Page 39 of Fighting for Irish
Chapter Ten
Aiden walked across the gravel drive toward the house. It was only midmorning and already the oppressive humidity was replacing the sweat dripping down his chest just as fast as he wiped it away with the T-shirt balled in his hand.
“Hey, Ally-girl,” he said to the gator sunning herself. “Must be nice to be cold-blooded, huh? Not even noon and it’s already wicked muggy out here.” She hissed in response, which he took to mean, Like I give a shit, asshole. “All right, I’m going. Don’t need to bite my head off.”
If anyone should be cranky, it was him. After a night of practically no sleep, he’d gotten up around five in the morning and gone for a long run. Then he’d punished himself for another couple of hours in their makeshift gym, flipping tractor tires, swinging a sledgehammer, and doing other manual labor–based exercises. Rich boys could play with their weight machines all day long, but nothing beat the kind of muscle built with good old-fashioned hard work.
But now he wanted to die. Hell, he’d already puked twice. Transitioning from maintenance workouts to training and fight prep always sucked. He’d rest for a few hours and go back out for another round in the afternoon and maybe another in the evening. If he wanted a shot at winning this tournament, he didn’t have time to dick around.
Which also meant changing his diet, he realized as he climbed the porch steps and the rich scent of pancakes made his stomach growl. He figured Xander must be cooking breakfast—the man had culinary talents to rival an Iron Chef—but the scene he walked in on took him by surprise.
Standing at the counter mixing a bowl of eggs, Xander was animatedly telling an elaborate story as Kat tried to flip pancakes while doubling over in laughter.
Aiden dropped his sweaty shirt by the door and crossed to the fridge. He grabbed two bottles of water and killed the first one before even reaching the kitchen table.
“Oi,” his roommate called. “Get your stinky shite out of the room, will you? How many times do I have to tell you not to leave your sweaty clothes lying about the house?”
“The same amount of times I have to tell you you’re not my mother.”
“Keep that attitude up, mate, and you won’t be getting any of me famous pancakes.”
Aiden pulled out a chair and sat at the table as he studied Kat. Her laughter had died as soon as she’d noticed him. Now she flipped the pancakes with way more focus than the menial task required. Her shoulders were tight and when she turned to get more batter, she avoided meeting his eyes.
Pretending he didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary, he continued bantering with Xander. “That’s all right. I’m not planning on having pancakes anyway, so I’ll just leave my stuff where it is.”
“What? Of course you are; don’t be daft. You love me fucking pancakes. I suppose next you’re going to tell me you don’t want any bacon, either.”
For fuck’s sake, did the man wake up without his brain this morning? He cleared his throat and gave his friend a pointed look. Think, dumbass.
“Ohhhhhh,” he dragged out. “That’s right, I almost forgot about your new diet. Good job, mate, I’m proud of you for stickin’ to the plan.”
Kat looked between the men with a puzzled frown. “What are you talking about? Neither of you needs to be on a diet.”
Xander was all too happy to explain. “Well, you see, lass, Irish here has gone a bit soft in the middle. See how he’s got a bit of a roll there?”
Aiden and Kat both glanced down to see the line of skin folded across his midsection because he was hunched over at the table. He quickly sat up straight, eliminating the supposed “roll,” but Kat had already looked back to Xander.
What-the-hell-ever. What did he care, anyway? This wasn’t high school, and he wasn’t in competition for the head cheerleader, for chrissake.
“Yeah, he said he wants to trim up like yours truly,” the Brit continued as he pulled up the front of his tank and displayed his abs. “I don’t mean to sound cheeky, but come on, can you blame the lad?”
Aiden worked out regularly and had kept most of his tone from years ago, but even on his best day he’d never been as cut as Xander in the stomach. The man’s torso looked like something out of RoboCop. Skin draped over an eight-pack of steel. And his obliques were insane; the V-shape was noticeable even under his T-shirts.
“That’s not fat, asshole. I’m retaining some water, that’s all.”
“Oh, is it that time of the month already, mate? Seems like you just got off your period.”
“Whatever,” Aiden said, flipping him the bird. “You’re fucking soft in the head.”
“If Irish’s middle is considered soft,” she said, pointing to him with a spatula, “I’d hate to hear how mine is classified.”
“Ah, but a woman is supposed to be soft, lass, with supple curves that mold to a man’s much harder body. And since I’ve seen you at work in that skimpy thing they call a uniform, believe me when I tell you, you’re perfect just the way you are,” he said with a wink.
Kat scoffed and turned back to the stove, but not before Aiden noticed her cheeks flush a bright pink. Still whipping a fork through the bowl of eggs, Xander winked in Aiden’s direction before focusing his attention elsewhere.
What the hell was going on? Was Xan interested in Kat? The muscles in Aiden’s jaw flexed and his hands curled into fists. He’d never mentioned anything before, but maybe that was because he’d known Aiden was there to look after her and didn’t want to complicate things by bringing her home. But now that she was already here…
“Fucking great,” he muttered.
