Sure. I pick up my phone again.
No new messages.
My chest aches in a quiet, inconvenient way.
I inhale deeply, exhale slowly, and whisper:
“Okay. Workouts only it is.”
I don’t believe it. Not for a second. But still, I type nothing back.
I just sit there, a boss on the outside. And an absolute mess on the inside.
Thursday.
5:26 p.m.
I pause outside the gym doors, smoothing my hand over the front of my slate-gray long-sleeve top.
Along with black high-waisted leggings, white sneakers, and my hair in a sleek low ponytail.
It’s fitted but not flirty.
It’s reasonable, adult, and responsible.
In other words, it’s the opposite of burgundy chaos-siren oops-I-accidentally-turned-my-trainer-feral vibes.
I look like someone who reads Harvard Business Review for fun.
Good.
That’s the energy I need.
“Workouts only,” I remind myself as I head in.
My heart does a dramaticthudas soon as I see him.
Colt is standing by the weight rack, stretching out his shoulder, looking way too good for someone who has decided we’re “friends.”
He’s wearing a gray training shirt, and his hair is slightly mussed.
A calm, collected expression that betrays nothing…until he actually sees me.
And for a half second, his eyes flick down my body. Then up.
He schools his face back into neutrality so fast it’s almost funny.
“Hey there,” he says, voice steady. “Ready to work?”
I nod, equally steady.
“Super ready. Very ready. The readiest.”
Kill me.
He clears his throat. “So…we’re sticking to the workouts.”
“Yes,” I say quickly. Too quickly. “Obviously.”
