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I glance up from the exercise bike where I’ve been sweating my ass off for the last forty-five minutes and see it’s none other than Wyatt Zimmerman, the supposed ‘friend’ of the ‘person’ who wrote the Ryder Night book.
The same Wyatt Zimmerman who’s been ghosting me.
I assume he went silent because he didn’t have any good news for me, but really? Be a grown-up and at least let me know what the hell is going on, rather than just disappearing.
I want to scowl at him but am momentarily distracted. Damn if he doesn’t look good, with his pecs straining his old rock concert T-shirt, and his workout shorts showing some nicely developed thighs. He wipes the sweat out of his eyes, including a curl of damp hair clinging to his forehead.
Dammit. Why does he have to be so cute?
He’s a creep and I am not going to give him the time of day.
I do my best super-annoyed sigh and remove one of my earpods like I’m all put-out.
“Hello,” I say, not slowing my pace.
I dab myself with the towel hanging around my neck.
“I’ve been… meaning to get back to you,” he says, checking out my leggings and sports bra.
That’s right buddy. Take a good look because this is as close as you’re going to get.
I’m so not in the mood for this. I give him a dirty look, replace my earpod, and turn up the speed on my bike, continuing like he’s not even there.
Seconds later I turn, and find he’s given up and gone away.
That’s right, bitch. Don’t even try.
He shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up like he did. If he knew his friend wouldn’t want to publish that manuscript, he never should have answered my email, never mind met me for dinner.
And he sure as hell should not have asked me out.
What the hell is he doing here at the gym at this hour anyway? I thought he worked out during the day.
That’s stalker shit.
I do not put up with that.
I return to the women’s locker room where I quickly rinse and head to the giant hot tub, where I sink in with all the other naked ladies. My period cramps are killing me, and it didn’t help my mood when the cashier who rang up my tampons earlier was snickering like a twelve-year-old boy.
Yes, I still hate buying tampons. It’s juvenile, I know. But I hate it.
The one silver lining to my week is that I had a great night’s sleep last night. Daisy was out with her new guy, and she stayed at his place.
No big surprise, she met him at Levi’s signing. Not an old rich dude like she usually goes for, but a hard-working dog walker who is a big reader and literature lover. Fingers crossed she spends more time with him. He could be a good influence on her.I mean, she actually bought a book at the signing. Of course, it’s the last one I really want to see gracing my living room table, but for my friend’s intellectual curiosity, I’ll suffer through it.
I lean my head back on the edge of the hot tub, the women surrounding me chatting quietly. In minutes, my cramps subside like they always do in warm water.
Thank fucking God.
For some reason, which I hope is unrelated, my thoughts return to my interaction with Wyatt. He let me down. He really did.
But at the same time, maybe I did not need to be quite so bitchy.
He hates me now, no doubt about it.
Regardless, there’s got to be some way to figure out who wrote that damn Ryder Night book. If he won’t tell me, I’ll find another way.
I’m not giving up. There’s too much at stake.
