and I can’t help but notice the beauty in that. She’s special. Honor Carmichael is one of a kind, and I intend to make her mine.

Wanting to keep her chatting, I text her back.

I type out the quick question and let her know I won’t be responding right away, but I do want to hear what has her house hunting. The fact that she needs a new place doesn’t sit right in my gut. A million questions enter my mind, none of which I can answer with so little information.

The need to get in the ring is electrifying my skin, zinging each nerve with static electricity. I’m pumped and ready for action.

Right on time, Trent enters the locker room. The professional baseball player is not a small guy. Our friend Clayton has kept Trent trim and in top form, holding his position on the Oakland Ports for a long time. From what I understand, he’s closing in on needing to renew his contract once again. Rumors are he’s thinking of retiring at thirty-two. Then again, if I had a sweet woman like Genevieve warming my bed every night, making my brood meals three times a day, and basically spreading love and light all over the place, I’d consider hanging up the towel too. Not that I’m ever going to be able to do that with what I make. I’ll have to work until I die.

“Hey, man.” He tosses his bag on the bench, already dressed in his workout gear.

“You ready to become minced meat?” I goad.

Trent’s eyebrow rises, and he punches his hand. The loud smack echoes off the metal lockers in the otherwise empty room. “You think you can take me, son? I’m about to serve you up a can of whoop ass!”

I grin and take Trent’s hand in a firm, friendly handshake. “Good to see you, brother.”

“Likewise. Now, I’ve only got an hour. The Alexanders have Will and Mary tonight; Row is hanging at a buddy’s pad, and Viv’s got some type of surprise for me waiting at home. Usually that means fuck-hot lingerie and a night I won’t soon forget.” He grabs the tape and starts wrapping his fingers.

“Looks like we need to get you in the ring, then. Soon as you’re done taping, let’s hit it.” I hook a thumb over my shoulder. “Meet ya there with the headgear and gloves.”

“Cool. No pot shots to the dick. I’m going to need that fella later.” He smiles widely, and I shake my head, grinning.

This is exactly what I need. Male bonding time in the ring to get my mind off a hot, timid blonde.

---

Sweat pours down my face, coating my chest and abs. Trent is no better when we make our way back to the locker rooms.

“Shit, man, you were a beast out there,” he grumbles. “Got some shit on your mind or what?” He wipes his face with a hand towel.

I grab my own towel and pat my cheeks. “Let me ask you this. You’ve got a smokin’-hot blonde…”

“Watch it…” Trent growls. The man is beyond overprotective toward his wife, Genevieve. With good reason. The woman is a sprite but with a bangin’ body and a beautiful personality. She’s a dead ringer for Gwen Stefani in her early years.

I chuckle and ignore the warning. “What I mean to say is, you had to chase Viv a little, right?”

Trent runs the towel over his hair and then drops it around his thick neck. “Yeah, a little. Why? You found a woman who’s got your dick kinked?”

“Not exactly. Met her at yoga a week or so ago, then saw her again in Gracie’s class. Asked her out. We’re doing that on Friday.”

Trent sits down on the bench, legs open wide as he removes his shoes and socks. “Thought you didn’t mix business with pleasure.”

I roll my eyes and clench my teeth. My own rule is haunting me with everyone I know. It is true. I don’t date the clientele. That shit can get messy quick.

“Honor’s different.”

Trent grins. “If she’s got you breaking your own rules and taking her out on a bona fide date…I’ll say. When was the last time you dated a woman? Picking them up at a bar, taking them home, and feeding them breakfast the next morning doesn’t count.”

I frown. Shit. I’m predictable as hell. Have I really been that shallow since I returned from Afghanistan? I rub at the old bullet wound in my thigh. I’ve got another to match it on the back of my shoulder, as well as some ugly shrapnel scars running down my right hip to upper thigh. The bullet wound in my leg aches after a solid sparring session, but nothing ibuprofen, a hot shower, and a glass of wine won’t fix.

“Your silence answers that question. What’s the deal with this woman?” Trent asks, stripping off his sweaty shorts, leaving him in boxer briefs.

I stand up and focus on his face because no man wants another man looking at his junk. Period.

“Not sure. She’s beautiful. Blonde with these sad eyes. Makes me want to put some light in ’em, you know? But she’s timid, shy. Doesn’t say much. It’s effort getting her to share.”

Trent crosses his arms over his massive chest and rubs a hand through his facial scruff. “You’re gonna have to break her of that. One thing I know about women is communication is key. I have no fucking idea what Viv is thinking ninety percent of the time. And usually, whatever it is, is fucked-up shit she doesn’t need to be worrying over.” He frowns. “Like how she looks after having a baby. If I think she’s fat. Do I like her meals? Is she a good mother? Fuck! The crap woman put on themselves…” He shakes his head. “Dude, it’s whacked. My system for keeping Viv in check is to keep her talking. And most women love to talk about their feelings and shit. You pick up the important bits and take care of your woman, and you’re solid.”

I nod, but fuck all if I know how to do that. “I’ll take any suggestions you’ve got.”

Trent clasps my shoulder and squeezes. “Easy. Get her talking on the phone. She can’t go quiet the whole time.” He laughs, grabs a fresh bath towel from his bag, pushes down his underwear, and heads toward the showers.

Get her talking. Genius. Why the hell didn’t I think of that? I pull out my phone and grin, seeing a new message from her.

She’s worried about me getting hurt. A wave of happiness blankets the initial frustration I had about getting her talking. Trent’s right. I just need to force her out of her shell. Make her talk to me. Decision made, I remove my clothes and hit the showers. I want to be clean and settled in my home when I call her back.

Forty-five minutes later, I relax into my plush leather couch. It was a hand-me-down from Dawn and her husband, Lorenzo. When they bought their first home, Dawn wanted to redo it all. Since Lo’s goal in life is to make my sister smile, he agreed. The timing for me was perfect. I’d just gotten home from serving my country and needed everything. A lot of what I own now was hers, but I’ve added to it over the years. Put my own bachelor spin on it. The couch is the softest, smoothest leather, and the cool chill I feel when I first sit on it is unparalleled, as if it’s welcoming my heated skin.

Grabbing my phone, I press call on Honor’s number and wait.

It rings four times before I get a breathy, “Hello?”

I chuckle. “Hey, Dove.”

“Nick, um, hi,” she offers meekly.

I grin, lift my legs along the length of my couch, and cross my ankles, settling in. “Thought I’d give you a call, find out more about this house-hunting business. You moving out of your current place for a particular reason?”

She clears her throat. “Well, yes.”

“And that reason would be…” I prompt, determined to get my girl talking to me. If anything, I need to break up her shyness toward me. Make her comfortable.

“Um, I was still living at home.”

That’s it, no other response.

“Dove, you’re going to have to give me more than that. Here’s the thing: I talk, you answer. Feel free to ask a question of your own. Then we’ll go back and forth. I want to get to know you better.” I lower my voice to what I hope is a seductive timbre.

“Why?” The one-word question strikes like a sucker punch to the gut.

The fact that this woman doesn’t see her worth, her beauty, and why a man would want to spend time with her, talk to her, has me grinding my teeth.

“I believe I told you that I found you attractive and sweet. You’ve got these big eyes I could stare into for days.”

“You think so?” Again her voice is breathy, uncertain.

Still the sound goes straight to my dick, making him perk up. I grip my erection between my thighs and readjust to a more amiable position for us both.

“Dove, I know so. Now why is it time to leave your parents? How old are you, by the way?” I realize I don’t even know.

“I’m twenty-six. And I, uh, know it’s odd to still be at home, but I was away at school for a long time and didn’t see the need to leave again. Until now.”

Good, this is good. She’s said more in that one response than I think she has in the entire time I’ve known her. “What’s your degree in?”

“I have a Master’s Degree in Business Administration from Stanford.”

“Master’s! Damn, baby, that’s amazing. What do you do for a living?” I ask, imagining Honor as a college student wearing a plaid skirt and a button-up sweater I could peel off her.

“Uh, not much.”

I frown. “You currently unemployed?”

“You could say that, technically…yes, I’m unemployed.”

“Aw, it’s okay. I’m sure you’ll find the right job for you. With a business degree from a school like that…I’m sure the bigwigs downtown will be fighting to hire you.”

She sighs, and the sound goes straight to my dick, making him even harder. Fuck, I need to get laid, preferably by this tight little blonde who is making me crazy.

“I’m not exactly sure what I want to do.”

“But you gotta make money, right?” I joke flippantly, wanting to make her laugh. She doesn’t.

“Hmm, I…I have an inheritance that’s allowing me to take my time.”

She probably lost a grandparent or some shit. Sucks, but not what I want her thinking about right now. Time for a subject change. “That’s good. If you can swing it, don’t settle. When I got out of the service, I roamed around for several months, a bit lifeless, not sure what to do with myself after being a soldier for eight years. And then one day, I walked by this rundown gym. There was a For Sale sign on the window, so I walked in and bought it.”

“Just like that?” She has awe in her tone. Now that’s what I want to hear. A bit of surprise and happiness.

“Just like that. I’d saved all my money from the service since I had room and board and food in my belly. I used most of it to buy the gym with cash. Came with an attached apartment, so now I’m a home and business owner.”

“Smart.”

I grin stupidly at her compliment. “Well, I won’t say it’s the best investment I’ve ever made, but it’s made me happy. I’ve got a home and a job doing what I love. Though it still needs a lot of work.”

“A lot of work?”

“Yeah, there’s only so far my money could go since I paid cash. Didn’t want to owe any bank. Now I’m working hard and fixing it up as funds become available. One day, though, it’s going to be the top boxing gym in the city.”

“Wow. I’m impressed.”

I smile into the phone. “You’re easy to impress. I like that. Means you’re not stuck up.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve been called prissy.” She laughs lightly.

Her laughter makes me beam with delight. “Like hearing your laughter. Makes other parts of me happy too,” I admit, wanting her to know what she does to me. Though, I should ease her into my devious ways with her being so skittish.

“Mmm.” She hums into the line, and I swear my dick jumps at the sexy sound.

“You excited about our date?” I remind her of what’s happening on Friday.

“Yes. I am. What should I wear?”

Now that’s a normal girl response I can relate to, having grown up with five sisters. “Something casual—jeans would be fine—but like I said, you’ll need a jacket.”

“I can do that.”

“I’m glad, babe. You get some rest. We’ll talk more, yeah?”

“I’d like that, Nick. Good night.”

“Night, Dove.”

Hanging up the phone, I can’t help my insta-grin. She didn’t tell me her life story, but I got my girl talking. I’ve learned that she’s highly educated, really smart if she has a degree from Stanford, but also unemployed. Which is rather strange. Even if she graduated after six years, that means she’s been without a job for two full years. Inheritance or not, that’s a long time. More for me to dig into on our date.

As far as first calls go, I’d consider that one a win. Bit by bit, I’m going to break down the shy walls Honor Carmichael has built until she lets me in completely. I’ll never understand my overarching need for her until she’s bared it all.