Chapter 12
VIVIENNE
Another call straight to voicemail.
My lips purse as I look up at the golden, cursive lettering stretched across the shopfront.
La Brioche.
It's this charming little French bakery that recently opened. And with all the rave reviews it’s been getting, I’ve been dying to check it out.
The only things that have held me back for what feels like months now are lab work (naturally) and finances (unsurprisingly). At up to twelve dollars a pastry, the idea of splurging for a moment of sweet indulgence didn’t sit right with me.
But that was supposed to change today.
With Nate’s and my scheduled fake date here, I was ready to spoil my taste buds without sparing a dime. So far, that’s yet to happen, all because my date isn’t in sight.
I look down at my phone, praying for a miracle—hoping for a missed call—only to see my screen saver, which happens to be my calendar.
My very packed calendar.
I call again—tenth time’s a charm—but like the last one, I’m sent straight to voicemail.
My teeth clench together, and my free hand curls into a tight fist as anger spreads through me.
No one could ever convince me that they were too busy to answer their phone. They’re hauled around like a lifeline, and with all the vibrations and noises they make, it’s a hard thing to miss.
The downright nasty thoughts circling my head about him are amplified when a text comes through—not from him, but from Melanie.
I reached out to her on my fifth attempt, partly out of desperation but also out of spite. Nate’s cousin is one vicious thing, and I hoped this would piss her off enough to give him a fat piece of her mind.
Melanie: He isn’t picking up my calls either, but he’s at The Forge. Don’t ask me how I know.
My brows furrow at that declaration.
Now that she’s pointed it out, I’ve never been more inclined to find out.
Also, what the fuck is The Forge—an underground dungeon? Some strip club? I don’t question it too much as I pull up its location and start walking.
Melanie: Hopefully, this doesn’t get out. Missing a wedding cake tasting would look horrible in the media.
A few seconds later, she follows up on her last text.
Melanie: Don’t worry about Nate, though. I have thousands of tricks up my sleeve. Torture. High-precision water guns. Force sharing his location with you. Mark my words, this will never happen again.
A wicked smile crosses my face—he’ll definitely be feeling the short end of her wrath the next time he sees her. And most importantly, he’ll be getting mine when I get my grabby hands on him.
In no time, I’m bashing through the double glass doors of the nondescript brick building, physically recoiling when the smell hits me.
Sweat. Sodium chloride. Testosterone. It’s a foul combination—one that rivals the amines that stink up the lab. And from the looks of it, The Forge is an ultra-modern boxing gym.
Industrial ceilings expose steel beams, ventilation ducts, and pipes. The once-warm brick is now coated in gray paint. Concrete floors stretch beneath a large black-and-white boxing ring anchoring the middle of the room, while punching bags, row machines, and extensive free weights line the sides.
I scoff in disbelief.
This man did not stand me up to spend time at the gym.
“Is there anything I can help you with, Miss? Our doors are closed for the day.”
My head snaps to the side to see the spitting image of a blond-haired, blue-eyed Ralph Lauren model sitting behind the receptionist’s desk.
Griffin, as indicated by his name tag, seems like a nice enough guy and undeserving of my sass. So I hold back from asking the obvious regarding his so-called closed doors. I’ll save my remarks for the root of my bad mood.
“I’m looking for Nate Archer. Is he here by any chance?” I make sure to ask sweetly.
The man tilts his head in question before his eyes trail up and down my form. They linger on my face for a moment before his puzzled expression shifts to an amused smile.
“Past the boxing ring, and into the changing rooms.” Griffin gestures with two fingers.
“Oh.” Disappointment fills me. “I’ll wait here, then. Thanks for the help.”
I’m about to walk to the nearest corner and stew in my anger like Margaret’s famous five-hour soup when he speaks again.
“Actually, I’m not too sure I’d recommend that. Nate’s been in there for the past hour—best you go in there and check it out yourself.”
A humorless laugh escapes me.
An hour in the changing room?
The frustration I’ve been holding back for the sake of appearances crumbles as I storm through the gym, passing by the men’s sign like it doesn’t exist.
“Nate?” My voice echoes against the tiled walls as I scan the area.
Large black lockers stretch in neat rows, with matching benches in front. The moody, dim lighting makes the space look as sleek as the main fitness area. But that isn’t what stands out the most. Everything here looks untouched. Deserted. Like no one is here in the first place.
“Nate?” I call out once more as I take an even deeper and hesitant step inside.
Just like before, no one answers. And other than the soft, distant patter of water, nothing here resembles life—not even a spider on the wall.
A thick billow of steam rolls out from the archway marked Showers. And, like every character in a horror movie, I find myself moving toward it.
“Nate?” I whisper-yell as rows of frosted glass showers and black marble come into view.
A sudden bang at the end of the hall shatters the silence, followed by an exasperated, “Fuck.”
I spin on my heels toward the sound, and my gaze lands on a white towel slung over a stall.
Slow, cautious steps carry me forward until I’m standing before a shadowed silhouette. The door isn’t clear by any means—it’s barely translucent—but it’s enough to make out the broad shoulders, narrow waist, and outline of what I can only imagine is a man’s very large—
My eyes widen as an unmistakably strong chest comes into view.
I look up to find Nate staring down at me with a similarly shocked expression.
His hair is darker than usual, plastered to his forehead. Water trickles down his torso before disappearing beneath the white towel around his waist. This man is carved like a Greek god—every muscle so clearly defined, it’s hard to look away.
A cough interrupts my shameless gawking, and my gaze lifts to find Nate’s dark eyes locked onto mine.
“Can I help you?” His voice comes out gruff.
My mind is a jumble as I search for the words. “I—”
What was I doing here in the first place?
“Take a picture. It’ll last longer.”
Nate squeezes past me on his way out of the shower, his damp skin dragging against mine and leaving a path of heat that lingers long after he’s gone.
I stare, dazed, watching the muscles of his back ripple as he walks down the tiled hall toward the lockers. He grunts something under his breath, not loud enough for me to hear, but I know he isn’t entitled to feel that way. He wasn’t the one who was stood up by his fake date.
I bolt after him the instant I remember why I came here. And by the time I reach him, he’s angrily dropping his gym bag onto the bench and ripping the zipper open.
“What are you doing here?” Nate’s hoarse tone lacks its usual happiness.
I huff in shock, crossing my arms in disbelief. “I should be the one asking you that question, not the other way around.”
His eyes slide over my chest before snapping up to meet mine.
I’ve never seen him so cold, so distant, but there’s also this warmth lingering behind his gaze. Sexual tension. Attraction, maybe? It’s doing wild things to me, and shame washes over me as I clench my legs at the warmth pooling between them.
Nate rolls his eyes in response, opting to take his bag, sling it over his shoulder, and walk to the nearest changing stall.
The door is about to close on me when I stick my hand through the small gap.
“Forget about it, Vivienne.”
With a bump of my hip, the stall bursts open to reveal a glowering Nate. This is the least friendly I’ve seen him since we’ve met, but I walk in nonetheless, locking the door behind us.
“Respectfully, Nate, no, I won’t forget about it. You stood me up for our fake date, and where were you the whole time? A sweat hole!”
Nate exhales sharply, mumbling a string of curse words as he drags a hand through his soaked hair. “It’s done. It’s over. We missed it—that’s it. Now, can you please leave so I can get dressed?” he grits out.
“Well, since you said please…Absolutely!” I flash him a smile before shoving him onto the floating bench. “Not.”
Nate grunts in response. Despite the satisfaction I feel for getting to be the one looking down at him, he still won’t cooperate.
“I’m not dropping this until you tell me what’s wrong. You left me stranded by the sidewalk and took time away from my day, my chemistry, and my experiments. Put yourself in my shoes. How would you feel, Nate?”
“Apologies,” he mutters, resting against the black marble and fixing his gaze on the ceiling.
He’s refusing to answer, but I won’t let him get away with this.
I step between his legs and lean until I’m in his field of vision. He jerks his face to the side with a grunt, but I grasp his jaw, turning it back toward me. His green eyes flick between my lips and my eyes, a heat burning within them, and suddenly I'm overcome by the urge to kiss him again.
“Tell me why you stood me up. If your reason is good enough, I might forgive you.”
Nate angles his head away, the expression on his face caught somewhere between want and ache. “I don’t need to tell you anything.”
Though he still won’t look at me, I plant my hands on my hips and quirk a brow. “Is that really how you want this fake engagement to work? We fight, make up, then fight again? If you want to save your reputation, we need better communication.”
Nate’s dark eyes pin me with the same hard stare I gave him earlier, before it slips, edged with defeat. “It’s worse than I thought.”
“What is?” I ask.