“What the hell is this?” I breathe in the steam radiating off the tea in the china cup in front of me.

“Chamomile.” Cam places another bag in a cup that matches mine, all dainty and painted in light pink flower petals, and then pours water on top. “It helps sore muscles, spasms, and inflammation.”

“So does whiskey,” I offer, taking a sip. It’s grassy and flowery and nothing I’ll hopefully ever drink again. “Not bad.”

“I don’t care whether you like it or not, I want you to drink it.”

She sits at the table across from me and watches me. I don’t know what to say, the weirdness between us from the whole Hannah and Barron bullshit still fresh and heavy. It’s stupid. I know it and she probably does too. If I was in this situation with anyone else, it would be so much easier. I’d just walk away.

Fact of the matter is that I’m in this situation with her, Camilla Landry, the woman that is the epitome of what they call a “catch.” She’s the catch of a lifetime, the best thing in the world you could possibly haul in. But then I look at the line I reeled her in with, the boat I’m captaining, and I have to consider that I’m a jackass for doing this to her.

“I can feel it healing me already,” I joke, needing to dissipate the stress in the room somehow.

She smiles proudly. “See? I fixed you.” She knows I’m kidding, but is playing along with the same need to stop the tension.

It’s been two days since the charity event. I don’t know why we aren’t communicating, but we aren’t. Part of it is this upcoming fight—both because she doesn’t want me to do it and because I’m focusing on it just to keep from getting hurt. It’s the nature of the sport.

“You’ll be interested to know,” I say, setting the teacup down, “that Nate called off seeing Chrissy tonight. And he told Hannah he was busy.”

“Really?”

“He’s been very … joyful,” I wink.

“Ah,” she squeals. “This makes me so happy!”

“She seems nice and I think Nate likes her. At least enough to want to see her again tomorrow night.”

“Did he tell you he paid me back?”

“Yeah,” I say, taking another sip of the tea. “Did you tell your brothers to fuck off?”

She grins, pulling her legs up on the chair. “I did, actually. I just sent them a group text and told them I had the money so they could stop being worried about me being scammed.”

I shake my head, my annoyance rising. “Maybe they’ll see us for what we are and not what they think we are.”

“I think you’re wrong about them.”

“Oh, really?” I laugh.

“Yeah, really. I talked to my mom about Paulina and Raquel.” She bites her lip to keep from smiling. “She said they were jealous.”

“Of course they were. Have you seen me?”

“Oh my God,” she laughs. “You sound like Lincoln.”

“Don’t do that to me.”

She laughs again.

“I’ve missed that,” I admit.

“What?”

“That sound. Your laugh,” I sigh. “Right now, you look carefree and happy. Like you used to.”

Naturally, the look falls from her face at the mention. Her feet go back to the floor and her forehead mars with evidence of how complicated things have gotten.

“What’s wrong between us, Dom?” She looks at her teacup, twirling it around on the table. “I hate this.”

“I hate this too. I hate it most because I’m the cause of your missing smile.”

She frowns, then catches herself and leans forward. “It’s not you, Dominic.”

“Really? What else is it?”

“It’s fighting. And Red,” she snarls, then grins so I know she’s not completely serious. “It’s my brothers and charity events and self-absorbed heirs that invite me to Paris.”

“I’m still busting his ass.”

She rolls her eyes. “I want things fixed. We have to figure out how to navigate all of this before it causes real problems.”

“Can we fix it at all? I mean, really, Cam. How much of this will just keep coming back over and over again because of who we are and what we do?”

“You aren’t fighting after this though, right?”

“No,” I concede, “but I’ll still go down there and train. It’s my therapy, and God knows I need therapy. I’m tight with Percy; he’s like family to me. You’re still going to do charity work because that’s who you are. It’s … us, Cam, that’s the problem. Not something we can just say we won’t do anymore.”

Her eyes get watery. I feel like a dick, although I’m trying to be honest. I don’t want to hurt her—that would be the last damn thing I do on purpose. But these aren’t things we can ignore and we may as well get them out there.

She stands and comes around the table. I scoot back and she wastes no time sitting on my lap. I rest my head on her shoulder, breathing in her perfume with the scents of the body wash she uses just underneath.

“Tell me we’re going to be okay,” she demands, swaying slowly back and forth.

“We’ll figure it out after the fight.” I sit up and touch her cheek. “I can only do one thing at a time and I fight tomorrow. I have to focus on that.”

“How are you feeling? Honestly?”

“Better. Not great,” I add when she starts to call me out. “But I’ll be fine. It’s just three rounds.”

“Just three rounds,” she scoffs.

“Three. Rounds.” I take her face in my hands and kiss her, knowing it will be our last kiss before I fight.

Breaking the kiss, I stand and look down at her. “I’ll text you tomorrow before I go in the ring. But don’t call, okay? I need to get you out of my head or that’s all I think about.”

“I’m going to be a nervous wreck,” she says, wringing her hands.

“Then I’ll text you as soon as I win. Promise.”

She walks me to the door, that stupid wedge apparent between us.

“Don’t forget to text me,” she says.

“I won’t.” I can’t help myself. I kiss her again, this time longer and deeper. “Talk to you soon.”

“Not soon enough.”