Big Boxer by Cassie Mint

Eight

Beck

One year later

Lucas was pissed when he realized he had to fight on our anniversary. For the last two weeks, he’s been grumbling about it, muttering dark curses under his breath, and no matter how many times I tell him I don’t mind, he doesn’t believe me.

But the thing is, I really don’t mind. I love watching my new husband fight. I still wince sometimes, still peek between my fingers, but it’s exhilarating. So powerful.

And slipping back to his dressing room, when he’s pumped up with adrenaline and drenched with sweat, his knuckles scraped raw and his jaw tight… that’s pretty great, too.

Lucas can take his excess energy out on me. I can take it. And not just that—I crave it. His inner animal speaks to mine.

But that’s not why I’ve got butterflies tonight, hurrying through the halls as soon as his fight is over. We’ve got a table booked at a gorgeous restaurant, and there’s a tailored suit hanging against his door ready for him, but that’s not why I’m rushing either.

My backpack thumps against my lower back as I go.

There’s a rattling noise: a gift-wrapped box shifting among all my things.

He looked good tonight. Confident and precise, absorbing his opponent’s hits like it was nothing more than a kitten batting at his arm. Heat pools in my belly at the thought, but for once, I shake those urges away.

There’s something else. Something I have to show him first.

Oh god.

It’s normal to be nervous, right? Even when you’re married to the best man in the whole world, it’s normal to worry a tiny bit?

I push his door open. This venue is fancier than usual for boxing events, and the room glows with soft lighting and sparkling mirrors. There’s a sofa against one wall—my cheeks heat with certain memories—but it’s black suede, scattered with plush green cushions, and has a chrome and glass coffee table in front.

I walk to the sofa, mouth dry. Flop down on the cushions and try to breathe.

What if… it’s a bad surprise?

Lucas enters with a bang, the door bouncing off one wall. He grins when he sees me, scrubbing one hand through his short hair.

“Couldn’t keep away, huh?”

“Shut up,” I murmur, but the words don’t have my usual spark. Lucas stills, concerned, then crosses to me quickly.

“Tell me,” he commands, nudging the coffee table out of the way and crouching in front of me, palms heavy on my knees.

He knows it’s serious, then. He must read it on my face, because he usually dives into the shower before I can get my hands on him. He insists I deserve him soap-fresh, not covered in sweat and blood.

“I have something to show you.”

His eyebrows lower. “What.”

It’s not really a question. It’s barely more than a grunt. I huff and drag my backpack onto my lap, rummaging around until my fingers find the gift-wrapped box.

I draw it out, heart pounding, and hand it to him.

“Happy anniversary,” I whisper.

His blue eyes flick to me, wary, and he peels the paper open. Slides the box out onto his palm. It’s nondescript, a plain black box—like something you might gift a watch in.

Lucas blows out a breath, and snaps the box open.

He stills. Turns to stone, right there on his knees, the only sign of life the pulse tapping in his throat. My mouth twists as I follow his gaze…

To the pregnancy test nestled in the box.

“Good surprise?” I rasp when I can’t stand the silence anymore. I need to know, damn him. And Lucas jerks, color flooding back into his cheeks. He drops the box on the sofa next to me, lunging forward to crush me against his sweaty chest, and normally I’d make fun of him for that but right now, I’m far too relieved.

“Beck.” He says my name like a prayer. “Beck. My Beck. This is really happening.”

“Yup.” He crushes me so tight, I start to wheeze. “Easy, big guy.” I tap on his shoulder, and he lets me go, chest heaving.

“This is… wow.” His eyes are damp when he looks up at me again.

“Spark report?” I murmur. He tosses his head back and laughs.

“So many fucking sparks. Jesus.” He turns and pushes to his feet, but I don’t miss the way he swipes an arm over his eyes. Lucas crosses to a table, then turns and tosses me a gift bag. I catch it easily.

“You put my gift to shame,” he says, voice rough.

I pull them out gently, and they slither over my lap: a pair of pink yoga tights.

“Oh my god.” I can’t hold back my grin. All of this—the tights, the test, him—it’s almost too much to bear. Almost too perfect. “These tights!” Then, chewing on my lip, I ask: “Do you think the baby will be a boxer?”

Lucas looks horrified. “No. It’s too dangerous.”

I snort. “Now you know how I feel.”

He disappears into the bathroom, still shaking his head, and a shower starts up, water drumming against the tiles.

Steam curls into the room. Thickens the air like mist. Quietly, I push to my feet and tug my sweater over my head.

He thinks he can hide his happy tears away from me?

Nope. No way.

My husband may be a big, brutal boxer. He may pound his opponents and roar for the crowds. But this side of him, this gentle, secret side… it’s all for me.

I drop my sweater and go after what’s mine.

* * *

Want more delicious instalove?

Check out Big Baker! Chef Ballard is world famous. His pastries make grown men weep.

And he’s been leaving them in my hotel staff locker.

& for a free Cassie book, grab your copy of Beauty & The Kingpin.

xxx