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His strides are long and fluid, his back muscles working hard under his sweat-drenched shirt as his arms pump back and forth. Despite his weight and the speed he’s moving, his footfalls are nearly silent, but my eyes don’t settle on his shoes, choosing instead a few feet higher. The man has the tightest ass I’ve ever seen which is saying something considering I grew up around Hollywood stars and people paid to be perfect.
“Did you need something, Remington?” he asks conversationally, and it’s unfair that he’s not even out of breath.
I wanted to bend in half or roll around on the floor the other day after my pole class. It took an hour to get my heart rate back to normal.
“I didn’t know old men could run so quickly.”
He smirks, his eyes still on the television.
“Since when is twenty-nine old?”
“Twenty-nine?” I squeak. That actually shocks the hell out of me.
“Surprised? Wow, you really know how to make a man feel bad about himself.” He punctuates his words by turning up the incline on the treadmill without reducing the speed.
“It’s not your looks that made me think you were older. You act older.” He smiles, apparently okay with my answer. “You have the body of a twenty-year-old athlete, and the attitude of a grandpa.”
He stumbles a little, forced to shove his hands out to clasp the side bars to keep from falling.
I laugh, and his smile spreads wider.
“Hop on.” He points to the machine beside him.
“Are you wanting to see my tits bounce?” I open the wrap covering up my bathing suit, but it only draws a frown to his face.
“Is that how you always get attention, Remi?”
“No.”
I mean, sometimes, but he seems to be one of the few immune to the actions.
“You’re worth more than just throwing yourself at men. People would respect you more if you didn’t try to use your body and sexuality as a weapon.”
I shift my weight from one foot to the other, hating that he’s got me in a spotlight.
“Thanks for the advice. I’m going to go make something for lunch.” I let my eyes rake over him one more time, making sure he sees me checking him out. It’s the only way I know to gain a little power back. “Don’t bother showering. You’re sexy as hell all sweaty.”
When I walk away, he grumbles and the sound of the machine speed being increased follows me out of the room.Chapter 15Flynn
“I don’t understand the irritation,” Ignacio complains. “What girl wants to spend her twenty-first birthday at her house?”
“You haven’t seen her house,” I counter.
“But her friends have,” Ignacio replies. “They don’t want to go someplace they’ve already been, especially not for such a big milestone.”
I get the feeling getting drunk and partying isn’t anything new for Remington. I’ve read her file.
I also want to mention that she doesn’t really have any friends. No one visits her. She doesn’t even have her nose stuck in her phone like most women her age do—and when did I start seeing her as a woman and not some bratty kid? I don’t know if it’s because she isolated herself or if the assumptions about fame and fortune being a lonely place are actually true.
“Can I count on the guys or not?”
“You know Deacon and Wren won’t leave their women.”
Deacon doesn’t get closely involved with the cases we work as individuals, keeping more of a management approach, but Wren was never into social gatherings. He’s the nerd of the group, and the anti-social stereotype that usually accompanies geeks is a way of life for him. He was as uncomfortable going to a gala with Anna for Deacon as I was about coming to New York.
“You? Gaige? Quinten?”
“I’m sure it can be arranged. Brooks?”
“Fuck no,” I grumble. I don’t want that man anywhere near Remington. The charming bastard would only have to wink in her direction and she’d be putty in his hands.
My friend laughs, and I want to pummel him for his ability to read me even through a phone call. Am I that damn transparent? If so, I need to get a handle on that shit.
One damn kiss and I’m insanely distracted. Women. They have the ability to ruin any damn man, apparently.
“He’s going to be disappointed. What if he promises to be on his best behavior?”
“His best behavior is what concerns me.”
Another laugh. Another desire to choke my friend.
“I don’t want to hurt his feelings.”
“You aren’t concerned about his damn feelings.”
“I care about the mental health of all of my friends.”
Yet here you are torturing me.
And it says a lot about where my head is at that I’m struggling with a little teasing, growing angry at the thought of Brooks-fucking-Morgan showing his handsome face, wanting to wrap my fingers around his neck at just the mental image of him pointing his charismatic smile in Remington’s direction.
