Page 29 of Wild Then Wed
I’ve got thirty seconds left in the set and sweat dripping down my spine, my calves tight and lungs working harder than they should be. Across the mat, Dom’s watching me with a smug-ass look plastered all over his face.
“Your form’s shit,” he says, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “You gonna pass out or finish?”
I grit my teeth and keep going. “Eat shit, Moretti.”
He grins. “You want me to call your mom? Maybe she can come finish for you.”
I finish the last jump, toss the rope on the ground, and flip him off with both hands. My heart’s pounding. My shirt’s soaked. And I feel better than I have all week.
This—this is what keeps me sane.
Dominic Moretti is every inch the Italian Stallion golden boy the media makes him out to be—dark brown hair, olive skin, those sharp, cocky brown eyes that have been on sports ads and ESPN reels since we were twenty-two. He’s still boxing professionally, in Bozeman temporarily between bouts. Says it’s for high-altitude conditioning, but I think he just likes the quiet.The anonymity. Or maybe he’s dodging some girl in Vegas—with Dom, it’s usually one of those.
“You’ve slowed down since I got here,” he says, tossing me a towel. “Is old age turning you into a pussy?”
I chuck the towel back at him. “You know what? I hope you get knocked the fuck out in your next fight.”
Dom smirks, catching the towel one-handed. “Yeah, well, we both know that’s not gonna happen.”
I shoot him a look, reaching for my water. “Who’s next, anyway?”
“Viktor Draganov,” he says, like it’s no big deal.
I raise an eyebrow. “The guy who broke someone’s orbital bone last fall?”
“Yeah.” Dom grins like a lunatic. “He’s quick, but he drops his left when he’s tired. If I can wear him down early—”
“You’re insane,” I mutter, shaking my head.
Dominic Moretti climbed the ranks of professional boxing like he was shot out of a goddamn cannon. The World Boxing Association. WBO. Golden Gloves. Olympic Trials. The WBA. The IBF. Every acronym you can think of—he’s touched all of them. He’s held a belt in every league worth giving a shit about, all before thirty, and now he’s one of the most recognizable faces in the sport.
And somehow, a few years back, we met at this very gym. I was fresh out of hell and he was fresh off a loss, both of us looking for a fight—him in the ring, me with myself. He took one look at me and tossed me a pair of gloves. “You look like you need to hit something,” he’d said.
I did.
We’ve been good friends ever since. He’s one of the few people in Bozeman who knows about Julia. About Violet. About everything.
And he’s never once made me talk about any of it. He just shows up. Glove in hand, mouth running, always ready to remind me that I’m still here.
Sometimes that’s enough.
“You know what would help with your stamina?” he asks casually, stretching out his arms.
“Don’t.”
“Sex.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“I’m serious,” he says. “Good cardio. Burns a shit ton of calories. Lowers your blood pressure. Plus, if it’s done right—”
“Dom.”
He shrugs. “I’m just saying if you got laid, maybe you’d stop grunting like a dying rhino every time we hit the weights.”
“Not all of us are out here racking up hotel points like you.”
He grins. “I like to stimulate the local economy. I’m a giver, sue me.”
