Chapter 10 #2
I laugh so hard I almost trip on my treadmill.
His voice is loud in the quiet gym and he has no idea.
I can’t contain my giggles when the few other people here begin to gawk at us.
Watching his face as he squints hard to listen to every single lyric is hilarious. This is so much better than I expected.
I’ve been obsessed with Wicked since my mum took me and my sister to see it in London before I left for Uni. Watching Booker’s eyes twinkle with amusement instead of disdain only makes me love him more.
Like him, I mean. Like him more. As a friend.
“Nice vibrato,” he says, nodding his head like Kristen Chenowith is rocking some Led Zeppelin. I buckle over laughing at his serious expression. He looks over at me like I’m a lunatic. I’m just glad I manage to stay vertical on the machine.
After a few more minutes of jogging, I wave him over to the leg machines. A light sheen of sweat coats his face and arms, and his smooth skin glistens under the fluorescents. He’s still immersed in the music, but his eyes fall to my cleavage that is also coated with sweat.
I touch my towel to my chest and he quickly looks away, neck turning red. Did I catch him checking me out?
I can feel his gaze on my backside as he tails me to the bank of leg machines.
Positioning myself correctly, I begin cycling through a few sets, enjoying the way he’s tracking my movements.
I pop all the areas of my body to maximise the resistance and he nervously looks away.
The entire scene makes me purr with satisfaction.
When it’s his turn, I’m extra careful not to check out how hot he looks with his taut jaw and veined muscles working overtime as he pushes his body to its breaking point.
I don’t bother noticing the drizzle of sweat skating down his temple and falling into his clavicle.
It’s really quite irrelevant at this point.
After a strenuous set of lat pulldowns, I allow the weight I was pulling to lift me from the bench just as Booker hands me my mobile.
“I actually didn’t mind working out to that music,” he states as I roll the headphones around my finger.
“It made me feel like I was at the play.” He cuts grave eyes at me.
“If you tell my brothers that, I’ll make you pay. ”
A snicker bubbles up in my throat. Is it wrong that I want him to make me pay?
I school my expression. “Free weights?”
He silently follows me as I drop my mobile by a workout bench and head over to the barbells on a rack positioned in front of the mirrors.
Booker clears his throat from beside me. “I was going to see if you want to come with me to a little outing Cam is throwing for Indie on Wednesday night.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, it’s her birthday and apparently her family isn’t big on celebrating. Cam wants to make it special I guess. It’s at a pub in Bethnal. It’ll be small. Just the Harris clan and a few teammates and friends. Casual but probably fun.”
I consider this for a moment. Is he asking me as a date, or as a flatmate thing?
Surely it’s only a flatmate thing. I shrug my shoulders to put off a carefree vibe.
“I’ll probably miss the beginning because of work.
” His face falls, so I quickly add, “But I can come after if you think it’ll go past nine. ”
“Oh yes, definitely. I’ll come back and pick you up.” He shoots me a cute boyish smirk. Those dimples on full display.
“You don’t have to pick me up,” I say, forcing his dimples to disappear. “I can take a cab.”
“Yes I do, and no you won’t.” His words are firm and his jaw is taut. I stare in wonder because he’s managed to lose the youthful look he always has by simply using those few words. In this moment, he’s all man.
A thick Scottish voice from behind interrupts our peculiar eye contact.
“Hello there, Poppet. Nice tae see ye again.” I turn to find Andrew William—a fellow gym buddy who works out the same time as I do.
We’ve been running into each other up here almost daily since I moved in, and I have to admit, I marvel at his accent.
“Hello, Andrew,” I say with a smile and feel intense scrutiny from Booker watching beside me. “How are you?”
“Aye, I’m no bad. Getting a late start I’m afraid. I had an awfy late one last night, so I’m gonna be hingin at some point today.” He laughs a little too hard at himself as he tosses a white towel over his muscle-tee’d shoulder. He turns to Booker.
“Sorry, this is Booker,” I stammer. “My flatmate. Booker, this is Andrew. He lives…on the first floor?”
“Aye,” he confirms with a wink right at me as he reaches out and shakes Booker’s hand. He winks a lot. It’s Andrew’s thing.
“And how do you two know each other?” Booker asks as I try to shake off the sense of déjà vu.
“We don’t,” I rush. “I mean, we met up here. Similar workout schedules is all.” I sing the last word and rock on the balls of my feet, feeling horribly nervous for some reason.
“We ken each other a wee bit.” Andrew winks again. “I ken enough tae know that ye cannae bench more than one forty. Last time ye tried, ye nearly choked yerself oot. Ye would have if I hadny been here tae spot ye.”
I laugh self-consciously. “That was a fun day.”
Booker doesn’t look as amused.
An awkward silence descends upon us, and I can’t help but take a moment to compare Booker to Andrew.
Standing side-by-side, it’s clear they are both athletes in peak physical condition.
But my eyes gravitate toward Booker’s build of tall, stretched out, well-proportioned muscle.
Booker looks lithe and fast. Andrew stands a couple inches shorter than him, and you can’t quite tell where his neck ends and his shoulders begin.
His muscles are huge and rippling, but overpower his physique to the point where his head appears a bit tiny in comparison.
He looks like he could plough through an entire football team, though.
“Well, I’ll let ye get tae it.” Andrew’s eyes stay on me longer than necessary as he turns and makes his way over to the treadmills.
I smile awkwardly at Booker before moving to the nearby bench, ready to work my triceps. I prop my right hand and right knee on the bench to form a ninety-degree angle with my arm and begin lifting.
After several sets, I pause, shoulders rising and falling with heavy breaths. My eyes lift to the mirror where I find Booker unabashedly staring at my arse. He flicks his gaze to mine, the storminess of his eyes causing knots to form in my belly. I assume he’s going to look away. Blush. Something.
But he doesn’t.
He simply returns his view to my arse. Sitting on the bench and drinking me all in. Every inch of me.
The cheeky bastard.
He’s not even trying to hide it anymore. He’s blatantly checking me out. I know that’s what I wanted, but only because I thought it would make him sweat. Make him squirm. Make him regret what he did last night.
What I’m seeing before me is not a man living with regret.
It’s a man who looks hungry.
What surprises me more than anything is that I want him to keep looking.