Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Andi
Cat is so far out in the corner of the D-pad that her comings and goings shouldn’t bother me, but they do. How much puttering can one human fit into an afternoon? Cat is apparently attempting to find out, between getting up to go to the bathroom, sitting down, getting up again to fill her Nalgene, and so on and so forth. I try to not let her distract me, but the human brain is hardwired to detect motion. That’s what I tell myself anyway as I unwillingly commit to memory the color of her dress (the blue of the sky around Mount Elbert during the last seconds of twilight) and the number of bangles on her wrist (six, although she only plays with the middle two).
After a spectacularly unproductive hour, I give up on coaxing more out of Dane—they’re being about as unwieldy as Connor White was years ago—and head to the bathroom to change into my gym clothes. Even though I already went on a run this morning, the gym is my other sanctuary besides the office. I go there whenever I’m experiencing writer’s block, which is all the time lately.
On my way out, Cat ignores me. She’s probably bitter I didn’t sing her praises more following her lunchtime TED Talk. Marching past her cubicle, I toss behind me a quick “Have a good weekend.” She doesn’t wish me the same.
I’m at the bottom of a goblet squat when a clang on the other end of the weightlifting area makes me almost fall over. It’s louder than any I’ve heard before (which is saying something, given the finance and tech bros who frequent this gym), and once I’ve righted myself, I peer over at its source. Normally, the sound of dropping weights doesn’t make me look twice as long as the gym-goer is doing it safely, but the giggle that follows the clang piques my interest.
It’s Carter, dressed in overlarge basketball shorts and a tank top that does nothing for his knobby, pale shoulders. He’s nodding hard enough to make his hair flop like a deflated balloon animal. There’s no way he’s responsible for the dropped barbell, so I follow his nods toward the figure next to him, a barrel-chested man with legs like cement supports.
That’s more like it. The man is wearing—ugh—red, white, and blue weight lifter spandex. Carter’s personal trainer, maybe? Either way, my assistant’s fitness regimen is none of my business (although it’s regrettable he’s decided to get swole at the same gym I frequent). Deciding I have no obligation to walk over and say hi, I pick up the kettlebell at my feet again.
My knees are nearing ninety degrees when Carter’s trainer turns and I catch his full face. This time, I do fall over.
Catching my elbow on the edge of a weight bench, I blink a few times to wake myself up from whatever nightmare I’m stuck in. What is Brett doing here? And why is he slapping Carter on the back like they’re related?
Not wanting to be seen, I duck behind a much larger person doing bicep curls. They frown at me, but I pay their disapproval no mind. With their bookcase-like shoulders, they conceal me beautifully.
With mounting consternation, I watch Brett release Carter’s shoulders to receive the ministrations of a busty blonde woman in a hot-pink velour tracksuit. As she mops his shiny forehead with a towel the size and shape of a tea doily, Carter says something that makes the three of them laugh. What could they be talking about? Did Brett and Carter just happen upon each other here today? That seems unlikely, though, given Brett looks like a gym rat yet I’ve never seen him here.
The blonde flashes a grin in my direction. My stomach drops and I crouch down even lower. Thank god for Barnes & Noble, who seems to have forgotten I’m hiding behind them.
I’m not scared, obviously. It’s just that I owe Brett yet another update on how the whole romance thing is going. I’ve ignored him so far, but it’s only been a few days. Okay, five, but that’s counting the weekend, so functionally four, and nobody replies to emails on Fridays, so really, three. Certainly not long enough to sneak behind my back and talk with my assistant.
Right?
I’m overreacting, as usual. Ever since the business with Aftermath and Jan, I’ve become suspicious of any man with too much swagger and a receding hairline (which, let’s be real, is most of them). Pressing a hand to my throat, I will my hummingbird pulse to slow. Not everyone’s out to screw me over like Jan did. I can’t even prove he did anything wrong. Sure, he urged me to keep my head down, then threw me under the bus when somehow the media didn’t know my pronouns, and sure, my personal details got released online the day after he drove me home for the first time, but on paper, he’s clean. So what right do I have to act like he or any other blowhard is out to get me?
None. What I need to do is to toughen up. Shake off the cobwebs of the past. Write Dane x Sentinel.
Brett, Carter, and the blonde shuffle off eventually, leaving me free to emerge from the shadows of Barnes & Noble. I consider abandoning the rest of my workout, but seeing as only thirty minutes have elapsed since I left the office, chances are Cat is still there. Gritting my teeth, I reclaim the kettlebell and resume squatting.
Balls. I need a new gym, and I can’t even ask Carter to find me one.