“How is it weird?” Colt asks, genuinely curious.
“You know,” I say, adjusting my grip, “the usual. Men who say they’re ‘emotionally intelligent’ because they’ve been to therapy for two straight weeks. Guys who order for you on a first date without asking you what you like. One man spent the entire dinner describing his fantasy football lineup.”
Colt snorts. “Sounds rough.”
“Oh, and my ex,” I add, because somehow we areherenow, “acted like foreplay was…I don’t know…an optional side quest in a video game.”
I want to facepalm. Really? Foreplay talk? I really need to get with it.
Colt stops adjusting my posture.
Just…completely stops.
Slowly, I turn my head. He’s biting the inside of his cheek, like he’s trying very, very hard not to react.
“Optional…side quest?” he repeats, voice strangled in the most attractive way.
“I mean,” I rush on, “he didn’t exactly speedrun to the boss level, if you know what I mean.”
Colt loses it.
His laugh is big, warm and chest-shaking. The kind of laugh that makes you feel like you said the funniest thing alive.
“Sorry, sorry,” he says, wiping his eyes. “I just…yeah, okay, that’s a new one.”
I groan and drop the dumbbells. “I don’t know why I said that to you. This is mortifying. I seem to be word vomiting tonight.”
“Don’t be,” he says, recovering. “Seriously. I hear a lot of stuff. But that one’s going in my mental Hall of Fame.”
I cover my face. “Please delete my existence.”
“Nope. Too late. You’re the ‘foreplay is a side quest’ woman now.”
“I hate this,” I mumble.
“You’re doing great,” he says, gently nudging my elbow back into position. He hands me a heavier dumbbell than the one I had. “Row.”
I row, muttering curses under my breath.
“And what about work?” Colt asks, as if he’s interviewing me for a documentary calledElena: A Tragic Tale.
“Oh,” I say dramatically. “Work is worse.”
“How so?”
“Well, my job expects me to be superhuman. Like, I answer emails during Pilates. I negotiate contracts while chewing salad. I’ve taken conference calls while on dates. I skip breakfast because I just forget, and I don’t have time. And I have way too much responsibility considering my paycheck. But still, my dates are intimidated by me.”
“On dates?” Colt arches a brow. “Plural?”
“Plural,” I confirm, pulling another rep. “Most men find it… humbling.”
He laughs again. “I bet.”
“And if I’m not perfect, or efficient, or emotionally sterile, apparently I’m ‘off my game.’ Which—” I pause, panting, “—is ironic, because my game is mostly pretending I have my life together.”
Colt’s smile shifts. He’s less amused, more something like…softness?
“You seem pretty together to me,” he says simply. “I think they’d be lucky to date someone like you.”
