Page 37 of This Wild Heart

I turned and marched back into the house, my chest sinking with the fallout from a vindictive moment that would probably come back to fucking haunt me.

Pride made us do some really stupid things, didn’t it?

There was going to be no clear-headed exercise after that. Tears pressed hot and thick at the back of my throat. I hadn’t cried in a couple of weeks, opting instead to keep myself so freaking busy that I wouldn’t remember grainy pictures of my fiancé making out with a porn star in her backyard. Security footage of him inviting two giggly fans back into our house when I was on a trip with Isabel and my sisters.

And the worst part, the very worst part, was how quickly my brain liked to shift to the night he proposed, when I happily said yes, and even if my future didn’t look passionate and wild, I’d found someone who made me feel safe and taken care of. Who told me all the time that I was the perfect woman.

I was in the kitchen before I could stop myself, yanking open the fridge door to look for wine. Chocolate. Anything.

Parker didn’t really keep alcohol in the house, which surprised me. Isn’t this what food delivery was created for? This very situation, right fucking here. I imagined a delivery person showing up to the house with a giant bottle of Pinot and decided not to give those vultures with the cameras the satisfaction of knowing they got to me. They probably already did when I ditched my run, but I couldn’t dredge up a single solitary fuck.

They were fresh out, reserved for feelings that I was desperately trying to stifle. Everything was so much easier when I could pretend this was simple. Pretend the biggest issue facing Parker and me was our families’ reactions.

It wasn’t, though, was it?

Panic had my hands balling up into fists, and I shook them out forcefully. The thought of more public embarrassment made me want to curl up under the blankets and pretend the outside world didn’t exist.

Or there was wine. And chocolate. Anything.

I pinched my eyes shut, damn well knowing they weren’t the best ways to deal with any of this. With a sharp pivot, I marched downstairs to the second family room that Parker had converted into a gym. My phone dinged, but I couldn’t bring myself to look at a single thing. I cleared the notifications from the home screen and pulled up my music app.

Now was not the time for fucking yoga. I didn’t need calming stretches and deep breathing. This was a time for healthy anger and the perfect kind of outlet to get it out. God bless the man I’d married because he had a heavy bag hanging in the corner.

Two pairs of gloves were on the ledge next to the bag, but I wanted a bite of pain. I wanted to feel this. He had rolls of tape, and I briskly slipped my thumb into the hook at the end, wrapping the black material between my fingers and around my wrist a few times. I stretched it tight across my palm and then banded it around my knuckles, over and over and over, until my hand was as protected as it could be.

No drinking.

No chocolate.

Crying might come later.

But for now, with the familiar cold slap of betrayal coursing through my veins, I did the next best thing. With angry music screaming in my earbuds, I curled my hands into fists, set my feet like I’d been taught to do my entire life, and I beat the shit out of that bag.

Parker

“Anya?” No response.

Her bright red Jeep was in the garage, so I knew she was home.

My phone buzzed again, and I pinched my eyes shut. “Shit, shit, shit,” I breathed. “Fucking nosy-ass sisters.”

A sound came from downstairs, then another. A sharp smack, followed by a slight grunt.

Curiosity piqued, I jogged down the stairs, stopping short at what I saw.

Anya was absolutely destroying the heavy bag in the corner. She rotated her body, letting out a grunt as she landed a vicious uppercut with her right hand. Then she grabbed it with both hands, driving her knee straight up.

Instinctively, I covered my balls with both hands.

She ducked back like she’d slid her upper body under an invisible wire, and when she popped back up, she snapped her left arm forward in a jab, then moved into the bag. Her elbow flew forward, landing with such force that I had a hard time breathing for a second.

Under the lights, the slight sheen of sweat made her skin glow, and the curve of her muscles had my eyes lingering in places that she’d probably kick my ass for.

“Anya,” I said again, but the small white earphones in her ears had me grimacing. “Anya,” I yelled.

Nothing.

She danced back, drew her right leg backward, then snapped it forward, pivoting on the ball of her left foot as it held her full body weight, and the smack of her shin on the bag had me slicking my tongue over my teeth.

---