The Price We Pay by Alora Kate Page A

remotes sitting on it. Plain. Simple. Boring. I would never have guessed this would be his living room.
    He’s a badass MMA fighter, top of his game, and his house is lame.
    Maybe he wasn’t even good in bed.
    “What the hell?” he growled behind me and I jerked around. He was holding a plate of lasagna with garlic bread. The smell teased my nose and made my stomach growl.
    “Your house is lame,” I told him, my eyes not leaving his plate, my mouth salivating.
    “Get out.” His words fell flat as he sat his plate down on the coffee table. He turned the TV on and completely ignored me.
    “Did you cook that?” I asked sitting down in the rocking chair.
    “Get out.”
    “It smells good.”
    I wasn’t afraid of him. My research told me that even though he was one hell of a fighter he had a soft side. He’s been donating money to an after-school program for teenagers. He provides most of the money to run it, along with some other sponsors. He also gives free Martial Art lessons to kids who can’t afford them and self-defense classes for women.
    He gripped his fork in his hand while keeping his eyes on the TV. I started rocking in the chair. This was nice. “Where did you buy this?” I asked running my hand along the smooth leather arm. “I like it.”
    He dropped his fork on his plate. “Get out.”
    “You did well last night.” I scooted to the edge of the chair and moved my camera to the side. “I’ve only been to a few matches, but you kicked ass.”
    He was annoyed, but he picked his fork up and started eating. I watched him eat a few bites, then drink some of his beer. Damn, it looked good. He finally set his fork down and looked at me. “Look around, there’s no story here. I work out, fight, and then sit in front of the television eating my food. Boring.” He turned back to his television. “No story.”
    I set my camera on the table and he watched me turned it off. “Okay,” I said.
    “Then why are you still here?” he asked. “Should I call the cops?”
    “If I’m being honest-”
    “Please, by all means,” he said sarcastically, “be honest.”
    Even with his sarcastic tone, his hard face, and glaring eyes, he was hot. I was so screwed. If he gives me one indication, one hint of a mutual attraction, I would climb on his lap and fuck-
    “I’m waiting,” he said, impatiently.
    “Right.” I cleared my throat. Where should I start? I had obligations to my client but I had a feeling that something wasn’t right with this situation. His life was boring when he wasn’t fighting or working out. I have no reason, or proof, to believe he was cheating. I could tell him about his girl and cause problems, or keep my mouth shut. I’d let her know tomorrow that I was done and send her on her way.
    Then I’d never see him again.
    Decisions.
    Decisions.
    “Your girlfriend hired me.”
    I did it again and this time, I had thought about it. Starting trouble. I could shoot her a text telling her I was done. She’d never know what happened first.
    He smirked. “I’m single. Try again.”
    “Single?”
    “Yes, single,” he said a bit frustrated. He held up his index finger. “You know, as in one.”
    “You don’t have to be rude about it.”
    He drank half of his beer, keeping those beautiful and mysterious eyes on me, then set it back down.
    It was time to move things along. “Your girl, Miranda, thinks you’re cheating on her. I’m a PI and she hired me to find out the truth.”
    He busted out laughing, something I’ve never seen in the last two weeks. I’ve seen him chuckle but not like this. This was a full out, whole body laugh. He stood, went to the kitchen for a few minutes, and came back with a plate full of food and two more beers. He gave me the food, which I wasted no time shoving it in my mouth. I moaned and closed my eyes as the flavors filled my mouth.
    “This is…wow.” I ate a few more bites and washed it down with a swig of beer.
    “My mom taught me.”
    “Make