“I feel like I’m going through an Amanda-style inquisition. I want to have a conversation. I want to know about you.”

Max frowns. “I’m not done.”

“You are done.”

“I’m not done, baby. I have more questions.” Can a man look petulant? I’m leaning toward a big yes on that question.

“You are done because you aren’t getting more answers until you answer some questions about yourself.”

He raises an eyebrow. “One question. What do you want to know?”

“Why do you fight?”

“I enjoy it.”

I groan and let my head fall back on the seat. “Work with me here. Why do you enjoy it? What is the appeal in hurting people?”

Max swirls the wine in his glass with an expert flick of his wrist. So cool. I want to learn how to do that.

“I don’t do it to hurt people.” He takes a sip and puts down the glass. “I enjoy the physical challenge and I enjoy the total mental focus it requires. My father was a professional boxer and he had me in the ring as soon as I could walk. He taught me the beauty of boxing. He called it the sweet science. He said it is more about focus and technique than outright violence. When I took up MMA as a teenager, I saw the same beauty in combining so many martial arts into one sport.

“Oh come on.” I give an elegant snort. “You can’t deny fighting is violent.”

Brad places a bread basket between us. At least, I think it is bread. I grab a long white finger and shove it into my mouth. Not bread. Unidentifiable substance with a Styrofoam texture and no taste. I smile and wash it down with an elegant glug of wine.

Max leans forward and clasps my hand. His thumb rubs gently over my knuckles, soothing the savage Makayla beast. “We are all fighters. It is basic human nature. We strive to get ahead in life or we fight for survival.”

What have I ever strived for in my life? What have I ever wanted enough to pursue? A long time ago, I had a chance to fight for survival, and I threw it away. I gave up. I’m a quitter. “I’m not a fighter,” I whisper.

As if he can sense my resignation, Max brings my hand to his lips and brushes a kiss over my palm. “Violence is part of you, baby, whether you admit it or not. You might have repressed it, but the instinct is still there. So why not embrace it and enjoy the rush?”

I give a noncommittal grunt and wallow in self-loathing. “If you’re fighting just because you like to fight, why are you going for the underground championship belt? Why not enjoy each fight for what it is and move on to the next?”

He scrubs his hands over his face and shrugs. “I want to be the best. I want to know if anyone tried to hurt the people I care about, I could defend them.”

“The best are not in the underground circuit, Max. The best are in the professional leagues. Everyone says you’re good. Why don’t you go pro and fight them?”

He picks up his wine and swirls it around the glass. “What if I’m not good enough?”

The mouth-watering aroma of lamb draws my gaze away from Max’s earnest face. Brad places our dishes on the table. I search through the foliage on my plate and locate the tiny morsel of lamb shivering behind a baby carrot. Three huge slices of beetroot are artfully arranged in one corner. Maybe the carbs are served separately. I put down my knife and fork and wait.

“Something wrong?”

“I was waiting for the…carbohydrate part of the meal.”

Max flags down Brad. Not difficult to do since Brad’s job appears to involve hovering near our table. “Ms. Delaney would like a carbohydrate side dish.”

“No. No.” I shake my head and motion Brad away. “I just thought it would come with the meal because…well, usually there is rice or potatoes or pasta, but I don’t need anything. Really. This is good. Protein and vegetables. Very healthy.”

“We don’t do carbohydrates.” Brad’s lips pinch together so tight it is a wonder he can breathe.

Max fixes Brad with a cold stare. “We’ll have a side order of mashed potatoes with extra butter.”

Brad shudders and scurries away. Does he even know what a potato is? From the size of the women in the restaurant, I believe him when he says carbs aren’t part of the menu.

“You didn’t have to do that, but thank you. I didn’t have any lunch.”

“I know.” He slices his lamb into paper thin strips. I dismiss my plan to stick the thumb-size morsel in my mouth all at once.

“How do you know? You weren’t there.”

Max winks. “Secret.”

Buzzed from too many glasses of orgasmic wine, I fix him with a mock glare and spear a slice of cooked beetroot. “Tell me.”

“A man has to have some secrets,” Max chuckles. “It makes him seem more mysterious.”

“You are very mysterious,” I agree, and then switch to a fake German accent. “But vee haf ways ov making you talk.” I cackle and jerk my hand in the air. The beet flies off my fork and lands on the floor. I reach down to pick it up, just as Brad arrives with the mashed potatoes. He slips. The potatoes go up. He goes down. The elegant diners look over and snicker. Brad’s face is as red as the squished beet on the floor.

Death cannot come too soon for me.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” I kneel beside Brad and brush mashed potatoes off his pants.

“Carbs,” he moans. “I’m going to gain at least ten pounds.”