Page 58 of Bleed

The lines of his abs are ridiculously defined, and don’t even get me started on the sharp cut of muscle that runs from his obliques down to the waistband of his athletic shorts.

I’m so busy gawking that I don’t realize the set is over until he’s setting the bar back on the rack, sitting up and swiping a towel across his face. Then his gaze lifts, dark eyes finding mine instantly.

There’s no shock in them, no flinch in his expression– just a slow narrowing of his gaze, like he expected to find me lurking here. Like he’d known I was creeping on him the entire time.

I panic, obviously.

And because I’m a champion at handling awkward situations, I turn in the wrong direction to flee, heading straight toward the dead end of the hallway.

Shit.

My only options are the home theater on my left or the wine cellar on my right, so I make the perfectly reasonable decision to pretend this was my destination all along.

Yanking open the door to the wine cellar, I grab the first bottle within reach. Then I march back down the hallway, making a point of swinging it beside me like a trophy.

Bold, considering I’ve been warned off the doctor’s wine collection multiple times already.

I don’t look toward the gym as I pass, but I swear I can feel him watching me, a smirk tugging at my lips.

Back in the kitchen, I set the bottle on the kitchen island and pull open the drawer beneath it, retrieving the wine key. The sound of approaching footsteps makes the back of my neck prickle, but I tell myself not to look.

I last three whole seconds.

Elliott emerges from the hallway with a towel draped around his neck, his hair damp with sweat and deliciously mussed. He slows to a stop a few feet away and folds his arms, biceps bulging as his eyes flick from the bottle, to the wine key, to me.

“Planning to finish that entire bottle yourself?” he asks, voice flat and expression perfectly neutral.

“Are you offering to help?” I shoot back, planting a hand on my hip.

His gaze drops to the bottle again before he closes the distance between us.

For a second, I think he’s going to confiscate it and give me a lecture. Instead, he plucks the wine key from my hand and moves in to take over the task of opening the bottle.

He makes quick work of the cork, twisting it free with a practiced flick and setting it aside. Then he opens the cabinet above the fridge, retrieves a large glass decanter, and pours the entire bottle inside.

“At this rate, you’ll burn through my entire collection before the year’s up,” he mutters, swirling the wine.

“At least someone’s enjoying it,” I say, picking up the discarded cork and rolling it between my fingers. “You never drink any of this stuff.”

“Not often.” He continues watching the wine move through the decanter, the deep red liquid catching the light as it swirls.

“So why even have it?”

He pauses, the muscles in his forearm flexing as he sets the decanter on the counter. “Not everything is about instant gratification,” he murmurs, eyes still on the wine. “Sometimes the anticipation is better.”

The way he says it sends a shiver rolling down my spine. I’m not sure if he’s talking about the wine anymore, or if he ever was.

He slides the decanter toward the middle of the kitchen island and steps back, leaving me to stare at it cluelessly. I have no idea how long wine is supposed to ‘breathe’, but I know if I don’t drink something soon, I’m going to do something idiotic. Like ask him what else he likes to let ‘breathe’ before he puts his mouth on it.

“How long am I supposed to wait?” I ask, folding forward to lean against the counter.

“However long it takes.” His gaze dips to my cleavage spilling out from my tank top, then darts away quickly, throat bobbing with a hard swallow.

So he’s not completely immune to my feminine wiles.

I bite back a smirk, drumming my fingers against the granite. “Are you gonna have a glass with me this time, or is it another one-woman show?”

He glances at the decanter, then back at me. “Perhaps.”