Lori Foster - No Limits

“I should have guessed.” Armie was good at everything he did—which included drawing women. “I think you owe me for bowing out.”

Armie’s dark gaze, a contrast to his very fair hair, jumped to Yvette with appreciation.

And now it begins, Cannon thought.

Moving around Cannon, Armie murmured, “I’d say you’ve been rewarded enough for that.” He extended his hand to Yvette. “Cannon won’t introduce us because I’m better at seduction than he is.”

Cannon snorted, but as Yvette took Armie’s hand, he said, “Yvette Sweeny, meet Armie Jacobson.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Jacobson.”

At the formality, Armie’s brow went up. He held her hand gently. “Pleasure’s all mine. You have to drop the mister, though. Just call me Armie—or something more wicked.”

“Wicked?”

“Yeah, like stud, or stallion, or—”

Cannon shoved him. “Stop being an ass.”

The handshake broken, Armie righted himself with a grumble. “Why they call you Saint I’ll never understand.”

“Because I have to be a saint to put up with you.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Armie grinned. “We’ll see you at the rec center tomorrow?”

“I’ll be there.” Cannon pointed back and forth from Armie to himself. “Plan to spar.”

Groaning, Armie grabbed his chest as if wounded and turned to Yvette. “You see, darlin’, that means I’m about to get an old-fashioned ass-whoopin’.”

Yvette laughed at him.

“Not funny!” And then, his voice still too smooth, Armie said, “You should come by and visit us. Pretty the place up a little—and maybe soften old Saint so he’ll go easy on me.”

Her gaze shot over to Cannon’s as if she expected him to protest. But hell, he liked the idea. “Yeah, you should. I can show you around.”

“I was there...once.”

Ignoring all the others, Cannon nodded. “I remember.” It was the night she’d come to tell him goodbye before she’d moved across the country.

The night she’d left him.

Or so it had felt, even though they’d never really been an item.

Because he had dodged her at every turn.

“If it’s been a while,” Armie told her, “it’s different now. Our boy here has brought us a lot of sponsorships.”

Denver used that opening to draw her attention. “Everyone wants a piece of Cannon.”

“Mostly women,” Miles joked, and Stack backed him up on that. A few bawdy jokes followed.

Yvette greeted the comments with indulgence, treating the big rough fighters like unruly schoolboys.

Denver eased closer to her—something Cannon didn’t miss. With one hand on the booth seat behind her shoulder, he beamed down at her. “So you’re into fighters, huh?”

“I enjoy the sport,” she explained with diplomacy. “But Cannon’s the only fighter I know.”

In some ways, Cannon decided, he’d be the only fighter she knew.

Though he surely caught the significance of what she’d said, Denver didn’t retreat. “We need to remedy that.”

“Thank you. I’d enjoy learning more.” She looked to Cannon for introductions.

While chatting her up, the guys had openly flattered her, but she didn’t reciprocate except to be cordial, so Cannon gave in.

He started with Denver, since that bum stood closest to her, and worked his way around to the others. Each one of them assessed her for possibilities, mostly because he never got that involved with women—so usually he didn’t mind. But this was Yvette, and that made a huge difference.

He’d need to set them straight, and soon.

Armie, the dick, watched it all with keen eyes, as if he already understood that Cannon wanted her to himself. Then again, he and Armie knew each other well enough that they rarely had to spell shit out.

Each man showered her with compliments, come-ons and good-natured ribbing. He knew exactly what they were thinking.

Because he was thinking it, too.

Yvette was just too hot. Her eyes were striking, her lush mouth a turn-on. And that soft, restrained laugh...it stroked over him.

Only now she was laughing with other guys—guys who didn’t need much encouragement to horn in.

Without showing a single sign of awareness for their over-the-top flattery, Yvette spoke with each of them.

Denver even took Cannon’s seat beside her. Stack sat across from her. In one way or another, each man angled in close to her until she was surrounded by big, muscled fighters.

Didn’t seem to bother her, though.

Armie, the only one hanging back now, elbowed Cannon. “You’ve been holding out.”

“She’s a friend.” Who would be more soon as he could arrange it.

“No shit? Can I be her friend, too?”

“No.”

Armie laughed.

Folding his arms over his chest, Cannon continued to watch her while schooling Armie. “She’s not your type.”

“Meaning she’s nice instead of nasty?”

“Very nice.” Cannon eyed him. “Aren’t you supposed to be meeting a girl later tonight?”

“Yeah.” He checked his watch. “In fact, I’m already late.”

Armie was not known for his consideration toward the fairer sex—except maybe in bed. “Figure she’ll wait?”

He shrugged. “If she doesn’t, she doesn’t.”

There were times when Cannon didn’t understand his friend. More often than not Armie seemed to work at driving “nice” women away.

Speaking loud enough for them all to hear, Cannon said, “Time for you guys to hit the road.”

Stack leaned in toward Yvette. “He means he wants you all to himself.”

“Selfish,” Miles added. “That’s Cannon.”

“At least when it comes to the pretty girls,” Armie explained. “Otherwise, he’s a ‘saint,’ don’t you know.”

As Denver stood, he said, “Right now, I can’t say I blame him.”

The way she gazed up at them from her seat made her eyes look even bigger and more innocent. She lowered her lashes—and they all looked ready to fall at her feet.

Cannon shook his head.

Not understanding just how smitten they all were, Yvette teased, “Are all fighters so outrageous?”

That started another round of jokes, but as they wrapped it up, Armie said with a teasing lilt, “’Bye, Yvette.”

She grinned. “’Bye.”

When the last guy had walked away, Cannon reseated himself beside her. “There you go. You’re now well acquainted with the warped psyche of fighters.”

“I’d call them colorful, not warped.”

“That’s because you’re a nice person.”

Far too serious, she shrugged. “I try to be.” Before he could question her on that, she said, “Do they fight professionally? I don’t recognize any of them.”

“At different levels, yeah. Armie’s good. He could be competing with the SBC if he really pursued it. But he’s also great with kids and he loves coaching, so he runs the rec center for me around fights in smaller, more local organizations.”

“He has a lot of interesting tattoos.”

“Not as many as some of the fighters.” Armie’s tats were mostly on his forearms, with one in the middle of his shoulder blades. “He’s into the art, though.”

“Do they have special meaning?”

“He’s never said.” In general, guys didn’t talk about special meanings with each other. Smiling, he told her, “The woman he’s seeing now has more ink than him, along with a lot of jewelry.”

Yvette tipped her head in that curious way. “You mean like a belly button ring?”

Cannon tugged at his ear. Yeah, the girl had that—and more. She hadn’t been shy about sharing the various body parts she’d pierced. Armie swore it was hot, but it hadn’t appealed to Cannon.

Rather than go into all that, he said, “Denver’s already with the SBC, but he’s between fights right now.”