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Brows pinched; my brain grappled before realizing she was telling me to close my mouth. Like I’d been gaping. My skin buzzed in response. Scoffing, I countered, “Is there a reason you’re watching every muscle in my body, or did you trade life coaching for anatomy without my knowing?”
“Something wrong with enjoying the view?” she asked, tone taunting. Slowly, El bent over, using perfect deadlift form—ass out, core tight—to set those weights back on the ground in front of her mat. Every ripple of muscle was accentuated in those damned leggings, the perfect globes of her ass on display like a pert invitation for me to sink my teeth into one. Sue me, James. It wasn’t my fault this girl had somehow grown up to be a smoke-show not even a priest could avoid appreciating. Even the crease under her ass was sexy.
And I was going to hell for noticing.
“Nope,” I said, shrugging like she wasn’t driving me up a wall. “Besides, I’m just making sure you’re not going to tear a muscle. I’d hate to see you have to bow out of the competition with so much on the line.”
“Seriously?” she drawled sarcastically, straightening and popping a hip in one sexy little motion. The crease at her waist just begged me to close the distance and wrap my hands around her middle. Little Broderick, unfortunately, was taking notice. Off. Fucking. Limits. Asshole. “You’re gonna ‘gym bro’ me? Save the lectures for your classroom, Professor. Chris and Max hooked me up with a personal trainer ages ago.”
I felt my jaw flex under the pressure that phrase elicited. Last thing I wanted to think about was some douche stretching her out after a sweaty session. “Suuure.”
One word, but the tone in it had her brows winging up as she motioned to her weights. “By all means, if you think you’re more qualified, come give a demonstration.”
“No need to make you feel inadequate,” I said with a wink. When she grinned back, I added, “I know how competitive you get. Don’t want you pulling a hammy.”
“Psh, chicken,” she scoffed back, that maniacal smirk hooking wide to one side as mischief sparked behind those familiar gray-blues. God, I missed that ceaseless mouth. I did not, however, miss wishing I could put it to better use. “I’m not daft enough to think I’ll outlift Mistyvale’s favorite running back.”
“Been a long time since anybody called me that.”
Something warm slid behind her smirk, a fond nostalgia hidden behind her sass. Likely of pre-game carb-a-thons and the tinny smell of high school bleachers. El always came to all our games. I knew because she had a whistle so loud it crossed the chaos of the crowd—a straight shot to my chest, like a power up—when I was on a good run. It was always her I found in those stands, hands boldly raised, when I scored.
“Maybe because these days you just start arguments you can’t seem to finish. You going to show me up over here, or what?” She threw her hands up, jerking her chin towards the barbell rack in challenge.
Shaking my head, I held her stare, the heat in my chest a flashing red light screaming a warning to back off, to put some space between us. But I held my ground for once. “Over there? Nah. On that stage this week?” I gave her a nod, a promise. “You’re going down.”
I knew the moment her eyes flared, her cocky smirk twisting into the coy smile of the she-devil hidden inside that compact little package, that I’d said the wrong thing. There was nowhere to back pedal before Elora’s eyes tracked down to where I knew my shorts had grown tighter than comfortable. “Would you like that?”
Dead. I was so dead. I glanced over to the blonde still climbing flights of stairs, her headphones mercifully on, and was about to open my mouth—to say what, exactly, was still to be determined—when my eyes snapped sideways because the door opened, and in strode Pierce and Cheyenne. Her attention shifted just as abruptly, that pretty little column of her throat bobbing as she faced them and I rolled my eyes, returning my headphones, and squatting down to lift my weights.
Fucking Pierce. Man had eyes for El the moment he fell into her orbit. Couldn’t exactly blame him, but with that polished wardrobe and thick head of blond hair it was like competing with Thor in Lululemon. Which was a dumbass thought in the first place because she wasn’t mine to compete for. But as he flashed that too-white smile, and Cheyenne skipped into the gym and wrapped a giggling El in a hug like they were the oldest of friends instead of competitors that met this morning, my stomach bottomed out.
Irritated, I increased the volume on my noise canceling headphones, and tried to focus on getting in my reps, and not the fact that she had my cock at half-mast. But every time I set down my weights, I caught sight of the three of them—El’s headphones now hanging around the slender column of her neck—laughing together in the mirror. She was evidently unaffected by our little verbal sparring match.
I thought it was annoying when Rhyett made friends in a blink, but nothing irked me quite like seeing her smile…for him.
She never smiled for me like that. Smiles with me were always more reserved—guarded and laced with some old echo of the day I ruined everything. Huffing and panting, I dropped my gaze, squatting down and snatching my weights again. It was the moment I saw the exchange of phones between the Marvel superhero incarnate and my smart mouthed little Pixie that I decided I didn’t need to lift nearly as badly as I needed to get out of this room.
Blowing out a harsh breath, I scooped up my phone from where I’d set it on the bench and, with a cordial nod to the saints building orphanages, rushed from the room. I couldn’t hate the man any more than I could blame him for liking El. Watching her jump from date to date had been agonizing back home, but I’d survived it then, and one week in a resort wasn’t going to undermine years of discipline.
With a huff of irritation, I jammed the button to summon the elevator. The echo of laughter down the hall had me aggressively pushing it on a loop when my name bounced off the walls.
EIGHT
ELORA
Max was going to be thrilled with me. Six-foot-two, blond, well dressed and beautifully articulate, Pierce was exactly Max’s type, and—lo and behold—recently single after his last boyfriend moved to London a few months back. Months—which meant it was a perfectly acceptable amount of time later to move the hell on. A pop in my step, I practically skipped down the hallway, grinning as I shot off a rapid-fire text with his handle and phone number, because that’s what best friends do when they meet a Greek god brought to life.
Glancing up as I tucked my phone away, I spotted none other than my temporary emergency room mate stepping into the elevator. My stomach tightened, but after a brief internal debate, I called out, “Broderick!”
When he slowly turned back my way, begrudgingly holding out an arm to keep the doors open, my brows dipped in a scowl. What had his boxers in a bunch?
“You okay?” I asked, a bit out of breath after the gym and quick jaunt down the hallway.
“Dandy,” he said in an unconvincing monotone.
Okaaaay. Shrugging off his irritation, I said, “Pierce and Cheyenne seem great, don’t they?”
“Sure,” he muttered, pulling the headphones off his neck and powering them down without meeting my eyes.
