I looked away first then down at my phone like I’d gotten an important text, walked to the other side of the gym, and started my lunges.
This was stupid. He was just some guy. I saw attractive guys all the time and didn’t lose my mind over it.
But when I finished my workout and headed to the locker room, I caught myself hoping I’d see him on the way out.
I didn’t.
And I told myself I wasn’t disappointed.
By Saturday, I’d accepted I was being ridiculous.
I’d been coming to Foundation Fitness for six years. I’d seen countless attractive men in that time. Some I’d hooked up with, most I’d ignored, all of them had blurred into a general sea of bodies that meant nothing beyond aesthetic appreciation.
This tall, dark-haired, hazel-eyed guy was no different.
Except he was, because I’d started timing my workouts to match when I usually saw him. I’d caught myself looking for him the second I walked through the door. Because when he wasn’t there on Wednesday, my whole workout had soured.
Which was insane. I didn’t do this. I didn’t pine, didn’t wait around hoping to catch sight of someone. I picked, I pursued, I left.
So when I walked into the gym on Saturday morning and saw him struggling with the bench press, alone, no spotter, trying to adjust the safety bars, I took it as a sign from the universe that I needed to stop being weird and just talk to him.
I walked over, casual, confident, as if I did this every day. “Need a hand?”
He looked up. Surprise, then relief, then interest. “Uh, yeah, actually. I can’t get this stupid bar to lock in place.”
“They’re finicky.” I leaned over, showing him the trick to getting the safety bar to click into the right position. “You gotta lift it up first, thenslide it in. Otherwise, it catches.”
“Oh.” He tried it, and it worked. “Thanks. I’ve been fighting with this thing for five minutes.”
Up close, he was even more attractive, which was annoying. Sharp jawline, a few days of stubble, the tattoo sleeve resolving into intricate black-and-gray work. Geometric shapes that bled out into something organic the closer it got to his wrist. Hazel eyes looking at me like I was a puzzle he was halfway through. He smelled of cedar and something I couldn’t place, subtle enough that I had to lean in to catch it, and I wasn’t subtle about leaning in.
“No problem.” I straightened up, giving him my best smile. The one that usually worked. “I’m Jett.”
“Ellis.” He held out his hand, and when I shook it, his grip was firm. Warm. “I’ve seen you here before. You’re always here on weekends.”
“Could say the same about you.” I leaned against the bench, not quite ready to walk away. “Though you’re new. I would’ve remembered.”
Too obvious? Probably. Ellis smiled anyway, a little shy, a little pleased.
“I just moved to the area a few months ago. Still figuring out the neighborhood.”
“Brooklyn?”
“Fort Greene.”
“From where originally?”
“Long Island. About an hour commute.”
“What do you do for a living, Ellis?”
A laugh surprised out of him. “I work at a tech company out of Manhattan. I commuted in for a year, then figured I should live in the city I kept calling mine.”
Twenty-nine, I’d guess. The careful polite of somewhere everyone already had a version of you. Five years of small-town against my twenty-four years of Brooklyn.
“Nice area. I’m in Bushwick.” I gestured to the bench. “You need aspotter? Benching alone is a good way to get crushed.”
He hesitated, and I saw it again, that thing I couldn’t quite read. Interest, definitely, but also caution? Nervousness? Like he wanted to say yes, but was scared to.
