Call To Engage

“You look...different,” he said, his tone not indicating whether that was good or bad.

Ava’s spine stiffened, her jaw jutting out as she filled in the unsaid blanks. Yes, she’d lost most of her curves when she’d dropped fifteen pounds. She heard that lament often enough from her mother, the woeful despair that men preferred curves to angles, softness to muscle.

And, yes, she’d let her hair grow out without the golden highlights she’d sported for so many years. Monthly salon visits were too much time and money, so the world had to settle for seeing her natural dark brown hair in all its waving glory. Her face was free of makeup but for a layer of tinted moisturizer, and her nails were short and unpolished.

She knew she didn’t look the same as she had four years ago. So what?

The last thing she wanted was a man gazing at her with interest, with desire. As far as Ava was concerned, that part of her life was over, and she was glad for it. Mostly.

She bit her lip, watching the play of muscles as Elijah shifted position. His green eyes flashed with irritation; his own gilded-brown hair was just long enough to show a hint of curl. His full lips were pressed tightly together, but she knew they could be seductively soft or hard with demand, depending on his mood.

His lap was covered by the sheet, but she took a moment to consider what the fabric hid. Oh so many kinds of heaven, she knew. Then her gaze shifted to where the sheet had fallen away.

Her breath caught, pain gutting her of all thought but for horror. It wasn’t the sculpted perfection of his abs or the corded muscles of his thighs that Ava’s eyes were glued to.

It was the scars, rigid and red, scored in ugly lines over his right leg. From hip to knee with a scattering of scars dotting his calf. Her heart wept at the sight. What had he done? She tried to swallow past the scream knotted in her throat. Those were burns. She’d never worked on a burn-recovery client, but she’d seen enough during her stint at the hospital to recognize them. How deep did scars like that go?

She wanted to ask. Her hand ached to reach out, to run her fingers along the puckered tissue and ease the tight pain.

Her mother had predicted that Elijah’s job would kill or maim him. From their first date, Celeste Monroe had warned her that Elijah would never put her ahead of his daredevil ways, his need for glory. She’d dismissed Ava’s argument that the SEALs operated on the down low and never sought credit, that Elijah was highly trained and skilled, and that he was trained in linguistics—basically, talking, and how much trouble could a guy get into talking?

According to Celeste, the wrong words could get him blown to bits. Damn Elijah all to hell for proving her mother right. Again.

She tore her gaze off his leg to meet his eyes instead. “Ouch,” she said, pulling a face.

“Ouch?” he repeated with a half laugh.

“You expected me to, what? Get hysterical at the sight of your mangled flesh? To throw myself on your body, wailing over your injury?” she asked, putting as much sarcasm as she could into the words since her stomach was quivering to do just that.

“Actually, I didn’t think about it,” he said with jerk of his shoulder. “But if I had, yeah. I’d have expected wails and tears and hysteria. As I recall, you were pretty good at freaking out.”

“Unlike you, who nothing ever fazes,” she countered, gripping her arms tightly over her chest. Using her chin, she gestured toward his thigh. “I’m sure when that happened, you simply got up, dusted yourself off and finished your supersecret mission.”

“That’s what I’m trained to do.”

Of course it was. Ava had once figured Elijah was the perfect combination of Lancelot, Michelangelo and Superman.

But she’d been wrong about so many things.

“And you? Suddenly you’re trained to rub naked people’s bodies for a living now?”

“That’d fall under the category of none of your business,” she snapped. She hated people judging her. Her life, her choices. She’d grown up with it, had spent her life guided by it, had once accepted that as simply the way things were. But no longer.

Apparently Elijah hadn’t gotten that memo.

“Your old man lets you do this?” he scoffed with a look that was much too condescending for a man naked but for a pale cream sheet. Granted, his body was freaking awesome. But that was beside the point.

“My father,” she emphasized, “has no say in my life and no authority over my choices.”

“I meant your—what do you call him? Boyfriend is pretty high school, isn’t it?” The bitterness in his words matched the expression in his eyes. “Booty call is tacky. So what’s the term? Man friend?”

Ava had to swallow hard to breathe past the knot in her throat, but she hoped she managed to look nonchalant. “I hear significant other a lot, or partner.” Partner. Something she’d never been. She let the bitterness show through her smile for just a second before shrugging. “Personally, I think lover sounds perfect.”

Not that she had one. But there was something satisfying about watching fury flash in Elijah’s gorgeous eyes.

Tossing the sheet aside, he didn’t give her much time to appreciate the view before he yanked on his jeans. She indulged in a brief sigh of regret when he grabbed his shirt and yanked the gray cotton over his head.

“Is that what you call yours?” he asked as he shoved his feet into running shoes. “I hear he’s got everything you were looking for, Ava. Money, status and, more important, Daddy’s stamp of approval.”

She took a deep breath to reminded herself how far she’d come from the naive young woman whose life revolved around the idea of making everyone happy. Everyone but herself.

Well, never again.

“I answer to no man. Not my father, not my friends.” She turned toward the door, then shot a look over her shoulder as she fluttered her lashes and offered the sweetest smile in her arsenal. “Not even my ex-husband.”

* * *

SERIOUSLY?

Elijah slammed his fist into the punching bag later that afternoon, the impact singing up his arm in sharp retort. Five years of visiting Mack, of hanging at his gym, and not a single Ava sighting.

Right cross to the bag. Knife hand strike. Jab. Left, right, jab. Roundhouse kick. Jump kick.

Four years after the divorce was final, he’d gotten his shit together. Living the life he was supposed to live, the one he’d planned to have since he was a kid.

Reverse side kick. Elbow strike. Fist-heel uppercut.

But now, when his world was fucked, his mind a mess and his convictions wavering—that’s when his ex had to show up in his life? To walk into a massage room—what the fuck was Ava doing giving massages anyway?—while he was naked except for a sheet and some scars? Seriously?

Sweat dripped, burning his eyes, sliding down his face as he executed a jump spin kick, slamming the heel of his foot into the top of his target. The heavy bag went flying as the hook ripped from the ceiling, showering drywall dust over the sweat-dotted floor. The bag hit the opposite wall with a loud thud.

Ignoring the stares and muttered remarks, Elijah stood, fists on his hips as he sucked in air. He shook his head. The timing was unbelievable.

“You didn’t mention that you were going to rip my gym apart,” Mack said from the doorway. His words were light, carrying a hint of laughter. But beneath it there was a layer of concern. For him? Or for the equipment? Elijah didn’t actually give much of a damn right now.

Ignoring the bag on the floor, the sand scattered through the drywall dust and the shocked expressions, Elijah crossed the room.

“I tried going for a drive, but it didn’t have the same impact.”

Elijah gave his cousin a long look.

“You didn’t tell me Ava was working here. Or that she’s a massage therapist now. Or that you’d be pulling a stupid stunt like booking me an appointment with her.” Thinking about that sent a red haze of fury through Elijah’s head. He didn’t hesitate. He simply gave in to the anger. It wasn’t until he saw his cousin’s head snap back that he realized he’d given in with his fist.

His hand reverberated all the way to his shoulder, his breath a hiss of rage. Instead of flexing his fingers to shake off the pain, he curled them tight. Held it inside.

That’s where it belonged.

The pain. The guilt. The memories.

“I guess I deserved that,” Mack murmured, wiping the blood off his lip with his knuckles. His words were calm. But he watched Elijah with narrowed eyes. Preparing, most likely, to counter the next swing.

But Elijah simply turned away. He unbound his hands, tossing the wraps in the laundry bin as he passed the hallway toward the showers. People scrambled to get out of his way as he strode through. He didn’t head toward the locker rooms. He slammed both hands into the back door, sending it flying open, and took the outside stairs to the apartment above.

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