But she had gotten under his skin, and even after three long years, he wanted her still.
Fuck it. He’d walked through one fight after another to make himself a prime contender for the belt, but resisting the lure of finally having Yvette was a fight he knew he couldn’t win.
He faced Whitaker with barely banked anticipation. “Where do I sign?”
* * *
YVETTE STOOD IN the doorway of her grandfather’s house. Yesterday, after the long drive back from California, she’d chosen to put aside the visit. Instead she’d gone to see the lawyer, and then checked into a hotel and tried to get some sleep. Impossible. The heaviness of what awaited her had her tossing and turning all night.
It wasn’t just a fear of being in the house. No, it was a fear of seeing Cannon Colter again, losing herself in his appeal, relapsing back to that young, love-struck, vulnerable girl who’d let him play the hero without a single ounce of pride.
Her grandfather wanted her to stay in Ohio. Returning for his funeral had been difficult enough. But to live here?
She’d finally learned to conceal her cowardice and, more recently, to accept the limits of her romantic capability. Being anywhere near Cannon threatened her resolve on both counts.
For now, for however long it took to sort out her obligations to her grandfather, she really had no choice. She would be in Warfield.
Pushing aside the nerve-jangling fear, she stepped into the house and closed the door behind her. The click of it sounded so final that her heart missed a beat.
Until she looked around. Then her pulse sped up.
Sunlight spilled in through open drapes, brightening the interior, showcasing the many changes. From the carpet to the paint on the walls, even the lamps on the end tables, everything was different. Her grandfather had redecorated with used items, probably from the pawnshop, but he’d pulled it all together.
For her.
Through a mist of tears she took in the remodel. God, she missed him so much already.
Forcing one foot in front of the other, ignoring the murky unease making a slow crawl up her spine, she went through the living room to the dining room and around to the kitchen. Familiar appliances filled the walls, but cheery new wallpaper and bright scatter rugs transformed even this room.
Flipping on lights as she went, she explored the house and all the changes. Although everything seemed different, the empty house still held the scent of her grandfather’s Old Spice aftershave.
Just as it held the memory of Cannon’s kiss.
Even while weepy from her loss, a tidal wave of warmth invaded her limbs whenever she thought of him. She again felt his protective touch, remembered the hot taste of his kiss. She’d built some elaborate fantasies around that brief moment in time. But now she wasn’t sure if even Cannon could make a difference to her wounded psyche. Knowing that wouldn’t stop her from wanting him, and that scared her more than anything else could.
Shame quickly followed, because she’d just lost her beloved grandpa, the one relative who hadn’t given up on her, who’d taken her in after her parents’ deaths and made her world better. She had to keep him and his wishes uppermost in her mind.
When she saw her room, fresh tears welled up. New bedding and drapes made it look different, but all of her more personal belongings were just as she’d left them. She touched a hair ribbon on the dresser, an ancient carnival doll he’d won for her.
Slowly, she sat on the edge of the bed.
Cannon had missed the meeting at the lawyer’s office.
For over three long years she’d honed her fixation on him, using it to help her get through trying times, using the example of him to hopefully become a better person. He was everything she wasn’t, everything a good person should be. Generous, protective and caring. He had an athlete’s body, a fighter’s strength and an angel’s heart—all wrapped up in gorgeous good looks. Every girl in the neighborhood had wanted him.
After months of ignoring her childish flirting, he’d come to her rescue when she’d needed him most. And afterward, he’d felt pity for the pathetic girl she’d been.
He’d finally seen her—but as a victim.
Well, she was stronger now, and she’d prove it, to him and herself.
She watched every SBC fight, soaked up every mention of him on the internet and in numerous interviews. To the general public Cannon had been dubbed “the Saint,” in part due to his philanthropic attitude and always calm demeanor. Nothing and no one ever rocked his foundation of composure.
Insiders, however, claimed the nickname had more to do with his gentle treatment of women. He stayed too busy to engage in long-term romantic relationships. While he kept things brief, most of the ladies he knew became his friends without resentment, having nothing but good things to say about him.
Yvette could attest to his gentle concern and careful consideration. Difficult as she knew it’d be for her, she hoped he still claimed her as a friend, too.
It was necessary to see him, the sooner the better. But first... She’d learned that expending energy helped her to overcome her reservations. Before facing Cannon, she’d do what she could to shake off her nervousness and the uneasiness of being back in Ohio.
With that goal in mind, she emptied her suitcases and, doing her best to block the foul memories of what had happened in this very house, prepared for a night out.
Cannon would no doubt go to Rowdy’s bar, where he used to work. She’d find him there, and she’d show him that she wasn’t a frightened little girl anymore. She wasn’t pathetic. And she wouldn’t fawn over him. She’d convince him that she was a different person now.