22 - Sophie
22
Sophie
“He’s playing a game with you,” Liz said as we walked to the gym the next morning. “And based on how you’re reacting? It’s working.”
“It’s not working,” I said stubbornly, but she was right. I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Eli since last night. I had struggled to fall asleep because of it. Even now, I could feel the rough stubble on his skin brushing against my cheek, as if the not-really-a-kiss had happened just minutes ago rather than last night.
Liz gave me a judging look. “Two days ago, you were swearing off cowboys. Now you’ve slept with one, and are mooning over another. What happened?”
“I opened the flood gates!” I whined. “It’s like when you break a diet, and gorge yourself on junk food because if you’re going to break it a little bit, you might as well break it a lot.” We walked into the gym and scanned our passes. “I guess this means I’m finally over Trent, though.”
“Not just Trent,” Liz said slyly. “Trent and your rebound—”
“I do not want to talk about him,” I interrupted.
“Yes, I know,” Liz groaned. “But eventually you’re going to tell me all the details of what happened with that guy.”
“I promise to eventually do that.”
We walked into the weight room, and Liz stopped in her tracks. “Speaking of smoldering cowboys…”
I immediately knew who she was referring to, but I groaned when I got confirmation. There was Sawyer, dirty-blond hair darkened with sweat, adding plates to a barbell in one of the squat racks. He glanced in our direction, then did a double-take when he recognized us. He returned his attention to the weights, shaking his head and chuckling to himself.
“What are you laughing at?” I asked him as we walked past.
“I wasn’t,” he replied in that deep, brooding voice.
“Yes,” I insisted. “You were.”
His dark eyes collided with my gaze. “I was just laughing at how some people don’t know how to mind their own business.”
“Wow, good one,” Liz said sarcastically.
Sawyer rolled his eyes and lowered himself to the bench to begin his next set.
“Ugh, it pisses me off how hot he is,” Liz whispered when we were on the other side of the room. “All the assholes are.”
“He’s not that hot,” I said.
She gave me a look.
“Okay, he’s extremely sexy,” I admitted. “But I don’t like that kind of guy. Always brooding, like he’s looking for a fight. I grew out of that kind of angst in high school.”
“I don’t care what personality a guy has. When he looks like that , he can do whatever he wants to me.”
“Says the married woman.”
“Oh, be quiet,” she teased. “You know I’m just looking. Okay, I’m jumping on the stairmaster.”
“Wait, really?”
“I saw a TikTok video explaining that the stairmaster is the best way to burn fat and gain muscle,” Liz said.
“That app is rotting your brain.”
“I know, but I don’t care!” She playfully slapped her towel at me. “Come get me before you leave.”
The stairmaster machine was over in the corner, but I was doing weights today. Unfortunately, both squat racks were occupied—one of them by Sawyer, and the other currently being used by three gym bros with backwards baseball caps.
While waiting for one of them to open up, I got on the treadmill and did some light jogging for ten minutes. I kept glancing to my left, into the weight room where I could see Sawyer. His tank top seemed two sizes too small, practically glued to his powerful torso. The veins of his arms bulged against the skin, working hard to circulate blood to all those muscles. Sweat dripped down the side of his head as he bench pressed at least two hundred pounds. After one particularly strenuous set, he sat up, and a bead of sweat rolled down his cheek and settled on his chiseled jawline. Against my will, I imagined brushing it off with my thumb, feeling the roughness of his unshaved stubble.
Liz was right: he was sexy. Annoyingly so. But as she’d said, he was nice to look at. I didn’t have to like anything else about him to appreciate that body.
When I climbed off the treadmill, both squat racks were still in use. And Liz was still on the stairmaster. I walked into the weight room and looked around for an alternative.
“You need this?” Sawyer called from twenty feet away, gesturing at the rack.
“I’m fine.”
“You keep eyeing my spot,” he said. His tone made it seem like he was always growling. “If you need it, we can share.”
“I said I’m fine,” I replied, moving over to one of the bench press stations instead. It had adjustable pegs, allowing me to raise the bar up to squat level. But it didn’t have the safety rails on the side in case I failed a set.
That was fine. I wasn’t planning on squatting heavy weight today.
I added plates to the bar and began my workout. Occasionally, I glanced over at Sawyer; he was tough to ignore when he racked the barbell, metal banging together loudly. Soon my thoughts drifted to the other cowboys I had been around lately. Eli flirting with me last night. The sizzling, sweaty fun I’d had with Johnny.
I chuckled to myself. What had gotten into me? It was like I was a teenager again, swooning over every damn cowboy that crossed my path.
It was the confidence, I decided. Nothing was sexier than a man with confidence, so long as it didn’t cross over into arrogance. And Eli’s performance last night took a lot of confidence. I couldn’t imagine walking up on stage and playing a guitar at the drop of a hat, in front of a room full of strangers. That’s what made him a good rodeo competitor, I supposed.
As I began my third set of squats, I kept thinking about the way he called me darlin’, with a little extra country twang. I normally hated when customers called me darling or sweetie or baby, but I kind of liked it when it came from Eli. The same as Johnny calling me Sky Eyes. They weren’t like the other customers that harassed me at Billy Bob’s. No, they were something different.
I was so distracted that I lost track of my reps; thinking about Eli and Johnny had given me a burst of energy while I moved up and down. But now I was in the down position, pushing upward, and I realized I had made a mistake. The strength was gone from my legs; I couldn’t complete the squat. I was stuck halfway, my body beginning to tremble as I pushed with futile effort.
Oh no!
As my legs began to falter, Sawyer was suddenly at my side. “I got you,” he said, sounding surprisingly reassuring. He moved into my personal space, pressing his body against my side and back as he got his shoulder underneath the bar. Then his powerful thighs flexed and he helped me raise the bar back up to the rack. The final push forward brought our bodies together in a jumble of sweat and exhaled effort.
It only lasted a fraction of a second—then he stepped back, out of my space. But I could still feel him there, body heat and sweat and a powerful musky scent.
“Thank you,” I managed to say.
Any softness that had crossed his face now disappeared, and his scowl returned. “That’s why you should have shared the squat rack with me. Safety bars in case you fail a set.”
I was embarrassed about the whole ordeal, so I snapped, “Did you come over to help, or to lecture me?”
He sneered at me, bit off a terse, “You’re welcome,” then returned to his own squat rack.
Feeling mortified that I had nearly failed in a room full of people, I grabbed my towel and rushed out of the gym.