It feels indulgent to savor them. Like it’s distracting me from…me.My success. My forward progress. The next thing I should be doing.
But in about two months, I’ll be hustling my butt off again. Sunrises will be replaced by early morning getting-ahead emails, quiet drives will become busy subway commutes, and those long, open swims will be a solid hour-drive away. So maybe a little savoring is okay for now. Besides, it’s not like I’m being lazy. I drove here before dawn to film the sunrise for part of this week’s content.
The farm is still quiet by the time the colors of dawn fade and I push to my feet. It’s Monday, so the warehouse and docks will be whirring with activity within an hour or two. For now, though, it’s completely peaceful.
Soaking in the blissful quiet, I head to the warehouse to film while no one’s there. But as I approach the massive sliding door at the back, it isn’t quiet anymore. There’s—is that…
Grunting?
The scrape of metal comes a few beats later, and then another low rumble of noise.
I only hear it because the door, which should be locked, is cracked open—just enough for a body to slip through.
All that peaceful savoring flips on its head, and my heart gallops into a fast drum.Oh, crap. Has someone broken in?
I peer through the cracked door, but a pile of red crates blocks my view of the far corner, where the noise seems to be coming from. Fingers tightening around my phone, I silently slip inside. My goal isn’t to be a hero, but to confirm the crime, slip out, and make the necessary phone calls.
But when I creep to the stacked crates and my vision wraps around the side, the only crime occurring is Grayson slapping my eyeballs with the sight of him doing shirtless pushups on the concrete floor.
And thenI’mthe criminal, because I don’t jerk awayor close my eyes.
Istare.
I stare at the sinews rolling in his corded arms as he brings his chest to the floor and pushes up. I stare at the thick muscles of his abdomen as he stands, bulging with every breath. I stare at the backwards baseball cap holding his short, sweat-licked waves as he starts squatting, oblivious to my presence.
My body has been possessed by a horny, muscle-starved spirit, and for the life of me, I cannot look away.
“Quack.”
I jump, ramming the side of my body into the crates.
No no no no no.
I lunge behind them, spinning to see Dave. He quacks again for good measure, then ruffles his wings smugly as he waddles around the crates, toward the man I just visually assaulted.
The man whose footsteps are heading my way, judging by the rapid thud of his sneakers.
My phone almost slips from my hand as I whip it up, hit record, and start panning the camera around the wall of the warehouse. The blank, boring wall.
Dave, I’m going to kill you.
The footsteps stop just behind me. “You could just ask me to do pushups when you need a look.” I don’t need to turn to know he’s smirking. “Don’t need to take a video to save for later.”
The amusement in his deep voice rankles me. Or maybe it’s the fact that I just openly gawked at him. Either way, I let that rankling into my voice as I say, “Believe it or not, you’re not the most interesting thing in this warehouse.”
“You’re telling me that blank fucking wall in front of you is interesting?”
Calmly, I finish panning the camera to the door that Inever should have entered. When I turn around, my focus is strictly on Grayson’s face, which glistens with sweat. Sweat I should find repulsive, but don’t, for some certifiable reason.
“It’s a behind-the-scenes thing. People like taking a peek behind the curtain.”
“Just like you.” He glances at the stack of crates. “Though I guess it’s more of a wall than a curtain.”
His expression is as smug as Dave’s stupid little waddle, and I berate myself for wearing a scoop-necked shirt, because a blush is crawling up my collarbone and neck.
I want to pretend I’m blushing from frustration, or anger at his audacity to think he’s so mesmerizing. But I can’t, because even now, as I’m fighting for my ego’s survival, I’m thinking about how Kyle couldn’t hold a candle to him. We’d worked out together from time to time, and while he was in shape, it was always so…curated. Stiff. His muscles were shaped for looks, not function. Looks he cared so much about, he’d never wear a backwards hat because it would mess up his coiffed hair.
Grayson Gold is anything but coiffed and curated.
