Thankfully, Tempest gives me her list and I shove it in my pocket, gathering the coffees and heading out the door. I really need a day out of the gym and away from the two of them. Have I mentioned I need my own place? Tempest mentioned the apartment she used to live in down the block is available. I have a little money in savings, and Cage is going to start paying me for teaching a few classes at night.
As soon as I have my first fight, I won’t have to worry about it.
The few contracts Cage has received have me being paid, win or lose. That’s the benefit of having my brother represent me, and of that brother being Cage Erickson. He knows it all and can do it all. There’s also a lot of power packed in his name. Well, the Erickson name in general, but especially his.
Which is why I’m going to be able to pull off this last-minute benefit for the women’s shelter where Frankie volunteers. After our date on Wednesday, I called Helen and she was on-board with my idea. When I hung up with her, I ran it by Cage, who got our brother Vali in on it, and in less than twenty-four hours, a Fight Night benefiting the Women’s Shelter of Maryville was born.
Cage agreed it’s going to be a great way to promote Viking MMA studio, effectively putting his name on the map locally. Vali thinks it’ll also be great for me, since he and Cage are in charge of filling the ticket, they can make sure I’m fighting someone who’ll give me a good fight but who I have a chance of beating. And it’ll be the main event. Twenty-five percent of ticket sales will go to the shelter.
The venue we found in Maryville holds about twenty-five hundred people.
With the Erickson name attached, we should be able to pack it out.
At seventy-five dollars a ticket, which isn’t bad for a benefit fight, we’ll bring in around a hundred and eighty-five thousand dollars. It seems like a lot, but when you consider the costs of renting the venue, security, set-up, and tear-down, it’s not. It won’t leave much of a profit, but it will leave a good forty-five thousand dollars for the shelter—about ten thousand more than they need.
Helen was a little overwhelmed with the numbers, but quickly agreed to the plan. I told her the extra money could be put toward a special event or held over for operating expenses for next year.
Who knows? Maybe this will become a yearly event for Viking MMA and the shelter.
As I approach the community center, I quickly realize the farmer's market is more popular than I’d thought. Cars line the sides of the road leading up to the parking lot where the vendors are set up, and I have to squeeze between two minivans. One has a sticker in the back window that says, “Baby on Board.” The other one has a sticker that says, “If this van’s a rockin’, don’t come a knockin’.”
Alrighty, then.
Still smiling, I cross the street with a coffee in each hand and Tempest’s list in my back pocket.
It’s a bright, sunny morning in Green Valley. The air is fresh. The sky is blue. And there’s a pair of deep brown eyes checking me out as I walk up to a table filled with jars of honey and jams.
“Good morning,” I say, squinting against the sun as I drink in the sight of Frankie.
She’s got the cutest nose I’ve ever seen and it’s kind of scrunched up as she cocks her head, hand going up to her brows. “What are you doing here?”
Looking behind me, I chuckle as I turn back around. “Well, according to the flyer at the Piggly Wiggly, this is the best place to find fresh produce, eggs, handmade soaps, and candles. And honey,” I inform her, placing one of the coffees on the table in front of her.
“You brought me coffee?” she asks, her eyes flitting from me to the coffee and then back to me.
I smile, knowing I’ve earned myself a little bonus with the coffee. Score one for Gunnar Elias Erickson. And the crowd goes wild. Okay, that might be taking it a little too far. She accepted a cup of coffee from me, not a marriage proposal.
Whoa. Slow down there, buddy. We haven’t even had a kiss yet.
What if she kisses like a fish?
No, not with those lips.
“Thanks,” she finally says distracting me from my thoughts as she picks up the cup and takes a tentative sip. “I didn’t have time to make any this morning. My shift went so late last night I thought I was going to have to call Gracie May to cover for me this morning.”
My smile drops at the thought of showing up here to see her and her not being here. “Sorry you had to work so late, but I’m glad you’re here to drink my coffee.”
I made it just like she drank it on Wednesday at Daisy’s—black.
“You made this?” Her brow raises in speculation as she takes another sip. “It’s good.”
I can’t help the cocky smirk. It’s not hard to make coffee, but I appreciate the compliment just the same. “Thanks.” Turning to survey the rest of the vendors, I mutter under my breath, “I’d like to show you a few other things I’m good at.”
“What?” Frankie asks.
“Nothing,” I tell her, shaking my head. I take out the slip of paper Tempest gave me, needing to redirect my thoughts and this conversation so I can stick to my plan—keep Frankie engaged. I see her walls and I have a feeling they’re not going to be easy to knock down. Even though I pack a punch, I know the hardest opponents take finesse. You can’t go in guns blazing. You’ve gotta take it slow, look for an in . . . pace yourself. And sometimes, you have to woo your opponent.
Which is exactly what I plan to do to Frankie Reeves.
“I’ve been given a mission,” I tell her, holding up the list. “Choosing to accept was a no-brainer because the reward is muffins. And I don’t know if you’ve ever had something baked by the Duchess of Muffins, but they’re—” I pause, kissing my fingers in a flashy gesture. “Delicioso.”
That earns me a smile. “Oh, so now you’re Italian? Or is it the muffins? Are those Italian?”
She’s a smartass, and I love it.
“I’m Scandinavian,” I boast, leaning forward so my hands are resting on the table in front of her and my pecs flex. “Can’t you tell? Blond hair, blue eyes . . . ruggedly handsome.”
She laughs and it’s the best sound I’ve ever heard in my entire life. “There’s nothing rugged about you,” she says, tilting her head up so our eyes meet. “You’re kind of a pretty boy.”
When her cheeks flush pink, I know she didn’t mean to say that, but I love Frankie’s unfiltered words. “Oh, really,” I goad. “Tell me more about how pretty I am.”
“I thought a big, tough guy like you would be offended at the term pretty.”
“Pretty . . . handsome . . . it’s basically the same thing,” I say, smirking and leaning forward until our noses are mere inches apart. “Besides, a compliment is a compliment. So, whatever you want to call me, I’ll take it.”
“How about beefcake?” she drawls. Her words come out hesitantly, like she can’t believe she’s saying them, but there’s no time to take them back. Now, it’s my turn to laugh.
Throwing my head back, I let it roll through my belly and up my throat until I’m howling. “Beefcake?” I ask, still laughing. “Is that what you call me?” I’ve been called a lot of things in my life, but that’s never been one of them. Little Cage, Tiny Viking—those were my nicknames in my formative years. Since then, I’ve graduated to The Show, a play off my name—Gunnar—and my muscles, as in gun show.