Chapter 9 #2
“Fuck off, I was injured,” he shot back.
He was always injured, technically. If it wasn’t an old shoulder injury stiffening him up, it was his hip or something else.
The man didn’t take stretching seriously, and it was going to cost him in the long run.
I might actually talk to Gray about it. If anyone could talk sense into my brother, it was Gray.
“I think I’m gonna leave you to it, guys,” Natalie said. “As fun as this would be to watch, I have tea to drink and cooking shows that aren’t gonna watch themselves.”
Oh. Why had she come down here? Merely to ask if we could box sometime?
She could’ve fired off a text or asked me tomorrow.
But all right.
Over the next several days, I became increasingly confused about Natalie’s behavior.
We saw each other almost every day, if not for her two weekly sessions, then because we passed each other at the gym and stopped to talk for a quick moment.
But while my initial goal had been to test the waters and see if she’d warmed up to me enough, now I was just trying to figure out her latest mood changes.
One day, she was happy to see me and eager to chat, only for her to turn into a skittish animal the next day.
She seemed flustered about something, but I wasn’t in a position to dig past casual how-do-you-dos.
Maybe she had a lot going on at work. Since the day she’d received the keys for her studio, I’d seen her in there most nights on my way home from work.
The decorative, wooden front of the exterior had gone from peeling off-white to a muted dark blue.
Glass counters and displays had arrived, along with an old-school cash register that I was fairly sure she’d found in the 1800s.
Her elegant logo had appeared on the two shop windows.
And just last night, I’d seen her painting the walls in the shop.
I’d knocked and offered to help out, because I hadn’t been too happy to see her on an old rickety ladder, but she’d declined and called it a good workout.
Sure, sure, but landing herself in the hospital wasn’t worth it.
It was possible I’d lurked outside until she’d climbed down from the damn thing.
I was seriously considering buying a new ladder and leaving it outside for her.
Another week went by, and whatever warmth and nice weather we’d had in September were long gone.
Mid-October brought us nothing but downpours and colder temperatures.
But I didn’t mind. I liked fall and winter.
The only problem, I reckoned, was that the darker seasons made me feel a bit too lonely for my liking.
Or maybe it was just Natalie’s fault. I had zero interest in returning to the dating apps, and I had to admit to myself that she wasn’t just some woman I was insanely attracted to.
This went beyond wanting a date and a few rounds in the bedroom.
I’d fucking developed feelings for the woman.
It’d hit me like a ton of bricks the other week when I realized how often I thought about her.
It was beyond frustrating. If she was down in her studio, I worried she might hurt herself.
If I was making dinner, I wondered what it would be like to cook with her.
If she was at the gym, I wanted to go over to her and tell her how fucking proud I was of her progress.
Her attitude kept impressing me. She was such a fighter.
She slipped here and there and tended to beat herself up too much, but she was quick to get back on the horse and keep going.
Recently, I’d introduced her to preplanned indulgences.
Once or twice a week, I wanted her to buy something she really loved.
Something small, like a little dessert or whatever.
It would help her regain control when she could say, “I’m gonna have that on Friday,” rather than, “Fuck my life, I caved yesterday and ate cheesecake.”
Yesterday had been a great day. She’d come down to the gym with a gorgeous smile and a T-shirt that sat loose on her. I’d obviously wanted to hug the shit out of her, but I’d settled for a PT-friendly high five.
That was all I was. Her trainer.
Trainers weren’t allowed to ask what made her smile at her phone, if she’d met someone, or if she was still mourning her dead fiancé.
Instead, I fruitlessly tried to push her to the back of my mind, and I left my office in the basement for lunch with my brother. Ryan was in town again, and we didn’t get to see him often enough. If you asked me, he should get the fuck out of San Francisco and move back home with his family.
Unlike Darius, Ryan was never late, so he was waiting for me upstairs.
He lifted his brows when he spotted me but didn’t speak until I was closer. “Since when do you wear flannel, little brother?”
Since last week, maybe.
“An identity crisis sometimes comes with a wardrobe change.” We bumped fists, and I made sure I had my wallet in the back pocket of my jeans. “On the days I don’t work out, I figured I don’t always have to wear gym clothes.”
He frowned as we walked out, and he zipped up his leather jacket. “I’m more concerned about this identity crisis. You okay?”
I nodded with a dip of my chin. “I’m getting there.”
My brothers and I were all known for giving one another shit, but when push came to shove, we could listen and be helpful too. That said, Ryan was a fuckload easier to talk to than Darius. Ryan was open and understanding, where Darius was set in his ways.
“Could this have anything to do with your new Instagram videos?” he asked. “I liked the one where you fixed the leak in Lias’s roof. That’s solid exercise.”
I side-eyed him. He’d seen those?
“I thought you followed me on there because Ma smacked you on the arm and told you to be supportive.”
He let out a laugh. “That sounds like somethin’ she’d say to Darius.”
That was literally the case.
Damn, it was getting cold. But I hadn’t bothered with a jacket. We were just going up the street for subs.
“Believe it or not, but I actually give a damn,” Ryan said. “It’s possible Gray lit a fire under my ass. I swear that kid is all abs.”
Yeah, but he was also twenty years younger than us.
“I follow your ten weekly reminders,” he added.
“Tell me how proud you are now. Drink your water, don’t drink your calories, get your sleep, lift four times a week, try to eat beans or legumes every day, cardio is for your heart, white carbs only occasionally, half the plate with greens, try to eat thirty different kinds of fruits and vegetables every week, and remove stress factors.
” Jesus, he’d learned them all by heart.
“I can’t sell my kids, but I did have a big salad with my pizza the other day. ”
I cracked up and threw an arm around his shoulder. “I’m beyond proud.” I wasn’t lying either, despite the joke toward the end. No need to sell my nephews, regardless of how stressful those terrors were. “Was the pizza good? Enough protein on there?”
He rumbled a laugh. “Oh yeah, all the pepperoni.” He elbowed me lightly. “On that note, I rarely see you pushing protein on people.”
I shrugged and withdrew my arm again. “I wouldn’t last a day as a vegan, but if you look at the longest-living populations on earth, their protein intake ain’t excessive. We’re talking below ten percent. Do with that what you will.”
I wasn’t one of those nutritionists who lived and died by one diet.
People were different. DNA mattered. Culture mattered.
Where we’d grown up mattered. Some people responded better to certain ingredients—lactose, for instance—than others, depending on what foods had been a staple in their culture for generations.
Same went for protein. We had different needs and different levels of tolerance.
But sure, I did believe the fitness industry pushed protein too much.
My goal had always been moderation and balance.
“You know me, brother—I grew up strong and sexy on Ma’s food,” Ryan said. “As long as I get my steak and baked potatoes every now and then, I’ll listen to your fitness preaching on social.”
How reassuring.
“First of all, if I said what you just said, the whole family would call me conceited,” I replied. “Second of all, we have good genes. Don’t thank Ma’s cooking. It may be delicious, but it’s also the reason Pop needs to manage his blood pressure.”
He furrowed his brow. “In my defense, when I call myself sexy and a perfect ten, I’m just adorable. When you do it, you sound smarmy.”
What the fuck? Smarmy?
“But the flannel and the scruff work for you.” He patted my cheek, and I scowled and wrenched away. “You’re remindin’ me of the kid I grew up with who got all the girls without even trying.”
Nice. Punch me in the face and then put on a sparkly Band-Aid.
For the record, adorable wasn’t the word I’d use to describe a six-foot-three Marine slash bartender with one too many scars from close combat.
“Smarmy,” I muttered to myself as we reached Subcakes. “That’s some insult.”
“Not anymore,” he stressed. “You’re cute as a button now.”
Great, thanks. I was sure cute as a button would land Natalie Nolan.
“Hi, gentlemen! Welcome to Subcakes! What’re we in the mood for today?”
Right. Time for lunch. I wanted the grilled chicken on sourdough bread—with extra dressing, believe it or not—and I was sure my brother wanted a side salad with his triple cheese and steak on white bread.
I was graced by Ryan’s presence the following Friday too, shortly after Natalie and I had wrapped up. She was sticking around to power down from the weightlifting she’d done today, so she was on the treadmill taking a slow walk when Ryan walked in with one of his twin boys.
“Unca Ethan!” the boy yelled, tugging on Ryan’s hand.
Loud was the only volume he knew. They, I should say. Like father, like sons.
“Ryder or JJ!” I hollered back from behind the counter. It wasn’t like I could tell them apart.
The kid cracked up. “I’m Wydah! He can’t see, Daddy.”