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“Yeah, my spine thanks you for that,” he says through a breathy laugh.
I sit on the bench next to his as he grabs a towel from his workout bag and runs it over his face. He hangs it over the bar before taking a seat across from me and stretching out his legs toward me. His quads and calves are still pumped from his lift, and I’m not even the slightest bit shy about staring at them.
“Hey, I’m sorry I ghosted you,” he says, and I blink a few times before bringing my gaze up to his face. His head is tilted a hint and his lips form a tight, guilty smile. I’m a little thrown by his frankness. His apology is earnest; I can read it on his face. I’m not used to guys talking to me that way.
“It was a weird day. Don’t sweat it,” I say, my stomach twisting because I did sweat it. Still, who am I to him really? We barely know each other. There’s some attraction,clearly,but other than the basic observational things, what do I know about him? Or him about me?
“I still should have messaged or something. I don’t want you to think I’m the kind of guy who . . . ya know.” His mouth twists on one side and he shirks his shoulders with what I think might be an embarrassed shrug.
“After I came on to you like a cougar at a BTS concert?” I respond.
My self-deprecating joke pulls a hard laugh from his chest, and he shakes his head. I can’t help but warm a little at the memory. My skin still tingles where his hands smothered me, and there’s a part of me that wants to pick up where we left off.
“I wouldn’t exactly describe what happened like that. And I’m pretty sure I invited you into the locker room.” He bites his bottom lip and leans his head to the other side. His eyes soften with the sweetest guilty haze.
And now I’m a little turned onandsmitten.
“I promise. It’s okay.I’mokay.” I think I truly am, too, now that we’ve talked, and he’s made that face.
“So, I know whyI’mhere at eight on a Sunday morning. But what wakes Morgan Bentley out of her beauty sleep to hang out in a place like this?” He stands as he questions me, moving around the bar to take the weights off. I step up to join him. I let him handle carrying them away, though, because no way I’m grunting my way across the floor while hugging a forty-five-pound plate.
“I, uh . . .” My mind runs through the many things going on in my life that keep me from feeling at peace, and the only way to finish my answer is with laughter and open palms. “Is it bad that I don’t even know where to begin?”
He gives me a crooked smile.
“A little,” he admits.
It is bad. And it’s all getting so heavy.
We finish clearing weights from one end of the bar and James pauses before pulling the clip from the other side, instead hanging his arm over the bar and pinning me with his perfect hazel stare.
“Does this have something to do with mimosa-gate?” He squints one eye as if embarrassed to have to bring up something so ridiculous. Why is he even talking to me? Other girls at Welles don’t have these types of problems.
“Mimosa-gate, huh? That’s a good one. You should call the tabloids,” I laugh out. I turn my attention to the pin and pull it from the bar, taking off the ten-pound weight, then leaving the heavier ones for him.
“I didn’t mean anything by it,” he says.
I wave him off.
“No, I know. And yeah, that’s part of what’s keeping me up. You know there’s more to the story than a picture, right?” I plop back down on my bench and fold my legs up, holding on to my ankles.
“I do. Probably more than most.” He gives me a tight smile before turning around to rerack one of the weights. His response intrigues me, and part of me wants to press him for details. But I get the sense he would have said more if he felt ready.
“What’s the story, then?” he asks as he moves back to the bar to remove another weight.
I breathe out a sigh and let my shoulders sag as my head falls back.
“I’m guessing it’s a long one?” he chuckles.
“Let’s see . . . it’s about eighteen years and forty-seven days long.” I grimace at my own words because it’s true. My life’s story is a twisted, miserable mess in many ways.
“Well, I’ve got about ten hours today. Why don’t you get started?” he says over his shoulder as he takes away the final weight. When he’s done, he walks back to his bench and steps over it to sit facing me. He clasps his hands together and leans forward, ready to listen.
“Wow.” I lick my lips and raise my brow, not used to havingthiskind of attention. It feels intimate and frightening. My pulse echoes in my ear; I pucker my lips to draw in a slow breath in an effort to relax. James lifts a brow.
“I don’t open up a lot,” I say, glancing down to realize I’m rubbing my hands around my ankles. I leg go and shove my hands under my legs to lock them in place.
“Would it help if I interviewed you?”
