Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
LACHLAN
The air is thick with sweat and the quiet thud of bass from my Bluetooth speaker.
I lower the barbell onto the squat rack, legs burning from the last set, and wipe my forehead with the back of my hand.
This is what I need. The sting of exertion, the ache building in my shoulders, the blessed simplicity of weight and resistance and nothing else.
No complicated emotions, no awkward conversations, no thoughts of?—
“Oh! Sorry. I’ll, um, come back another time.”
Bloody hell.
Blair stands in the doorway, water bottle in hand, black leggings painted on, fitted sports top hugging every slim curve. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail. She’s ready to work, to sweat, and the sight knocks the breath clean out of me.
“You don’t have to go,” I manage, reaching for my own water bottle to buy myself a moment. “I said you could use the gym.”
What I’d meant was when I’m not bloody in it . But I can hardly turf her out now.
“Are you sure? I don’t want to get in your way.”
She’s not even trying to be sexy, but my brain doesn’t give a damn. Those leggings. That top. The way it clings to her flat stomach and small breasts... Christ, look somewhere else.
“It’s fine. Just mind the weights. Some of them are heavier than they look.”
She steps inside, surveying the cramped space. It’s not much. A bench, some dumbbells, squat rack shoved against the wall, a pull-up bar mounted in the doorway. Basic kit for a basic routine. Nothing fancy, just enough to work off the day’s frustrations and keep myself in decent shape.
“Thanks for letting me crash your workout,” she says, setting her water down and reaching for a pair of lighter dumbbells. “I promise I won’t judge your routine too harshly.”
I snort despite myself. “Generous of you.”
Ducking back under the bar, I line it up on my shoulders then lift it and start another set of squats.
A moment later Blair mirrors me, dumbbells tucked against her chest. The garage suddenly feels even smaller, the air thick with the scent of her perfume mixing with sweat and metal.
Every dip in my peripheral vision throws my focus off, and it’s doing things to my concentration I can’t afford.
“So this is where you come to hide from the world?” she asks between reps, slightly breathless.
“I don’t hide.”
“Right. You just happen to have built yourself a fortress of solitude in your garage.”
There’s teasing in her voice, but also understanding. Like she gets it. The need for a space that’s yours alone, where you can strip everything back to its simplest parts.
“Something like that,” I admit.
With a groan, she sets down the dumbbells then watches me while I do a few more reps. “Trying to keep up with you should come with a warning label,” she complains.
I smirk. “That was barely a warm-up. Besides, you’re still standing, aren’t you?”
“For now. If I collapse, you’ll have to carry me out.”
The mental image that conjures up—Blair in my arms, her body pressed close—nearly makes me drop the bloody bar. I carefully lower it back onto the rack.
“Just trying to stay in shape,” I mutter.
The music changes, and suddenly Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get It On” fills the garage.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
I lunge for my phone, fumbling to skip the track. “Bloody algorithm,” I mutter, heat crawling up my neck. “Never plays what I want. Christ knows where that came from.”
Blair’s trying not to laugh, I can tell. Her lips are pressed together but her eyes are dancing with amusement. “Technology, huh? So unreliable.”
“Aye, well...” I clear my throat and select something more appropriate. Something without lyrics about getting it on. Foo Fighters, that should do. “Better?”
“Much.” She’s definitely smiling now.
We work in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the tension easing. But then she pauses between sets, catching her breath, and murmurs, “So, about hiding from the world...”
I glance over at her. “Aye?”
“Guess I’m hiding too.” She gives me a quick, shy smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “From New York. From... everything, really.”
I set the bar down. “What happened?”
So she tells me. About her dream job in children’s publishing, about a storytelling app that went sideways, about how she took the fall. I let her talk, don’t interrupt. She finishes with, “So, I wanted to come somewhere I didn’t think anyone would know about the app. Or about me.”
I nod. “Aye. That makes sense. Only thing is... that story? It reached us even here.”
Her eyes widen in horror. “You’re kidding?”
“Nope. Struan sent me a link to an article about it a while back. I think I said...” I get my phone and check. “Aye, my exact words were, What pillock thought this was a good idea?”
She gulps. “You . . . you actually said that?”
I show her the message, unable to hold back a grin. “Sure did. But folk lap up a scandal, don’t they? From all you’ve said, sounds like you got dealt a shite hand.”
Her shoulders loosen a fraction but she studies me uncertainly. “So... you’re not going to fire me for being publishing’s public enemy number one?”
“No. You’ve more than proved yourself. Mind you, if you’d told me all that at the interview, I’d never have hired you. Maybe it’s just as well you kept it to yourself.” I pause. “And if I ever meet your old boss, he’s getting a black eye.”
She laughs, but there’s gratitude in it. “Thank you. That... means more than you know.”
And just like that, something shifts between us. She’s opened up, and I didn’t turn away. We’re both running from something, and that understanding hangs in the air between us, warm and unexpected.
We get back to our workouts, but I find myself watching her more openly now.
The way she bites her lip when she’s concentrating.
Blows at her fringe when it gets in her eyes.
Pushes herself even when she’s tired. She’s stronger than she looks, this lass.
Losing her dream job, having her reputation torn to shreds, that would break most people. But she hasn’t let it knock her down.
She moves to the mat and lies on her back, knees bent. Then she lifts her hips off the mat. Glute bridges. Christ almighty.
I freeze, weights forgotten, watching the smooth, controlled movement of her body. The way her back arches, the tilt of her hips, the flex of her thighs, the gentle curve of her?—
I snap my gaze away so fast I nearly give myself whiplash.
Focus, you bloody idiot. She’s exercising. It’s not sexual. Except my body hasn’t got the memo because my cock decides now is the perfect time to wake up. Cheers for that.
I slap a couple more plates onto the bar and attack my deadlifts harder than sense dictates, hauling the weight like it’s to blame. But every time she moves, every soft exhale she makes with the effort, it’s like someone’s turned up the heat in the garage.
Think about something else. Anything but the way she’s moving on that mat.
But it’s no use. Four years I’ve kept this part of myself locked away, and now it’s roaring back to life with the subtlety of a bloody freight train. I can feel my shorts getting tighter, and panic starts to set in because there’s nowhere to hide in this cramped space.
“Okay, I’m done,” Blair groans suddenly, collapsing flat on the mat and fanning herself with her hand. “If I do another set, my glutes are going to mutiny.”
Thank Christ.
“Could you pass me my water?” she asks, not moving from the mat. “I can’t feel my legs.”
Ah. I risk a quick glance down. Bit tight, but nothing obvious. Should be okay.
I grab her bottle, being very careful not to let our fingers brush when I hand it over. Can’t risk even that much contact right now.
She sits up to drink, and I turn away, pretending to organise weights that don’t need organising.
“Right,” she says after a few moments, “I’d better head back. Grab a quick shower.”
Unhelpfully, my brain conjures up an image of Blair in the shower, water streaming down bare skin?—
“Then straight to bed,” Blair adds.
Oh, come on. This really isn’t helping my shorts situation.
“See you tomorrow,” I manage roughly. “Good workout.”
She stands, stretching, and I force myself to keep my back turned.
“Night, then,” she says, but something in my posture must give me away because her voice changes. “Are you all right?”
Bloody hell. She’s moving closer.
“Fine,” I say without turning around.
“You sure?”
Her voice is quiet now. Close. Too close. If she reaches for my arm, touches me, I’m done for.
I cough, desperate to end this before I make a mistake I can’t take back. “Aye. I’ll... see you in the morning, then.”
There’s a pause, and I can feel her studying me. Finally she says, “All right. Sleep well, Lachlan.”
I wait until the garage door clicks shuts before I let myself breathe again. Four years I’ve kept this part of myself buried so deep I thought it was gone for good.
And now, thanks to her, it’s back with a vengeance.
God help me.