Inside, a woman sits behind a sleek desk. She looks up, and my eyes widen. She’s stunning: high cheekbones, warm brown skin, hair styled in neat twists that frame her face. Her badge says “Elise Johnson, Medical Assistant.” Her smile is professional but warm as she greets Renata by name.
“Is he expecting you?” Elise asks, and for some reason, I hate the familiar way she says “he.” Like she knows Riley. Like they’re close.
“He should be. I called yesterday. Jacob has a two o’clock.”
Elise glances at me, her expression flickering before she smooths it away. I’m used to that reaction when people see me for the first time. Taking in my size, my muscles, the intimidation factor I’ve spent years cultivating.
“Let me check if he’s ready.” She stands, revealing a pencil skirt and blouse that fit her perfectly. I watch her walk to Riley’s inner office door, my stomach clenching uncomfortably.
Is Riley fucking his assistant? The thought hits me out of nowhere, sharp and unwelcome. Not that it matters. Not that I care. I’ve just never seen a doctor’s assistant look like she stepped off a runway. My primary care physician’s receptionist dresses like my grandmother and keeps hard candies in a jar on her desk.
“Your two o’clock is here, Dr. Shepard,” Elise says, poking her head through the door.
I hear Riley’s voice, muffled. “Let them in, please.”
Elise steps back, gesturing for us to enter. Her expression gives nothing away about her relationship with her boss. I follow Renata into Riley’s office, trying to ignore the weird knot in my stomach. Must be something I ate this morning.
The first thing I notice is that Riley isn’t alone. A guy sits perched on the edge of his desk, one leg swinging lazily as he talks. He’s younger than Riley, mid-twenties maybe, with tousled dirty-blond hair and a face that probably gets him free drinks at bars. He’s dressed like he just came from aphoto shoot: ripped designer jeans, a pleather jacket covered in zippers, chunky silver rings on several fingers. A bright pink Stanley cup rests in his hand, and as we enter, he’s in the middle of some story that has Riley laughing.
Actually laughing. Head tilted back, eyes crinkled at the corners, shoulders relaxed. I’ve never seen him like this. In our previous encounters, Riley has been composed, controlled, professional to the point of seeming cold. This version—relaxed, openly amused—feels like I’ve walked in on something private.
The knot in my stomach tightens. I clear my throat loudly.
Riley looks up, smile fading as he registers our presence. He straightens in his chair, the professional mask sliding back into place. “Renata. Jacob. Come in.”
“Hope we’re not interrupting,” Renata says, but her tone suggests she doesn’t really care if we are.
“Not at all.” Riley stands, smoothing his already immaculate shirt. “Bobby was just about to leave.”
Bobby. The name rattles around in my head. Who the fuck is Bobby? And why is he sitting on Riley’s desk like he owns it?
The guy swivels to face us fully, and I notice his huge, whiskey-colored eyes. He breaks into a grin when he sees Renata.
“Well, if it isn’t Renata Cruz,” he says, jumping off the desk with the grace of a cat. “Come to win my brother back at last?”
Brother. The word registers, and I exhale a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Relief floods through me, followed by confusion. Why should I care if this guy is Riley’s brother instead of… something else?
Renata laughs, reaching out to squeeze Bobby’s arm. “In your dreams, Shepard junior. I’m strictly here on business.”
I watch them, feeling oddly out of place. For some reason it bothers me that there’s history here I’m not privy to.
Bobby turns his attention to me, eyes widening appreciatively as he takes in my size. “And who’s this mountain of a man?”
“My fighter,” Renata says, a note of pride in her voice. “Jacob Mancini.”
“The Brickhouse,” Bobby says, recognition dawning. “Oh my god, I’ve seen your fights online! You’re incredible. Not that I condone underground fighting or violence in general, but if I did, I’d totally be a fan.”
I grunt in acknowledgment, unsure how to respond to his enthusiasm. Most people are intimidated when they learn who I am. Bobby looks like he wants my autograph.
“Bobby,” Riley says, a warning note in his voice. “Jacob is a patient.”
“Patient, fighter, walking advertisement for protein powder,” Bobby says, stepping closer to me. He smells like expensive cologne. “Not mutually exclusive.” He holds out a hand, and I take it automatically. His grip is surprisingly firm. “Bobby Shepard. Pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise,” I mutter.
Bobby releases my hand but doesn’t step back. Instead, he looks me up and down one more time, then turns to Riley with a shit-eating grin. “Well, well, well. I never thought I’d live to see the day.”
Riley’s ears turn pink, a flush creeping up from his collar. “Bobby—”