She laughs, but there’s gratitude in it. “Thank you. That... means more than you know.”
And just like that, something shifts between us. She’s opened up, and I didn’t turn away. We’re both running from something, and that understanding hangs in the air between us, warm and unexpected.
We get back to our workouts, but I find myself watching her more openly now. The way she bites her lip when she’s concentrating. Blows at her fringe when it gets in her eyes. Pushes herself even when she’s tired. She’s stronger than she looks, this lass. Losing her dream job, having her reputation torn to shreds, that would break most people. But she hasn’t let it knock her down.
She moves to the mat and lies on her back, knees bent. Then she lifts her hips off the mat. Glute bridges. Christ almighty.
I freeze, weights forgotten, watching the smooth, controlled movement of her body. The way her back arches, the tilt of her hips, the flex of her thighs, the gentle curve of her?—
I snap my gaze away so fast I nearly give myself whiplash.
Focus, you bloody idiot.She’s exercising. It’s not sexual. Except my body hasn’t got the memo because my cock decides now is the perfect time to wake up. Cheers for that.
I slap a couple more plates onto the bar and attack my deadlifts harder than sense dictates, hauling the weight like it’s to blame. But every time she moves, every soft exhale she makes with the effort, it’s like someone’s turned up the heat in the garage.
Think about something else. Anything but the way she’s moving on that mat.
But it’s no use. Four years I’ve kept this part of myself locked away, and now it’s roaring back to life with the subtlety of a bloody freight train. I can feel my shorts getting tighter, and panic starts to set in because there’s nowhere to hide in this cramped space.
“Okay, I’m done,” Blair groans suddenly, collapsing flat on the mat and fanning herself with her hand. “If I do another set, my glutes are going to mutiny.”
Thank Christ.
“Could you pass me my water?” she asks, not moving from the mat. “I can’t feel my legs.”
Ah. I risk a quick glance down. Bit tight, but nothing obvious. Should be okay.
I grab her bottle, being very careful not to let our fingers brush when I hand it over. Can’t risk even that much contact right now.
She sits up to drink, and I turn away, pretending to organise weights that don’t need organising.
“Right,” she says after a few moments, “I’d better head back. Grab a quick shower.”
Unhelpfully, my brain conjures up an image of Blair in the shower, water streaming down bare skin?—
“Then straight to bed,” Blair adds.
Oh, come on. This really isn’t helping my shorts situation.
“See you tomorrow,” I manage roughly. “Good workout.”
She stands, stretching, and I force myself to keep my back turned.
“Night, then,” she says, but something in my posture must give me away because her voice changes. “Are you all right?”
Bloody hell. She’s moving closer.
“Fine,” I say without turning around.
“You sure?”
Her voice is quiet now. Close. Too close. If she reaches for my arm, touches me, I’m done for.
I cough, desperate to end this before I make a mistake I can’t take back. “Aye. I’ll... see you in the morning, then.”
There’s a pause, and I can feel her studying me. Finally she says, “All right. Sleep well, Lachlan.”
I wait until the garage door clicks shuts before I let myself breathe again. Four years I’ve kept this part of myself buried so deep I thought it was gone for good.
