Page 30 of Wild Then Wed
“You’re gonna end up re-populating it, too, if you’re not careful.”
Dom sleeps with someone new every week. He’s rich as hell. Famous. And absolutely unbothered by the trail of lingerie and bad decisions he leaves behind in every city he visits. The guy’s got the sort of charisma that could talk a nun into bed.
I pull my shirt up to wipe the sweat off my face and catch him staring.
“You ever think about growing your hair out?” he asks randomly, tilting his head.
“No.”
He shakes his head. “Wasted potential, my guy.”
I flip him off again and reach for the jump rope.
The steadyslap-slap-slapof the rope against the mat keeps time with my breathing. In. Out. Again. It’s the only rhythm Itrust right now, the only thing drowning out the noise in my head.
Dom steps up beside me, grabbing another rope. The man moves like gravity doesn’t apply to him—effortless, all coiled strength and quiet confidence. His gold chain glints under the gym lights, swaying against his chest with every jump. His tattoos ripple over his forearms, ink shifting like living shadows.
He doesn’t even look winded. The bastard.
Meanwhile, my lungs burn, my muscles scream, and my shirt sticks to my back like a second skin. But I don’t stop. Because stopping means thinking. And thinking means remembering.
“You good?” Dom’s voice cuts through my focus, casual but edged with something heavier.
I don’t glance over. “Yeah.”
A beat. Then a low scoff. “You’re always good, huh?”
This time, I do look. His jaw is set, his dark eyes flicking to me before darting away. He’s not fooled by my bullshit. He never is.
“I like keeping busy.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Busy isn’t the same as good.”
I grit my teeth and keep jumping. The rope bites into my palms, the burn a welcome distraction.
“Maybe you should talk to someone,” he says after a minute. “A professional someone who gets paid to deal with people like us.”
That makes me pause. “Do you?”
“Hell yeah. Have been for a while now. Helps me keep my head straight.”
For some reason, that catches me off guard. Dominic Moretti—world-famous boxer, face on every billboard from Vegas to New York—talking about therapy. Not that it’s a bad thing, it’s just unexpected coming from him. That’s the thing about Dom.He’s all swagger and women and sarcasm, until he’s not. Until he says something like that.
“Huh. I guess you don’t seem like the type.”
That earns me a smirk. “Yeah, well, my therapist says punching people isn’t a healthy coping mechanism. Neither is whiskey. Or sex.”
A rough laugh escapes me. “Shocking revelation.”
His grin widens, but his eyes stay serious. “You’d like her. Calls me on my bullshit. Probably wouldn’t let you get away with yours, either.”
I shake my head. “Hard pass.”
He doesn’t push. He never does. That’s why we’ve lasted this long—he knows when to press and when to let things lie.
It’s not that I think therapy’s bullshit. I don’t. I’ve seen it help people. Hell, I’ve recommended it to clients when they lose a pet and can’t function. Told parents to take their kids when they have to put down a horse that’s been around longer than their barn.
But me?
