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“Uh-huh.”
“There’s not a lot to get into.” He’d lost the defined edges of his eight-pack, but his belly was still tight as a drum. Defined ab muscles bracketed his stomach. A thin slice of white elastic was visible just above the waistband of the shorts hanging low on his narrow hips.
“Let’s get into it anyway.”
The kind of elastic that meant he wore briefs. More likely a pair of boxer briefs because she just couldn’t picture him in tightie whities. Not that she should be picturing him in his underwear. That wasn’t right. She worked for him. Well, maybe not technically, but…
“You think that I should do something with my life. What are you doing with yours?”
“At the moment, I’m your assistant.”
“Isn’t there ‘so much more that you could be doing’ other than driving me around and butting into my life?”
She raised her gaze before her interest wandered lower and she started to speculate about his magnum package—again. “I have plans.”
“Like?”
She looked up into his brown eyes. “I’m working and saving money.”
With his good hand he motioned for her to continue. “Saving for?”
“I’d rather not say.”
A slow smile curved his lips. “Something personal?”
“Yes.”
“There are only a handful of things that a woman won’t talk about.” He lifted a finger off the bar. “The actual number of past lovers for instance. You all want to know the exact number of women that a man has had sex with, how often, and every juicy detail. But you don’t want to share the same information.”
“That’s because there is still a double standard when it comes to casual sex.”
He shrugged one shoulder and leaned forward, still holding on to the bar above him. “I get that, but women shouldn’t ask me about my sex life if you all don’t want to talk about yours.” He straightened and dropped his hands to his sides. “Some things are private.” He moved to the weights and lowered the pin. “Maybe I don’t want everyone to know my personal business.”
Too late. That letter from Lydia Ferrari had been posted in the guest book for several months before Chelsea had deleted it. She figured she should probably tell him about it because someone else might. “Do you know a Lydia Ferrari?”
His brows lowered, and he moved to the seat he’d been in when she’d come into the room. “Like a car?” He grabbed the bar above his head and lowered himself.
“No. At least I don’t think so. She wrote a letter on your guest book page.”
He spread his hands wide and pulled the bar to his chest. “I don’t know her.”
“She claims that you met her at Lava Lounge, had sex with her at her apartment in Redmond, then didn’t call.”
The weight stopped mid-air, and he looked at her through the mirror. “What else did she write?”
“That it was the best sex of her life and her feelings were hurt when you didn’t call her back.”
He raised the bar and lowered it, the muscles in his arms and back hardened and flexed. “She was a freak.”
“You do know her.”
“I remember her. Hell, it’s hard to forget a woman with that many sharp body piercings.” His jaw tightened as he pulled the weight.
“Where was she pierced?”
“All over. I was half terrified I’d end up with some missing skin and lasting scars.”
“Obviously the terrified half wasn’t below your waist.”
