Pride (Bareknuckle Boxing Brotherhood Book 3) Read Online Free PDF Page A

gone so long that he wondered if she’d slipped out the back door. Then he remembered that Sammy would never have brought the Cheek up to fire code by installing a back door. So he paced the room, cracked his knuckles, wondering how to approach her about the fights. He was a lawyer, for Chrissake; he should know how to argue and win.
    “So,” he called, “my family’s pretty keen on the fights continuing. A tradition, they are.” He cleared his throat, surprised by the weakness of his own voice.
    Your family, he imagined Camila countering.
    Aye, my family.
    What about you?
    Now, that was a question altogether different. Did he want the fights to keep going? Truth was, with the court to keep him busy, some of his fight had gone elsewhere. Some. But the Dolans’ word was law, and their word was that he would keep fighting. He imagined Camila’s reaction to that. Probably more of those flashing eyes, a good slap on the counter for emphasis, and a blue streak, cussing out his damned family. Speaking of the girl, where had she and her shamrock tattoo gone?
    When Camila came out with a plate of pasta, a basket of bread, and a big hunk of cheese, it was all he could do to slink over to the stool and manage a halfhearted smile. It was always like this. He’d be going along, happy, and the thought of his family, of their expectations, would reach its long fingers around his throat.
    “This looks terrific. When did the Cheek start with a menu?”
    “Today. I got this chalkboard to prop up.” She pointed to the chalkboard on a stand by the door.
    As he ate, she picked through a box of colored chalk and listed the night’s special. As he ate, his eyes slid to her. He watched the way her top rucked up when she bent to make a swirl on the board, the way she wrinkled her nose when something wasn’t quite right. She kept wiping the board and starting over until she was satisfied with the results. She turned the apparatus toward him with aplomb.
    “What do you think?”
    There, in elaborate swirling letters of lime green chalk, it said, “The Cheek, now serving dinner…” Underneath, it listed the night’s special and the charge.
    “It’s supper,” he said.
    “What?”
    “Now serving supper.”
    “Really?”
    “Yeah. Lettering looks good, though. Bit fancy for here, but maybe it will work.”
    “Rabbie says it won’t. That it’s either boxing or dancing girls, nothing else will bring or keep customers.”
    “Rabbie’s a good enough chap, but he never struck me as a marketing whiz,” Bronny said lightly. He was rewarded by that dazzling smile.
    “Did you like your dinner—your supper, I mean?”
    “Yeah. What do I owe you?”
    “Nothing. You’re my guinea pig.”
    “Pardon?” He’d been called many an endearment in his life, but never a guinea pig.
    “It’s an expression. Someone you test things out on. Like I asked you to try the food and see if it was good.”
    “You knew it was good.”
    “Yeah, I did. I just wasn’t sure Sicily by way of Newark would appeal to an Irishman.”
    “It surely does,” he said, looking her up and down.
    She fixed the sign and cleared away the plate and bread basket, briskly wiping the counter with a disinfecting cloth that burned his lungs with fake lemon scent.
    “What is that?”
    “The newest revolution in cleaning. Gone is the biohazard cotton towel.”
    “When I was a lad, it used to be white,” he joked.
    “I threw it away. Don’t tell him. It’s like his security blanket. Like he needs stage business—something to do to look busy.”
    “I won’t breathe a word to him,” Bronny promised.
    His phone buzzed, and he stepped out to take the call, wondering what fresh hell this was that a property lawyer had to work after hours.
    “Bronwen Dolan?” the voice inquired.
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “The Law Society of Ireland is pleased to inform you that we have accepted your article submission for publication. Your paper on tenant rights will appear in the