Rhys grinned at me, and a pleasurable ache spread across my chest at the sight of it.

“So, without further ado,” Fairchild said, his awful voice ruining the moment, “I have procured footage from Morgan’s most memorable fight with Cal Davis. Settle in and enjoy.”

The lights went down and the screen flickered to life.

If it weren’t for the tension emanating from Rhys, I might have enjoyed watching him fight. However, knowing about his best friend, understanding the soul-deep fear Rhys had of ending someone’s life or leaving his brother alone in this world, killed that enjoyment.

Instead, I tried to take Rhys’s mind off the fight playing out on the screen, and the man behind us, who was attempting what felt like underhanded mental warfare to get Rhys to do what he wanted.

I leaned into Rhys, my voice low, my lips touching his ear as I whispered, “You are unfairly hot.”

He stiffened a little but didn’t move away as I continued. “I could ignore it, the hotness, I mean, if you weren’t so funny, charming, sweet, kind, and loyal. It takes your hotness to combustible levels. Oh, and the bike. The bike that—” His mouth cut off my words.

I clasped his face in my hands, feeling the bristle of his unshaven cheeks as he kissed me hard and deep in the dark of the theater. The sounds of the fight became background noise as I made out with him in public.

And I didn’t care.

As long as I was distracting him from Fairchild’s underhanded antics, I remained unconcerned what anyone thought of my actions.

Rhys broke the kiss to whisper, “I ain’t sweet, dahlin’, but fuck, you definitely are. Taste it too.”

The lights suddenly came to life, and we blinked against it. Our colleagues murmured around us and we realized the fight had finished. I could feel their eyes on us, but Rhys and I were engrossed in one another.

He brushed a thumb over my lips. “Thank you.”

Understanding, I smiled. “That kind of distraction wasn’t really a hardship.”

Rhys chuckled, pressed a cute kiss to my nose, and stood, taking me with him. Glancing around, I saw I was right—my colleagues were looking at him, entirely fascinated.

They may have known he was an ex-heavyweight boxing champion, but knowing and seeing were two different things.

“Isn’t he something?” Fairchild said to the room as he walked toward us. “Now that our viewing entertainment is over, my guests must be hungry. My staff has laid out a world-class buffet in the dining room. Follow Andrew.” He gestured to the exit where Andrew the house concierge waited. “He’ll show you the way.”