Chapter 10
Matt
I tap on the door to her room and wait.
And then again. “Chloe?” I say sternly. I bite my lip to stop from grinning as I imagine her clawing her way out of bed.
The door creaks open. She has her hair pulled back into a rough bun, her hotel-issued robe clutched together with one hand at the neck, black smudges under her eyes.
“Matt,” she says, almost angrily. “What is it?”
“I brought you a coffee,” I say, thrusting the large cup toward her. “Black, right?”
“Yes, yes, a thousand times yes. How did you know?” she says, confused. Then she reaches her free hand through and rests her forehead on the edge of the open door. “God. About last night . . .”
“Forget it,” I say, trying but failing to stifle a laugh. “Didn’t mean to disturb your beauty rest . . . but I’ve been waiting at the world’s worst hotel gym for our eight o’clock session and . . .” I glance at my watch and look up at her mortified face.
“Shit,” she says. “Shit, shit, shit.”
“See you in fifteen?”
“Five. I’ll be there,” she says, slamming the door.
I pause for a moment, before hearing her shout another “shit,” and then hear a muffled scream, followed by the sound of a wardrobe being flung open.
“No stress, boss,” I call through the door.
“Fuck off!” she shouts back.
Down in the gym, there is one bike, one ancient treadmill, and a free-weights area that has a bunch of mismatched dumbbells, kettles, and a vintage squat rack that rattles like it’s held together with tape.
Chloe takes all of her promised five minutes and several more, but to be fair, I knew she’d be late after drunk Chloe came out to play last night. It’s worth the wait, to be honest. She was so funny.
I got her back to the hotel room, and she invited me in for late-night beers and burgers.
She said we should watch the 1984 Monaco Grand Prix.
Although I wanted nothing more than to sit in her room and eat and drink some beers, it felt .
. . not quite right after our talk. I got the sense she would have regretted it in the morning.
And I really didn’t want that.
While I’m waiting, I jump on the treadmill, flicking through my phone to find some good workout tunes, and then turn the knob that increases the speed. It springs to life with a grunt and a moan.
“Piece of shit!” I grumble, slapping the screen to get the lights to stop flickering.
“No need to assault the equipment,” says a voice. Then I feel a gentle hand on my arm.
“Fuck!” I nearly jump out of my skin before realizing it’s Chloe.
“Your reaction times could still use work,” she says, grinning. Her smart-ass tone makes me smile as the treadmill comes to a stop with a loud bang.
“Morning, boss,” I say, turning to look at her.
Chloe is in a tight, body-hugging gym outfit.
A pair of black leggings and a matching sports bra hug her in all the right places, and her wild red hair sits in a loose bun on her head.
My eyes skim back up from her waist to the curve of her breasts as she tosses a towel over her shoulder and cocks her head.
I can’t help it; my eyes linger too long on the little beads of sweat on her chest.
Shit, I’m staring. I pull my earbuds out, step off the treadmill, and swig on my water bottle as casually as I can.
“What?” she says, narrowing her eyes at me.
“Just ah . . . nice kit,” I say coolly, fumbling for an answer. “Who’s the designer?”
“H instead she stands up straight, puts her hands on her hips, and nods at the weights. I drop my eyes down her body, and then, catching myself, keep going until my eyes are on the kettlebell on the floor.
“Enough. We’re here to start you training again. Squats. Kettle swings, dead lifts, sumos, um, thrusters.” She clears her throat, and I try not to laugh. “Lunge press . . . yada yada yada . . . core and then we’ll work on your neck.”
I clear my throat. “You’re working out too?”
“Until we get your trainer over,” she says, nodding at the rack. “Squats.”
“You have to show me how to do it. I can’t remember.”
Chloe narrows her eyes at me. “I won’t be bullied,” she says, moving toward the weights and ducking her head under the bar. “Forty on each.”
“You can squat eighty pounds? Impressive,” I say, joining her by the squat cage and resting my hand on the bar.
Our eyes meet, and for a split second, I find myself wanting to bury my nose in the crook of her neck.
She takes a breath and drags her eyes quickly away.
“I remember when you could only squat the bar. No weight at all.”
She doesn’t reply at first, but then she ducks her head under the bar, and I step back to watch.
“It’s weird the things you remember,” she says, dropping down into a low squat, and I move around the front to face her, so I’m not staring at her ass as she squats. I have some restraint. But then I spot the mirror along the back wall, where I can see it anyway.
“I thought you forgot the old days,” Chloe says.
“Not everything,” I say.
“Most things, though,” she replies.
“I remember you drown everything in hot sauce.”
She heaves the bar upward.
“You used to listen to those romance audiobooks, like, all the time,” I continue, grinning at her. “And I was thinking this morning about how you never showed up to my leaving party.”
Chloe drops the weights onto the rack with a bang.
“Your turn,” she says curtly. “And no. I didn’t. Come on. Focus.”
“All right, all right,” I say, holding my hands up. “No more reminiscing, then.”
She steps back and holds her hand out. “Get to work,” she says firmly. “Three sets. One minute rest.”
“Bossy,” I murmur.
“I’m not going to apologize for getting you to work hard.”
“Would you look at that,” I say, holding two thumbs up. “You’re not apologizing.”
“Fuck you,” she says, sighing, half-amused, half-furious. I want to keep prodding her, but it’s starting to feel a little bit like I’m flirting. Am I flirting?
I put my head down and work hard, and within an hour Chloe has me lying on the floor, arms burning, begging for mercy.
“You need work,” she says, collapsing next to me as I peel off my sodden shirt, and we lie side by side on the stinky old training mat, breathless.
“That was great,” she says, sighing.
I roll onto my side and look down across her sweaty body. The softness of her pale belly below her ribs, her hips rounding out her leggings, her delicate hands by her sides on the floor. I try not to imagine her looking like that draped across my bed naked. I try my hardest.
Chloe is looking at the ceiling, but I can see her eyes flicker in my direction once. Twice.
“You know, you got really strong, Bug,” I say quietly. And really pretty.
“You’re no string bean yourself, Dials,” she says, finally looking at me. Right as we’re getting comfortable, she abruptly pulls herself up. “But I asked you not to call me Bug.”
Then the universe really kills the moment when Barry suddenly bursts through the glass doors. He has two mobile phones on the go; one is tucked under his chin as he furiously texts on the other. One of his dogs is at his feet, the other with a nose in the garbage can by the door.
“I’ve found them!” he says into his phone. “Matt. Chloe. I have news!”
“Hi, Barry,” I say, pulling up to standing, wiping the sweat from my brow with the bottom of my T-shirt. Barry glances at the strip of skin above my shorts and then ends his call.
“You need to work on your core,” he says, touching his own rounded belly, before he looks mock offended. “What? I don’t gotta race. I’m allowed a keg instead of a six-pack.”
I can’t help but chuckle. For all his ridiculousness, I’m kind of warming to Barry.
“Come on,” he says, motioning toward Chloe. “I got some promising news.”
“You do?” she asks, as warily as I feel. It honestly could be anything.
“Sponsors, my friends. Sponsors.”
“Oh, that’s great. Like . . . who?” I am bracing myself as I join Chloe, who has dropped onto a bench, sucking on her water bottle, her eyes firmly on Barry.
I look back at Barry. I’m half expecting him to reveal the big financial savior is some scammy crypto exchange. But instead, he folds his arms and turns to me looking triumphant. “Hot sauce.”
“Hot sauce?”
“Hot sauce!” he says again. “Big Ronny’s Ring Burner, to be precise.”
“What?”
Chloe lets out an awkward laugh, before swiftly checking herself. “Ring Burner?” she says, biting her bottom lip. Wait. He’s not having the name of a hot sauce called Big Ronny’s Ring Burner painted on the side of a fifteen-million-dollar car . . . is he?
“Car, kit, and, um . . . helmet?” he says, looking at me sheepishly.
“No,” I say, shaking my head.
“They’re paying a damn fortune.”
“I’m not having Big Ronny’s Ring Burner on my helmet,” I announce emphatically, with a sweep of my hands. “Forget it.”
“Well, actually, you’ll have their catchphrase,” Barry says.
“Oh, this will be good,” says Chloe, biting her lip as a giggle escapes her mouth.
“Mind My Hot Rear,” he says evenly. “Right across the back, inside a little fart cloud. It works with the whole driving thing. I think it’s a nice matchup.”
“Mind My Hot Rear,” Chloe repeats, wrestling the grin from her face.
“Chloe likes hot sauce. She can wear it.”
“You’re the one with the hot rear,” she says, biting her lip again to stop from laughing. “On the car, I mean.”
“I used to be sponsored by Bulgari,” I say pitifully, and at this Chloe actually turns away from me, her hand to her mouth, her shoulders shaking in laughter.
“Hilarious, is it?” I shoot at her.
“You can think about it,” Barry says, raising both hands. “But not too much. We’ve already ordered the changes to the livery. But the helmet branding is worth more, so try to get on board with it. Fast.”
“I won’t,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“Oh, and I have some even better news for you, Matt,” he says, ignoring my irritation.
“I’m all ears,” I reply dryly. “A photo shoot for a hemorrhoid cream, perhaps?”
“Nope,” Barry says, not missing a beat. “We’ve signed the deal with Archie. He’ll be here soon.”
My mouth drops open. Shit, that was fast. I never spoke to him. Never begged him hard enough not to leave Rossini. “Oh, fuck,” I mutter, rubbing my chin. As if I can take the pressure of having anyone else’s career in my fucking hands.
“This is a really good thing, Matt,” says Chloe quickly. “It will be good to have someone you know and trust running your races. Gets me out of your head, in any case.”
If only she knew.
One of Barry’s dogs lets out a whimper by the door.
“Nature calls,” he says. “Have fun, you two. I like this.” He waves a finger between Chloe and me as he backs out. “You fit well together at the top of my team. It pleases me to see you bastards getting on.”
Chloe and I glance at each other, and I feel an inexplicable rush of shyness, and by the looks of her, so does she. Barry studies us both for a moment, his bushy brows coming together in one long, concerned line.
“Just don’t get on too well,” he adds, as the gym doors close behind him and Chloe and I are once again alone.
“I need a shower,” she says, picking up her towel, fumbling her water bottle; it drops to the floor with a thud.
I reach down and pick it up, handing it to her, but she doesn’t meet my eyes.
“Can you continue this routine across the week? And let’s speak to the team trainer about your warm-up, okay? I want to see some reaction work.”
“I will follow all orders,” I say, saluting her.
“You did good today,” she says, looking at the door and then back to me. “But it’s time to cool down now.”
Yes, I think as I watch her walk toward the door. I sure as hell need to do that.