I scoff and glance over at him. “Fine,” I admit. “It was a good workout.” Ryan beams, aiming those goddamn dimples right at me. “But,” I continue, pointing a finger at him, “we didn’t discuss this legal advice you said you needed.”
Thirty seconds pass with no response from Ryan. I look over and he’s just grinning sheepishly. I throw my head back toward the sky and shout an exasperated, “Why?”
Ryan responds with the feigned innocence of a toddler up to no good. “Why what?”
And fuck if I can help laughing under my breath. “Why all this?” I gesture vaguely between us. “Why did you show up at my office? Why did you want to work out with me?”
We reach the entrance of my condo building and come to a stop in front of the glass doors.
Ryan rocks back on his heels. “Why not?” he says simply. “You’re part of our friend group. I just wanted to get to know you.”
He sounds sweet and nervous and I don’t know what to do with that. “So why pretend you needed legal advice?” I prod, narrowing my eyes at him.
Ryan blows out a breath and throws his hands up. “I don’t know, man,” he says. “You’re intimidating.”
I gape at him. “Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously,” he says immediately. “Have you met you?”
Another laugh escapes me. “That’s fair.”
“But that’s also what made me want to hang with you,” he continues. “No one’s ever talked to me like that.”
I tilt my head slightly. “What, like a person?”
“Exactly,” he says. “When you’re a famous athlete, everyone kisses your ass. I guess I just appreciate the real ones. And you—you’re a real one Spence.”
That takes me off guard. I hadn’t expected that level of raw vulnerability. Especially not from Ryan Buterbaugh. I think about it for a second before finally nodding.
“I can respect that,” I tell him softly. “Sorry I gave you a hard time.”
Ryan shrugs like it doesn’t matter. “No biggie, Spencester.”
“No.” I point at him. “Never call me that again.”
He bursts out laughing.
“But,” I add after a second, shoving my hands into the pockets of my jacket, “I’ll admit it was nice to get out of my head tonight. So, thanks, I guess.”
The big dope flashes me the cheesiest grin imaginable.
My brain tries to resist the onslaught of dimples by mocking him in my head:Oh, look at me, I’m Ryan Buterbaugh. I have bone structure carved out of marble, pretty eyes, and a perfect ass.
“Well,” he says, clapping his hands together once, “we both live downtown and the gym’s right around the corner. We could do two, maybe three days a week?”
Oh, this sweet summer child thinks this is happening again? That’s cute.
“I can’t overdo training,” he continues, “but we could mix it up with cardio. Ooh, there’s a ‘90s spin class—”
“Not happening,” I cut him off sharply, holding up a hand. He blinks. “We arenotbecoming gym buddies.” I reiterate.
Ryan just keeps smiling like an idiot. “Okay,” he says easily. “I’ll swing by Thursday. Just bring your gym bag to the office.”
I shake my head. “Not happening, Ryan.”
He starts walking backward down the sidewalk, pointing at me with both hands, still grinning like a golden retriever that just discovered tennis balls.
“See you Thursday, Spencester!” he shouts.
