Page 5 of Ringer

The woman who stands frozen, her eyes sweeping the gym. At first, they’re locked on Owen, but then they come back to me. Away.

Back.

Wider.

Mouth forms an O.

I take another step, but Owen’s arms tighten around me as he calls for Molly again.

I don’t know where she comes from, red curls flying as she leaps into the ring with enough prowess that I think, not for the first time, that she’d make a damn fine Marine.

But when she sees my face, she whirls on her boyfriend, “Owen Doyle, did you break his god damned nose?”

Owen looks a little stunned. “He was supposed to duck.”

Fingers snap in front of my face, forcing me to look at Molly. “What the hell, Jack?”

“I’m fine,” I growl. Blood’s everywhere.

Definitely not fine.

She snorts. “Yeah, you look great. Sit down.”

If there’s one thing I know, it’s how to follow orders.

But my eyes go back and lock on the woman in red. Molly sees her at the same moment.

“Oh thank Christ, Alix. Get over here. This idiot,” she indicates Owen, “punched this idiot,” she indicates me, “and for some reason he didn’t duck.”

She sounds exasperated.

But Alexandra Winthrop, the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen and the ghost of every good thing that ever existed in my life once, is inexplicably crossing the gym, sliding under the ropes, and coming to stand in front of me.

I swallow hard.

I watch as her hands come to rest on wide, perfect hips and I can’t breathe for reasons that have nothing to do with my face or my busted nose. She purses full, cherry lips into a hard line, but she fights a half-smile.

“Well, Jack Mulvaney, good to see you’re still a fucking mess.”