“You prefer Football Boy?”
“No.”
“Sir?”
“Elena.”
“Yes?”
I take a long, grounding breath.
Because I need it.
Because…she’s funny, too? This woman is going to ruin me.
“Let’s start with warm-ups,” I say.
“Great,” she says brightly. “But no flirting.”
“No flirting,” I echo.
We lock eyes.
We both immediately look away.
Damien coughs pointedly from the desk.
And I know, with painful, absolute clarity…
I am in so much trouble.
“Alright,” I say, trying to mask how off-balance she’s made me. “Let’s hit the treadmill for a quick warmup jog.”
She steps closer, just within my orbit, and whispers—soft, conspiratorial, definitely out of earshot of anyone else:
“Besides, Colt…like I said, even if youarecute, you’re twelve years younger than me.”
Cute.
The word hits harder than it should.
My throat goes dry. “Uh. Thanks?”
She smirks. “It wasn’t a compliment.”
“Sure.”
“It wasn’t.”
I gesture to the treadmill. “Warmup. Now.”
She hops on, presses the speed button with a dramatic flourish, and starts jogging. I step onto the one next to her.
Professional.
No flirting, just running.
“Why are you next to me?” she asks, eyes forward.
