1. Chapter 1

Early in my education, I'd had grand plans for my degree in business. All those university job fairs and mad plans to start micro-businesses and work on fun start-ups had led to this: a chronic lack of employment and thousands of pounds I would never get back.

As it turned out, no one wanted to employ someone who'd finished university and then run a start-up right into the ground. What business would want someone who was so comprehensively shit at it?

So, I'd thrown myself into agency work as a secretary, and I was good at it. I was massively overqualified to deliver coffees and book hotel rooms for sleazy CEOs, but I needed the money—and I was young and pretty enough to do it. Still, it wasn't what I wanted.

That's why when my phone rang one quiet Friday, I couldn't muster up much enthusiasm. It was my recruitment agency telling me I was moving on to my next job.

"Great. Where do you want me…Bristol?" I didn't know why I was so indignant. I'd stubbornly moved to London from Wales as it was the very centre of the business world. Despite the fact London had proved fruitless so far, moving closer to home again still felt like a step backward.

The woman on the end of the phone simply sighed. I'd never seen her face in person and likely never would, but I knew her voice all too well. "This is permanent work, full room and board. All you've got to do is hold the guy's sweaty towels."

"I what?" The one-two punch of information had me unsure how to react. A job holding some person's gross towels sounded like a much seedier job than I'd signed up for, but the prospect of getting out of here… I took the phone down from my ear and looked around the room. I'd been renting a crappy bedsit in London's Zone 3, barely making ends meet along with my two flatmates who didn't seem to know how to wash. "I'll take it. When do you need me?"

"Your employer will send you a train ticket this evening, and you'll be expected at work in the morning."

"And who exactly is my employer?" I asked. "This all seems very mysterious."

"Well, you're meant to sign an NDA first…" she muttered. I could practically hear her pursing her lips. "It's Bradley Tyler."

"Who?" The name niggled something in the back of my mind, but it wasn't someone I could pinpoint directly.

"The boxer! You know, the one with all the famous family?"

"Never heard of him," I admitted.

"Well, get down to Bristol as fast as you can. I'm sure you'll find he's an adequate employer."

"What's the p—" I started, but the dial tone signalled the end to the conversation. "Great."

As I packed up my stuff, I felt a little pathetic in realising that all I had to my name was a single suitcase of clothes and my art supplies. But it made saying goodbye a lot easier.

I texted my landlord to let him know that my next rent instalment would be my last, then crawled into bed for an uneasy sleep.

My phone buzzed early with a text telling me to get to Paddington station, and I caught the early train with a funny feeling in my stomach. I knew I should be happy about the stability of a full-time job, a roof over my head and a bed to sleep in at night. But I was still leaving London: the centre of business. It was an admission of failure. At least, it felt that way.

The train ride from Paddington to Bristol took an age, and the journey was too bumpy for me to sketch properly. So I j passed the time by watching out the window as the big city turned into countryside.

Minutes before the train was due to pull into Bristol Temple Meads, my phone rang. I looked down at the screen, grimacing at my father's name. "Hello?"

"Arty, how are you?"

"I'm fine. What do you need, Dad?" I hated being called Artie. But that was hardly his most egregious crime.

"I didn't say I needed anything!" he defended. "I'm just calling to see how you are."

I didn't believe a word of it. "Great. I'm good. How are you?"

"I'm good. There's nothing wrong with me. It's just your mother…" He trailed off, and I grit my teeth. I was glad he couldn't see my face—he couldn't see how my naivety and love for him had leeched away over the years.

"What's wrong with her this time?"

"It's her…she's too ill to work at the moment, and we can't pay our bills."

"And you can't work?" I asked.

My father sighed audibly down the phone line. "It's my lumbago, Arty. You know I struggle too."

"And what does your GP say about your lumbago, Dad?"

There was another moment of hesitation. "Fine. If you don't want to help, no worries. But when me and your mother are out on the street, we'll remember this."

The train squealed as it braked, letting me know I'd reached the station. "I don't have much money, Dad. Just text me what you need and I'll see if I can get some to you."

"Oh, thank you, son. I knew we could rely on you." Before I could pull the phone away from my ear, he ended the call.

I sighed, hauling my suitcase off the train and standing in the middle of the busy station. I found a quiet alcove to access my mobile banking and wanted to cry at what I saw. A couple of hundred in my primary account, which should have got me through the month. Then there was a few thousand in debt from my failed business in the other account. My father sent through a text: Five hundred x.

I pulled another couple of hundred out of my credit card account and sent him everything. I really hoped my new employer would pay weekly because I had nothing left.

I waited a few minutes for a thank you text, but none came. "Same time next month then, Dad," I muttered to myself. I dragged my suitcase down the platform and through the crowds gathered in the main concourse. It had been years since I'd been in Bristol, so I checked my Maps, letting out a groan when I realised the gym was at least thirty minutes' walk away. I already felt emotionally exhausted, and wanted to abandon my suitcase and sleep on one of the benches outside the station's historic facade. But I had a job to do, and I was going to do it.

I thanked whoever was listening that Bristol was mercifully flat as I walked through its streets, my suitcase bumping over every crack and stone in the pavement. When I finally reached the boxing gym, it was exactly as I'd imagined: a big, corrugated metal industrial unit with IMPERIAL GYM in large red lettering over the doors. The rusty, metal door creaked as I gingerly pushed it open and stepped into the arena.

The place smelled like sweat and testosterone — if testosterone had a smell. There were men and a few women scattered about, fighting with one another or with swinging punch bags. The whole building was a bit dark and dingy, lit mostly by old yellow lamps hanging from the ceiling. One spot, however, was illuminated by fluorescent LEDs, and I found myself drawn to it. So, I dragged my suitcase over the crash mats and around discarded dumbbells.

In that lit centre of the room was a boxing ring. The ropes sagged and the canvas looked worn, but the man who stood in the middle was truly in his prime. I watched as he ducked and weaved around the ring, sparring with a masked opponent who wore huge flat mitts and protective headgear.

The man I'd been drawn to was shirtless, wearing light boxing shorts, and, of course, boxing gloves. His dark hair was slicked back with the same sweat that dripped down his body, giving off a slight sheen in the bright light. His muscles bulged everywhere, and with every strike of the pads in front of him I could see them flex under his skin.

His skin was like a canvas, with tattoos scrawled across his chest and down one arm. But none of them seemed to make sense. There were classic Betty Boop cartoons mixed in with gravestones and the Christian cross right next to a pentacle. But they all flowed into one another in a way that made me wonder if it even mattered. He moved, and a glint of silver at his nipple caught my eye. Was that a piercing? I could feel my mouth watering. He was beautiful.

A few swift punches had his opponent back on the ropes, even with all the protective padding. Each blow to the hand pads was with unnerving accuracy. Each smack felt like it was awakening something in me. At last, his opponent held his hands up as if in surrender and the beautiful boxer backed off, grinning. Sweat dripped from his brow and onto the canvas right in front of me.

I hadn't realised how close I'd gotten to the ring until he turned around and spotted me. "Who the fuck are you? You look too skinny even for featherweight," he said. His voice was so deep, so sensual, that I almost didn't register the dismissal in his tone.

The opponent removed the protective headgear so he could speak. "Bradley, I think this might be Arthur, your new assistant."

Bradley. Bradley. This…Greek god was the guy I was meant to be assisting? Had I won the lottery? I'd assist him with whatever the hell he wanted. I would wait on him hand and foot—hand and mouth, if he asked nicely.

And then he poured cold water all over my little dream by spinning to the older man angrily. "Fuck off. I told you I don't need an assistant."

"And I told you, you do."

"Who's paying him, then?" Bradley asked. I tried not to take it personally when he pointed my way. "Do you think I want to pay for this shit?"

"Your millions will cope with a minimum wage assistant. As will the annexe you had built for this exact purpose." The old man then turned to me with a slight smile, seemingly embarrassed by Bradley's outburst. "Arthur, is it?"

I nodded, unsure where I slotted in this whole argument—or if I'd already been fired.

"I'm Jason, Bradley's trainer. And this rather rude man is Bradley Tyler, current reigning World super-middleweight champion boxer. Say hello, Bradley."

Bradley huffed. "If you're my assistant, go and grab me a sandwich, will you?"

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. "Sure thing. Any preference?"

"Something with lots of protein," he said. "And I need some water. And a new towel. And pick me an appropriate sparring partner and tell them to come over here."

"Alright, Miranda Priestley." I saluted him. "Though if I come back without Mohammed Ali I apologise for any disappointment."

I walked back through the gym, noting everyone's eyes on me. I probably wasn't the usual patron. I scanned the sparse crowd, eyes landing on a man beating the shit out of a punch bag, his body glistening in sweat and knuckles wrapped in bandages. I smirked. He looked mean. He might be able to teach that smug prick a lesson.

"Bradley wants to see you."

The man stopped in his tracks and whipped his head in my direction. "Me?"

"Yes, you. Go spar." I walked away with a confidence I didn't actually feel. If any one of these men decided they wanted to knock me out, I'd be on the floor. So, I had to act like I owned the place, and that every decision came from up high. I made a mental note of the fresh towels on the shelf as I left the building.

It was drizzling gently, and I ran as fast as I could to the nearest shop. When I got inside, it had the measliest selection of sandwiches I had ever seen. But what was there was…perfect. It was time for some malicious compliance.

When I walked back into the dark gym, I snagged one of the fresh towels, ready to see Bradley fucking Tyler struggling against the boss I'd sent to spar with him. Instead, the guy I'd found was slumped against the ropes with Jason tending to his wounds. Bradley was nowhere to be seen.

"He's over there." Jason told me, pointing towards a door in the corner that read CHANGING ROOM.

"I'm not going in there," I muttered.

"He needs his fresh towel and his food. Don't keep him waiting," Jason said.

I tried my best to internalise my eyeroll, but walked over to the door and pushed it open--hesitantly. The changing room was filled with steam. The tiles were white, if a bit grotty, and a plain wooden bench ran along one wall.

The steam seemed to emanate from another room to the side where I could hear the shower running. I hurried over to the bench and dropped the sandwich and towel but before I'd taken two steps away, the shower stopped and a figure emerged from the steam.

And what a figure it was. Bradley Tyler, in all his…naked glory. Not that I was looking.. He was dripping wet, hair sticking out in all directions—and I would keep my thoughts on that image to myself.

I kept my eyes firmly on his as I backed away like prey from a predator. He smiled, and it only reinforced that image in my head.

Finally, Bradley broke eye contact to pick up the sandwich. Why, God, couldn't he just pick up the fucking towel?

"Really?" he asked incredulously.

I allowed myself a smile as he looked at the sandwich, then at me. "Broccoli and cress. I've heard it's the perfect vegan substitute for most common protein," I said, an innocent air to my voice.

"And what made you think I was vegan?"

"Well, your body is a temple…" I said, waving a dismissive hand towards him and giving him a quick once-over. Big mistake. Everything about his body was perfect, from the wide expanse of his chest to his stomach to his perfectly trimmed…anyway.

"See something you like?" he asked.

"Yes. The broccoli. Very healthy."

I took another step back, and Bradley stalked toward me. Every step of mine was matched by one of his large ones until he had me pressed against the changing room door. My only small mercy was that our proximity made it much harder for me to steal another look. His finger brought my chin upward, and the condescending act made my heart beat faster—for so many reasons.

He repeated himself quietly. "I asked if you saw anything you like...aside from the broccoli, of course."

I hated that he'd gotten the measure of me so quickly. "No," I spat, feeling the need to retaliate. "Because hyper-masculine homophobic bullshit does not interest me. So eat the fucking sandwich I gave you and get that towel around your waist before I report you for sexual harassment. Then you'll let me know where to go and unpack my bag."

He chuckled quietly—dangerously—and his breath ghosted over my lips. "You'll do. I'm masculine, yep. And this might be sexual harassment if you really want to put a name to it. But before you call me homophobic…do your research."

With that, he stepped away to grab the towel and began drying himself. It was clear I was dismissed, and I didn't know how to feel about it.

I let out a sigh and spun around to open the door.

"Hey, Arthur?" Bradley said, halting me in my tracks. He'd covered himself with the towel but it left very little to the imagination.

"Yes?"

"Ask Jason for the address. He'll get you set up with a key. I'll be home around seven, so if you can raid the cupboards for something to cook…" His eyes dropped back to the sandwich. "Anything not-vegan will do."

I nodded, unsure of what to say—what to feel. But it seemed like I had a job. Such fun.