Page 8 of The Enforcer’s Obssession

“I’ve been up for hours, Bouch. Some of us have other jobs to do besides you.” I roll my eyes, attempting to cover up the words I just used. Good grief, Jett, get it the fuck together.

“Sunshine.” He groans the two-syllable word out. I swallow the lump in my throat and force myself to take three deliberate steps into the room. I reach for my armor, pulling my phone from my pocket and flicking open the camera app to give my hands something to do.

“Anyways,” I reply as Rowdy’s eyes sparkle with a playful heat. Doc smooths down another piece of tape on his shoulder. I set my bag down on a nearby stool and pull out my camera.

Rowdy chuckles, leaning back slightly on the palms of his hands, bulging his biceps and stretching his chest. A T-shirt would have sufficed, I think to myself, bringing my camera up and framing the shot.

Click.

The shutter sounds, but he doesn’t blink. The tension between us is so thick Doc actually pauses, glancing between the two of us with a raised eyebrow before wiping his hands on a towel.

“Alright, Rowdy. You’re taped up. We’re moving to resistance bands next. Try not to break anything while you’re handler is watching,” Doc says, thankfully breaking the spell as he steps back.

“Can’t make any promises, Doc,” Rowdy grumbles, sliding his long, thick legs off the edge of the table. He stands up, all six-foot-plus of powerful muscle, and takes two purposeful strides toward me. The heat of his body hits me, carrying his maddening scent. I hold my ground, keeping the camera at my chest, and his eyes sear me as he takes in each inhale of mine. Apparently, he’s decided to turn up the flirtations a notch or ten. It also seems he can turn his mood on and off with the flick of a switch. His broody temper from yesterday is gone, and in its place is a magnetic confidence that is dangerous to my self-control.

“So.” Rowdy leans down slightly, bringing his face a few inches from mine. “Get anything else done beside me?” I knew he’d bring up my earlier slip-up.

“Definitely,” I lie, tilting my head up to meet his gaze head on.

“Right.” He lets out a low, rumbling laugh that vibrates in his chest. My stomach decides to dip to my feet. I step back a half a pace to create some distance before my hand reaches out to touch his bare skin. “We both know you’re lying.” His tone drops an octave. The playful banter is gone, and in its place is a hunger simmering on a low boil.

“Time to get to work.” I take a deep breath, ready to shift into work mode. “I’ve got one more clip I want to work on to show the fans you’re putting in the work.”

“You really are a work horse.” He smirks, shaking his head as he walks over to the wall-mounted resistance cables. “I guess it’s time to give the people what they want, sunshine.” He grabs the handles, then steps back until the heavy bands are taut across his back. His feet are shoulder-width apart, thighs flexing, and he begins to pull his left arm back in a slow, controlled motion that makes every muscle flex.

Click. Click.

“Keep your jaw set like that. Now look slight to the left.” I raise my camera, step closer to get the right angle, and say, “Perfect.”

“Like this?” he mutters. He does another heavy pull, turning his head so his profile is illuminated perfectly. “Am I soft enough for you yet?”

“You’re getting there,” I tease, stepping up to his flank to capture the sweat beginning to bead at his collarbone. “Though a smile would convince them.”

“I only smile when I get what I want, Jett.” He pauses mid-rep, turning his gaze directly at me.

“And what’s that?” The question slips from my tongue before my brain turns on a filter. He holds the band, keeping it steady with one arm, his breath coming in a low, even cadence as he looks down at me, his eyes dropping deliberately to my mouth before his teeth catch on his bottom lip.

“You know what I want,” he rasps quietly, so low that Doc can’t hear over the sound of the ice machine across the room. “And it has nothing to do with a better public image.” I stand there, completely undone by the sheer weight of his focus, forcing a small smile as I tap the camera screen to save the video.

“Okay, back to work.” I’m rewarded with a deep, throaty laugh as he lets the resistance handles move back into place. He grabs a gray towel off the rack, throws it over his shoulder, and moves to another area in the room.

“Whatever you say, boss lady. Don’t forget we’re on the road bright and early tomorrow, and you’re with me.” I’m greeted with his back as he makes his way out of the treatment room. I’m supposed to be taming his wild reputation, but as I trail after him, I’m realizing the only thing that’s going to be ruined is my ironclad rule.

SEVEN

ROWDY

My shoulder gives a faint twinge as I haul my heavy duffel bag over my good side, but for the first time in months, it’s not a warning sign. Doc officially cleared me yesterday afternoon. No more daily PT sessions, only maintenance, stretching, and basic exercises whenever it feels tight. I’m as close to one hundred percent as an enforcer can be, but after the hours of travel time, my entire body feels like it’s been hit by a damn freight train.

All day, we’ve been on the move, flying out of Houston with the rest of the team, a long haul with a lot of turbulence, and by the time our chartered flight touched down in Seattle, Jett and I were dead on our feet.

“You know, normally when I’m in Seattle, I stay at my cousin and his wife’s house or with a friend,” she mentions as we walk through the doors of the hotel. “But since I’m working, it looks like you’re stuck to me like glue.” I look over my shoulder and nod my head, giving her the high sign to move next to me. My hand slips to her lower back once she’s where it’s easier to talk to her. Jett’s dark hair is slightly rumpled from sleeping against the window on the plane, her black leather jacket is slung over her shoulders, and her camera is tucked away in her backpack on top of a rolling suitcase that I’m wheeling in for her.

“Hi, welcome, can I have your name, sir?” the hotel clerk asks when we make our way to the front desk.

“Bouchard and Monroe.” I look down at Jett. Exhaustion is written all over her face, a far cry from her usual razor-sharp focus.

“Here you are, Mr. Bouchard. Room 912 facing the water and a king bed like you requested.” She slides the keycard across the counter. “Hmm, let me double-check one more time.”