Touch Me, Daddy

4 - Kat.

"Five..."

"Four..."

"Three..."

"Two..."

I push up on my hands and feet, bending slowly into downward dog on my yoga mat. My phone is propped against the coffee table. The throaty, strict woman on my app yells again.

"Don't pass up a chance to breathe! And hooooollllldddd. Very important!"

Oh, screw you, Grandma.

Soft, quiet music floats from the speakers, and a ridiculously bendy person demonstrates on the screen.

Okay, I'm breathing. I'm holding. I'm shaking worse than someone suffering from fever, and jeez, I thought yoga was supposed to be relaxing.

Mom has gone out for an impromptu hangout with friends. If she was her right now, seeing me like this, she'll be wheezing her guts out.

"Ow," I wheeze to the empty room. "Please god, hurry up."

My calves are on fire. The messy topknot I dragged my hair into has slipped to one side, stray curls escaping to dangle over the mat. For the millionth time, I feel like a fraud—here I am, writing about the country's top athletes, and I can barely keep up with a yoga app. I mean, who am I to judge?

What would Pierro Rush say if he could see me now?

The hard rap against my front door makes me jump, and I wobble before I crash to one side. My coffee table skids over the rug, this morning's coffee mug rattling. My phone tips face down on the floor, the yoga woman still talking but muffled.

"And exhaaale... " she says, this time so peacefully, I wonder if my phone is damaged.

I roll onto my knees, scowling at the door. I don't know if I'm more annoyed to be interrupted, or more relieved that it's over. But I flip my phone over and pause the app before pushing to my feet with a groan.

It's mid morning on a Tuesday. I'm only off work because I've covered so many evening events lately. And the only person who ever knocks is Mom — and she sure as hell doesn't knock like that.

Thudding. Summoning. Like some demonic creature, calling me to some terrible fate.

The peephole is high on the door, and I have to push up onto my toes to squint through. There, glowering in the hall outside my apartment, is Pierro Rush.

"Oh my god," I mumble, palms pressing harder against the wood. My breath mists over the varnish.

He huffs. "I can hear you." His deep voice drifts through the door.

Shit. s**t s**t s**t.

My palms grow clammy, and I swallow hard.

"What do you want?" I call, as if I haven't had this exact fantasy a thousand times before. Except, in my daydreams, Pierro Rush has come to profess his love, or to sweep me away on a boxing world tour, or—when I'm too lazy to come up with a good story line—to pretend to fix my shower. In my head, he's always broody but happy to see me.

This Pierro is pissed. He's scowling and tense, his tendons standing out in his forearms and neck.

And I'm not an i***t. I won't open the door for an angry stranger.

Not even one who stars in my fantasies.

"I want to talk about your article."

Oh god, he read that? But of course he did — why else would he be here? Not to ask me out, that's for sure. I missed my chance that night.

And stuff like that doesn't happen twice in real life. Not to curvy girls, and sure as hell not to me. I chew on my bottom lip, trying to remember exactly what I wrote, but really, there's no need. It's all right there in the headline: Is boxing legend Pierro Rush past his prime?

I glance down at the deadbolt. The door's locked, though who am I kidding? This flimsy piece of wood wouldn't stop Pierro Rush. Not if he really wanted to come in.

"Let's talk like this," I offer, staring at him so hard through the peephole my eyes go dry. He looks different in the daytime, away from the spotlights and smoke of the ring.

For starters, he's wearing a shirt. A black polo with an embroidered logo for some kind of gym, black chest hairs visible at his collar. Dark gray sweatpants hug his big thighs—now my mouth is dry too—and his jaw is stubbled. Guess he shaves for the fights.

Pierro Rush crosses his arms over his chest, muscles bulging so much I can practically hear them creak. He frowns at the peephole like he can see me. Like he knows exactly what I'm thinking.

"You're a lot braver online." His words rumble out of him.

And what the hell is that supposed to mean? "It's not cowardly to not open the door to a strange man, Mr. Rush," I call. He grunts, head tilting like he takes my point. "How did you even find out where I live?"

He rolls his eyes, and I'm glad I can see him. Most of what he says is silent. "Your staff photo was taken outside this building. You should probably change that, Miss Valentine. All I had to do was ask around in the lobby."

"And someone told you my apartment number?" It comes out in an outraged squeak. I clear my throat, cheeks flaming. God, I'm glad this peephole is one way. I really do need to change that photo. "They shouldn't have done that."

"No," he agrees. "They shouldn't have. But I can be charming."

That's... kind of hard to imagine right now. The Pierro Rush glowering outside my door is not charming. He's angry, and he wants me to know it. He's carved from pissed off stone.

But that smirk he gave me right before his fight with Anderson...

Yeah. I guess he could charm a girl.

"I'm not opening the door."

Pierro gusts out a heavy sigh, and drops his arms. He leans one hand against my door frame, and speaks into the peephole like he's holding my gaze.

"Forget it. You want to hide away in there? That's fine. It's your home and your business—you're right about that. But I need to know. So at least answer this: your article. Saying I'm tired of it all. How could you tell?"