Page 28 of Level Up for Love

Chapter

Eight

Owen had never liked that I go to the gym as often as I do.

Who are you working out for, anyway? he’d tease. I love the way you look.

Myself, I’d respond coolly.

His eyebrows would rise skeptically. Dressed like that?

What I’d never bothered to get into with him was that the only reason I’m able to keep even an ounce of my sanity is because of my strict gym routine. Maybe if I’d gone before D&D on Thursday, I would have been less likely to bite Wesley’s head off. My expensive gym membership is one of the luxuries I afford myself, and I adore my uncrowded, spotlessly clean weight lifting gym with so much equipment to choose from that I never have to fistfight a frat boy to claim one of the benches or squat racks. Even on a late Saturday morning like today, I have no issue finding a rack to use.

I’m not at my best today, but I’m hardly at my worst, either. I’d gone out again last night, but the music and the company had been bad; I had only a couple drinks and ended up in my own bed before midnight even hit. I usually save my workouts for the weekdays, but when I woke up this morning feeling surprisingly fresh, I figured it was a good way to get the weekend off to a running start.

Today I’m starting with bench press, and I ease myself through several warm-up sets to get my body moving. As soon as I’m ready to tackle my heaviest set—a weight I’ve never been able to manage before, though I’ve gotten close in the weeks leading up to this one—I look around.

I like to imagine what the other gym-goers have blasting through their headphones to motivate them through their workout—I’ve got the battle-march-iest bits of the Lord of the Rings soundtrack on deck today—but it’s quieter than usual, which is unfortunate. I could really use a spotter for this set. Having a safety net present just in case helps eliminate a pang of doubt, and if I’ve learned anything about weight lifting, it’s that cutting out doubt before your lifts is crucial. Even the smallest twinge of uncertainty can be enough to throw you off your game.

I finish putting the last weight onto the bar and linger with my hand on the plates, looking for any friendly faces I can ask—but the first face I find isn’t what I’d categorize as friendly.

Well, shit.

I cannot escape him.

Wesley does a double take when he sees me, and his gaze bounces a quick triangle between the bench, the bar, and my face. Even as he crosses his arms over his chest, one corner of his lips curls up in an amused little smirk. I hate it.

“Need a spot?” He asks like he’s expecting I’ll deny it.

“What are you doing here?”

“Working out,” he says dryly, with an isn’t it obvious? tone. “Shay lets me use her guest pass sometimes.”

Fuck, of course. That’s where I remember her from—we’d exchanged nods once or twice, before I knew who she was. Time to go back to my regular weekday schedule to avoid run-ins like this again.

Even in the gym, Wesley manages to look put together, wearing a pair of slim-cut sweatpants and a thin hoodie with its sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Perspiration has darkened the light strands of hair at his temples, but that’s his only sign of effort. He looks pristine.

I restlessly flex my hands. This needs to happen now, or I’ll have to warm up all over again. “Yes,” I finally say. And then, grudgingly, “Please.”

Wesley nods and positions himself at the head of the bench. I lie back, place my palms on the bar, and take a breath. Deliciously sharp citrus and amber fills my nose, laced with the slightest undertone of sweat—which somehow, awfully, only makes it better. God damn him for smelling this good at the gym. He’s clearly not working hard enough.

I scowl and shake it off, then drum my fingers in the same rhythm I always do right before I attempt a lift. Everyone has a ritual, and I’m not about to let Wesley distract me from mine.

I inhale sharply, lift the bar from its rack, and lower it to my chest.

The only time I ever brought Owen here, I asked him to spot me on this lift. But he’d grabbed the bar at my first sign of struggle, as soon as the bar’s ascent slowed. He barely gave me a chance to try to push through it. Jesus, Reagan, you’re going to hurt yourself doing this.

But now, as I begin to push the bar back toward the ceiling, even as it pauses at the midway point and wobbles slightly on its path upward, Wesley just stands calmly behind me, hands outstretched and ready but not sweeping in for a rescue.

Not because he’s waiting to watch me fail.

But because he recognizes that I’ve got this.

With a harsh exhale, I press the bar the rest of the way up and rack it into place.

“Nice job.” Wesley slaps a hand to the metal, and I wonder if I’m imagining the note of admiration in his voice. As he turns to leave, he says over his shoulder, “But I think you could go heavier.”

And then he just…goes, before I can catch my breath enough for a retort.