Knock Out (Worth the Fight) by Michele Mannon Read Free Book Online

of his way to retrieve her coat and house keys. Dare she approach him once more about fighting?
    The Jeep ambled down Friendship Boulevard, fighting snowdrifts all the way. Fortunately, the rooms she rented in the back of an old brick house were close by. Her landlady, Mrs. Debinska, was a widow with an early-to-bed, early-to-rise philosophy. Logan barely saw the reserved, frail Polish woman, though she went out of her way to make sure the old lady had groceries in the house. She hoped Mrs. Debinska was a sound sleeper. Getting busted climbing out of a stranger’s Jeep at this hour might upset the conservative elderly woman.
    As she turned the Jeep onto her street, the wheels lost traction. In slow-motion, the vehicle spiraled in a circle and a half, before coming to rest backward, in a snowdrift, on the side of the road. Logan pressed the gas, but the wheels spun uselessly. Unless he lived nearby, Keane was stuck until morning.
    Shaken by this realization as well as by the accident, Logan blurted, “So, I guess this means you’re sleeping over.”
    He shifted his big body around in his seat and looked right at her. Steady, ice-blue eyes captured her own. She felt the heat creep up in her cheeks at the intense scrutiny.
    “Wait, that didn’t come out...” Her mouth fell shut as he reached over, turned off the ignition and pocketed the keys.
    His eyes continued to study her until he nodded. “I guess so.”
    With that settled, she reached for the handle to her door but stopped when he rested a hand on her arm. Surprised, she turned back his way.
    “Everything that happened back there, everything Rosie said...” he began.
    Logan jumped in, feeling the sudden need to reassure him. “The woman stole my coat. Do you think for one second I’d believe anything she had to say?”
    He shook his head. “Listen...” Pausing, he adjusted his knit cap over his ears, flexed his swollen knuckles and then glared down at the gloves he’d placed on his thigh.
    “I have a package of frozen peas in the freezer. Not that you want something cold on you on a blustery night like this—” Did she really just say that? “Um, I’ll warm some port. It’s a habit I picked up during my trips to Paris. So, I’m offering you peas and port.”
    He didn’t so much as crack a smile. Rather, he frowned. She felt like sliding under the seat.
    “Logan.” Her name rolled off his tongue like sweet butter. “Just so you know, everything Rosie said...is true.”

Chapter Three
    ANKLE PICK: A wrestling move, where a fighter uses a foot or hand to sweep an opponent off his/her feet and onto the mat

    Keane thought it was only fair to warn her. Something about this woman, Logan, appealed to him on many levels. It was best she understand exactly what she was in for because he fully intended to take her up on her invitation. Hell, the high from his fight a week ago had long worn off. Another physical release sounded really good right about now.
    Logan brought her finger to her lips in a shushing gesture and motioned him inside. Yeah, fucking her was just the thing he needed, and he’d start with those lips.
    Wooden floorboards creaked beneath his weight as she led him down a long hallway. The keys jingled in her hand as she unlocked the door on the end.
    “You can hang your jacket there,” she whispered, pointing to the coat rack next to the door. “I’ll be right back.”
    Keane hooked his coat over a knob and glanced around. The small room was dominated by a worn leather couch, with a glass coffee table in front and low end tables at each side. An old, oak hutch holding an enormous outdated television was against the opposite wall, and on the shelf above it sat a neat stack of photo albums. An expensive-looking painting of young ballerinas dancing and two fancy lamps seemed a little out of place, but what did he know about decorating?
    He picked up a miniature china figurine, a ballerina with her leg stretched up to the side of her head.