Chapter 12 Gregory
Gregory
Ineed to get the fuck out of this great room.
The bath helped clear my head for about thirty seconds. Then I dried off, pulled on clean clothes, and realized I’m still wound tighter than a compressed spring. Three days trapped in close quarters with her, and every hour makes it worse.
The image of her emerging from the guest bathroom earlier, damp hair and that goddamn coconut scent, won’t leave my mind. How she looked in my thermal layers with the hoodie pulled over everything. The way our hands touched when we melted the snow for my bath.
I retreat to the lower level gym like a man fleeing a minefield.
The space is freezing without the heating system, but that’s fine. Good, even. Maybe the cold will knock some sense into me.
I strip off my cashmere sweater, down to just a t-shirt, and grab the forty-five pound dumbbells from the rack.
The familiar burn of exertion feels like salvation.
Bicep curls, shoulder presses, anything to work off this mounting tension that’s been building since I woke up with her pressed against me yesterday on Christmas morning.
Since I watched her explain fungal networks while her whole face lit up.
Since she basically told me I’m a worse asshole than she thought because I’m intelligent enough to know better and still chose profit over people.
That she’s right is the part that’s really fucking me up.
I switch to bench press, loading the bar with one hundred and eighty pounds. Two forty-five plates per side. The weight is substantial but manageable. I need the strain, need something physical to channel this energy before I do something catastrophically stupid.
Like kiss her.
Which I absolutely cannot do.
Won’t do.
Even though the thought of it has been circling my brain all day.
I’m halfway through my third set when I hear footsteps on the stairs.
“Working out after a shower?” Sorrel’s voice carries across the gym. “Most people do that in reverse order.”
I finish the rep before setting the bar back in the rack and sitting up.
“Yeah, I know.” I grab my water bottle and take a long drink of melted snow, using the moment to get my breathing under control. “Needed to burn off some excess energy.”
“Geez, it’s freezing in here.” She hugs herself, but her eyes track over the equipment, lingering on the the free weights and resistance bands. “Impressive setup. I see now why you’re in such good shape.”
I stand, moving to re-rack the weight plates. “You’re welcome to help yourself to any of the machines or weights. If you want. It will keep you warm.”
It’s true. I’ve already warmed up substantially. Not enough to work up a sweat in the cold room, but still...
She steps fully into the room, and I watch her assess the space. That field researcher brain of hers cataloging the possibilities. “I think I will.”
“Wait,” I add, because I can’t resist. “What about what you just said about showering before working out? You know, how other people do it in reverse order?”
She grins, and fuck me if that expression isn’t dangerous. “Who said I was like other people? Besides, I don’t very much I’ll sweat in this cold.”
She starts with a basic warm-up, stretching out her muscles. I try not to watch. Try to focus on my own workout. I switch to the pull-down machine and force myself through a set.
But my eyes keep drifting back to her.
She moves with the kind of confidence that comes from actual physical work, not just gym time. When she picks up the twenty-pound kettlebell, her form is solid. Controlled. She’s done this before, and she knows what she’s doing.
And that’s fucking hot.
I’ve spent years around people who hire trainers and nutritionists to maintain appearances, but Sorrel’s strength is different.
It’s... earned.
Built from hauling equipment through alpine terrain no doubt, from digging in frozen soil, from surviving conditions that would break softer people.
She switches to resistance bands, working through a series of exercises that have her breathing harder.
She must be growing hot, because she decides to pull off the hoodie, leaving just the thermal top.
And now I can see the definition in her arms every time she flexes.
Definition that you would never imagine was there.
Stop staring.
But I don’t stop.
Can’t.
She catches me watching and pauses mid-rep. “What? Never seen a woman lift weights before, hun?”
I don’t comment. Instead I increase the weight on the pull-down machine.
After I force myself through a set, I look at her and ask on a whim, “How much can you bench?”
She shakes her head. “No idea. I’ve never really used a bench press. I focus more on functional strength.”
“Wanna try? I can spot.” The offer comes out before I can think it through. Before I can consider what it means to put my hands near hers, to stand over her while she’s flat on her back, breathing hard from exertion.
She looks at me for a long moment. Then she nods. “Sure. Why not.”
I put ten pounds per side on the bar while she positions herself on the bench.
She settles into place, hands gripping the bar, and I move to stand behind her head. Close enough to assist if needed.
And close enough to catch her scent.
“Ready?” I ask.
“Ready,” she replies.
She lifts the bar smoothly and begins her reps. I keep my hands hovering just below the bar, tracking her form.
“Too light,” she says, re-racking the bar.
I add another ten per side, so that she’s lifting forty plus the bar.
She tries again. It’s solid, controlled, but I can see the strain in her arms by the fifth rep.
“Six,” I count. “Seven. You’ve got this.”
Her breathing patterns shift, synchronizing with the movements. Down, up. Down, up. I’m aware of every detail. The flex of her muscles. The small grunting sound she makes before pushing up. How close my hands are to touching hers.
“Eight. One more.”
She powers through the final rep and I help guide the bar back to the rack. For a moment neither of us moves. She’s flat on her back, chest rising and falling. I’m leaning over her, hands still on the bar, a position that feels charged with something dangerous.
“Thanks,” she says quietly, looking up at me.
Our eyes lock and I forget how to breathe.
This is a problem.
A serious fucking problem.
I step back, giving her space to sit up.
She sits there for a moment, breathing hard, her breasts rising and falling. I watch their every movement, imagining what it would be like to hold them in my hands.
Stop it, Gregory...
She reaches for her water bottle on the floor and that’s when I see it. A nasty scrape across her palm, already bleeding slightly. Must have happened during the kettlebell work. Why hadn’t I noticed it sooner?
“You’re bleeding,” I comment.
She follows my eyes to the scrape, and shrugs. “It’s nothing.”
“Hold on.” I move to the gym bathroom and grab the first aid kit stocked there. When I return, she’s examining the injury with a small frown.
“Let me see.” I kneel in front of where she’s sitting on the bench, and she extends her hand without argument.
The wound isn’t serious but it needs cleaning.
“This might sting,” I warn before applying the antiseptic.
She doesn’t flinch.
I work carefully, using the antiseptic wipes to clean away the blood. Her hand is small in mine, callused from fieldwork, and I’m struck by how delicate the bones feel despite her obvious strength.
I place a bandage over the injury, securing it gently. When I’m done, I find myself lifting her hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles just above the bandage. The gesture is instinctive, protective, and completely inappropriate.
But I don’t fucking care.
“There,” I murmur, looking up at her from my kneeling position.
Her breath catches. I watch her pupils dilate, see the flush creeping up her neck. The electric awareness between us is thick enough to choke on.
Neither of us moves.
I’m kneeling in front of her like some kind of supplicant, and she’s looking down at me with an expression that’s halfway between surprise and something that looks dangerously close to want. Her hand is still cradled in mine.
Her other hand lifts, hesitates, then comes to rest on the muscles of my shoulder.
“Thanks,” she whispers. “For... always taking care of me.”
The touch burns through my t-shirt. I want to cover her hand with mine, want to pull her close, want to find out if her lips taste as good as that coconut shampoo smells.
Instead I stand slowly, stepping back to put distance between us before I do something we’ll both regret.
Or rather, something I’ll regret.
Because, judging by the way she’s looking at me right now, she might not regret it at all.
Or maybe I’m just misreading her.
She hates my guts, I remind myself.
“You should probably get back upstairs,” I manage, my voice coming out as this unnatural rasp. “Check on the fire... keep it going.”
She nods but doesn’t move immediately. Just sits there on the bench, watching me with those warm brown eyes that see too much.
Finally she stands, grabbing the hoodie she’d discarded earlier and pulling it back on. “Right. Yeah.”
She moves past me toward the stairs, and I want her so bad, I have to physically stop myself from reaching out to touch her again.
When she’s gone, I drop back onto the bench and press the heels of my hands against my eyes.
Why the fuck did I kiss her knuckles?
Stupid.
So fucking stupid.
Yep.
This is bad.
I’m attracted to a woman who has every reason to hate me.
And now I’m kneeling at her feet, kissing her injuries, wanting her with an intensity that borders on desperation.
The irony would be hilarious if it weren’t so fucked up.
I force myself through another set of exercises, punishing myself until my muscles scream. But the physical exhaustion does nothing to quiet my mind, nor to erase the memory of her hand in mine, or the way she looked at me, or how right it felt to care for her.
Because one thing is becoming increasingly obvious as this storm continues to rage on, trapping us together.
I’m in serious danger of falling for Sorrel.