I dropped to my heels and waited through another three agonizing heartbeats, then I flipped the dead bolt and opened the door to Foster Madden.
The man I’d dated for one year, two months and eleven days.
The man I’d loved with my whole heart.
The man I’d vowed to forget.
The view from the peephole hadn’t done him justice. He was every bit as handsome as I remembered. Maybe even more now that he’d grown that damn beard.
Age had only enhanced his rugged features. He was bigger than he’d been, years spent honing his body into the perfect fighting machine. His black hoodie stretched across his broad chest, molding to his shoulders. His jeans hung on his narrow hips and pooled at the hem above a pair of motorcycle boots.
How many times had I traced the bump in the middle of his nose with my fingertip? How many nights had I drowned in those deep, ocean-blue eyes? How many kisses had I given the soft pout of his lips?
“Talia.”
God, that voice. Raspy and deep. My name had never sounded as good as it did out of Foster’s mouth.
“What are you doing here?”
He studied my face. “You’re not surprised to see me.”
“No.” I crossed my arms over my chest as the chill from outside seeped through my clothes. “I saw you at the hospital.”
His jaw clenched. “You saw me.”
“What are you doing here?” I repeated. “And how did you know where I lived?”
Not that it would be hard to figure out. Quincy hadn’t entirely transitioned into the modern age, and the local newspaper still printed an annual phone book along with putting the information online.
“It’s been a long time,” he said. “How are you?”
It’s been a long time. How are you? “Small talk? Really? Does your wife know you’re here?”
He lifted his left hand, wiggling his naked ring finger. “I’m not married.”
When had he gotten divorced? This was the problem when you vowed to forget someone. It meant that in the past seven years, I hadn’t once let myself search for Foster.
I hadn’t peeked at his social media accounts or typed his name into Google. I hadn’t watched any of his pay-per-view fights, and if his name came up on ESPN, I’d either shut off the television or walk out of the room. My brothers liked to rent UFC fights. I’d lied more than once about being on call to avoid one of their parties.
“Why are you here?” The growl in my voice surprised us both.
Pain clouded his beautiful eyes. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, then dropped his chin.
What had he expected? Me to open my arms and welcome him back into my life?
The hurt in his eyes vanished just as quickly as it had appeared. And all that remained was sheer determination. The focused stare. The steeled spine. The flexed jaw. It was the look Foster wore in the boxing ring, usually before he won.
He shoved a hand into the pocket of his jeans, pulling out a single silver key. “Here.”
I took it from him as he held it out, careful not to let our fingers brush. He wasn’t mine to touch. Not anymore. “What’s this?”
“My building.”
“Your building.” I narrowed my eyes. He’d better be talking about a building in Nevada.
Foster’s hand dove into his jeans again, this time coming out with a small slip of paper. He took my other hand and pried it open.
Electricity zinged up my arm. The calloused tips of his fingers sent tingles across my skin.
His eyes flared, like he’d felt that charge too, as he placed the paper in my palm, then let me go. “That’s the address.”
At the street name, my heart sank. “This is in Quincy.”
“Yep.”
“Why do you have a building in Quincy?”
“Come tomorrow and you’ll find out.”
“No.”
He dug into his other pocket this time, pulling out a small velvet pouch in a familiar shade of teal. “I’m guessing this will make it a yes.”
“What is this?” I asked as he handed it over.
Foster didn’t answer and he didn’t wait for me to open the pouch. He spun on a heel and marched across my porch, jogging the few steps to the sidewalk. Then he rounded the hood of a gleaming black truck, started the engine and drove down the block.
I inched away from the threshold as his taillights disappeared, kicking the door closed. With every passing second, the pouch got heavier.
Don’t open it.
Foster was counting on my curiosity. He hadn’t answered a single question of mine tonight, instead leaving me with even more than I’d started with.
Don’t open it.
“Gah.” I stretched the top of the pouch and turned it over, the item inside dropping into my palm beside the key.
A ring. A two-carat, emerald-cut diamond inlaid on a gold band.
I gasped as the diamond glinted from the overhead light. How did he have this ring? Why?
In my other hand, I crumpled the paper into a tight ball, squeezing as hard as possible.
Then I pried it apart.
Damn him. I should ignore him. I should pretend he didn’t exist. But considering I hadn’t managed that in seven years, I doubted I’d forget Foster Madden by morning.
CHAPTER TWO
FOSTER
The phone’s ring bounced off the block walls in my new building. I pulled it from my pocket. Jasper.
“Hey,” I answered.
“Hey. Just checking in. How was yesterday?”
“Could have been worse.” She could have had a man answer her door last night. I knew she wasn’t married, but a boyfriend would have made this more of a challenge. Not impossible, just another challenge. “She didn’t slam the door in my face.”
“Well, you would have deserved it if she had.”
I chuckled. “This is true.”
Jasper wasn’t just my trainer. He was my closest friend and one of the only people in the world who knew the truth about my situation. About Talia. About why I’d come to Montana.
This was the fight of my life.
There were five rounds in a fight. And after last night at Talia’s, I had a feeling I’d need them all to win.
“How’s the gym?” he asked.
“Empty. Dirty. I don’t know if you could even call this place a gym.” My voice echoed around the dank space. “Guess that’s what I get for buying a building sight unseen.”
From the outside, the building was nothing more than a square box painted a dull gray. GYM was written on the front wall in an obnoxious shade of safety orange. The letters hadn’t looked nearly as ugly in the photos my realtor had sent.
There was a bit of resemblance to the pictures. But the photos had shown a bright, clean space with outdated equipment. Either they’d been from a decade ago or he had a Photoshop magician on staff.
Regardless, I should have known something was wrong when I’d met him an hour ago to pick up the gym’s keys and he’d hesitated outside the front door.
I’d hoped the interior would be better, but with every loop around the room, it only got worse.
The cement floors were covered in a coat of dust. Every single ceiling tile was spotted with water marks. Most of the paint was the same gray as the exterior, but the orange had snuck its way inside too and covered an entire wall. Not one of the floor-to-ceiling mirrors at the back of the gym lacked cracks. And there was a draft coming from one of the windows—or maybe all of the windows. The furnace was running on full blast, the fan nearly as loud as helicopter blades, and it wasn’t doing a thing to cut the December chill.