Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Sawyer
Sleep isn’t happening. I know that after about thirty minutes of staring at the ceiling. The apartment is quiet. The city outside the windows has settled into its late-night rhythm.
Normally, that’s enough, and I’m out the moment my head hits the pillow.
Tonight, my mind won’t shut off.
I roll out of bed and pull on a pair of workout shorts and a cutoff T-shirt before heading down the hallway.
The penthouse gym is one of the few places in the apartment that always clears my head. Running works, but weights work better. Anything that gives my brain something else to focus on.
I step onto the treadmill and start at a steady pace. Within a minute, the familiar rhythm takes over, but it doesn’t take long before my thoughts drift back to earlier.
Cole. Kayla. The restaurant conversation. Luigi’s and Uncle Tony.
I increase the speed. Running harder usually helps.
Tonight, it doesn’t.
I run until my lungs burn and my shirt sticks to my back with sweat.
When the thoughts still haven’t stopped, I step off the treadmill and move toward the weight rack.
Next, I move to the bar. Pull-ups. That usually finishes the job.
I grab the bar and pull myself up.
The strain in my shoulders and arms forces my focus back where it belongs.
By the time I finish the first set, sweat is running down my arms.
I jump down from the bar and grab a towel. That’s when I hear the door open.
I glance toward the mirror.
Kayla steps into the gym.
She freezes the second she notices me. “Oh—” Her eyes widen slightly. “I didn’t know you were in here.”
She gestures vaguely toward the treadmill. “I was just going to run.”
“You can.”
She nods once. “Right.”
She walks over to the treadmill and starts adjusting the settings.
I grab a set of weights and turn around to face the mirror along the wall which reflects most of the room.
She starts jogging a minute later. At first, she keeps her attention on the treadmill … then her gaze shifts.
Her eyes move to the mirror in front of her as I watch them rake over my shoulders, my arms, then lower before snapping back up again when she realizes I noticed.
She clears her throat. “You work out late.”
“Sometimes.”
“I thought you’d be asleep by now.”
“I thought you would too.”
She runs for another minute before speaking again. “I usually run at night.”
“That explains the timing.”
I put the weights down and walk back over to the pull up bar.
She nods slightly, and then her eyes flick toward the mirror again and back to me. It’s subtle, but not subtle enough.
I finish another set of pull-ups and drop down from the bar.
Kayla’s pace on the treadmill stumbles slightly.
“Sorry,” she says quickly. “I didn’t mean to stare.”
“You weren’t staring.”
“I was definitely staring.”
She makes an indistinct motion toward me. “You’re very”—she pauses—“fit.”
“That’s one way to describe it.”
“You work out a lot,” she states.
“Yes.”
“That tracks.”
“Why?”
She shrugs, still jogging. “You seem like the type of person who needs to burn off stress.”
I pick up the weights again and start some bicep curls. “That obvious?”
“A little.”
She runs quietly for a moment, then glances toward the mirror again.
Finally, she shakes her head slightly. “I should probably focus on my own workout.”
She increases the speed on the treadmill, but a few seconds later, her gaze slides back toward the mirror again. And this time, when our eyes meet, she doesn’t look away immediately.
The soft rhythm of her footsteps fills the room.
I pick up another set of weights and begin an overhead press, but my focus shifts. Because now that the initial surprise has worn off, I’m actually looking at her.
And that turns out to be a mistake.
The shorts she’s wearing are barely long enough to qualify as clothing.
Black. Tight. Riding high on her hips every time her stride lengthens.
The sports bra isn’t much more conservative. It leaves very little to the imagination, which becomes increasingly obvious the longer I stand here, pretending I’m interested in dumbbells.
Kayla is not built like the women I usually date. The women I usually date look like they walked straight off a runway.
Tall. Thin. Carefully polished.
Women like that usually know exactly what men like me can offer.
They get attention and proximity to power. I get something uncomplicated for a few nights.
No expectations. No emotional entanglements. Everyone leaves satisfied.
Kayla, however, is something else entirely.
She’s all curves with full hips, a narrow waist, and a chest that makes the sports-bra situation … distracting.
She slows the treadmill slightly, brushing a strand of hair off her face. Her cheeks are flushed from the run.
Her eyes flick toward the mirror again.
Her gaze drifts slowly down my shoulders, across my chest.
I place the weights back on the rack. “You’re going to trip if you keep doing that.”
She looks genuinely startled. “Doing what?”
“Pretending you’re not watching.”
Her pace falters slightly. “I was not watching.”
“You were.”
She exhales and pushes the Stop button. The treadmill slows to a walk. Then a stop.
Kayla steps off and grabs a towel from the rack, wiping the back of her neck.
“Well,” she says, a little breathless, “in my defense”—she nods in my direction— “you are very distracting.”
I raise an eyebrow. “That’s your defense?”
“You’re lifting weights and doing pull-ups in the middle of the night, looking like that,” she says. “What exactly did you expect?”
“Focus.”
She laughs softly. “That seems unrealistic.”
Neither of us speaks. The gym suddenly feels smaller than it did five minutes ago.
Kayla tosses the towel over her shoulder and leans against the treadmill.
Her eyes run over me again. Slower this time. Less accidental. And when her eyes meet mine in the mirror, there’s no embarrassment in them at all.
Just curiosity which might actually be more dangerous.
Kayla glances around the room.
“Well,” she says, brushing her hair back from her face, “I should probably actually finish a workout instead of standing here, arguing with you.”
“That would be productive.”
She rolls her eyes lightly and walks over to the stretching mats near the mirror.
I move to the ground to do push-ups, but my attention shifts again back to Kayla.
I watch in the mirror as she lowers herself onto the mat and stretches one leg out in front of her before moving to the other. She leans forward slowly, reaching for her toes.
Her breathing is still slightly uneven from the run.
The room is quiet except for the faint hum of the treadmill cooling down.
After a moment, she speaks again. “So, is this your normal late-night routine?”
“Sometimes.”
“When you can’t sleep?”
“Yes.”
She sits upright and switches to stretching the other leg.
“What keeps you up?” she asks.
“Work,” I reply in between push-ups, which is sometimes true.
“That sounds like the least surprising answer possible.”
“It’s usually accurate.”
She tilts her head slightly, studying me through the mirror. “Does it help?”
“What?”
“The working out.”
“Most of the time.”
“And the rest of the time?”
I push off the ground until I’m kneeling then shrug. “You run longer.”
She smiles faintly at that. “Fair.”
Kayla shifts positions again, stretching her arms over her head this time.
“Running helps me think,” she says.
“About what?”
“Books.”
“That sounds like work.”
“It is.” She exhales slowly. “But it’s supposed to be the fun kind.”
I glance toward her in the mirror. “You’re still stuck?”
She hesitates. “Yeah.”
“Writer’s block.”
“That obvious?”
“You fell asleep on your laptop.”
“Point taken.”
She leans back on her hands now, catching her breath.
“For the record,” she adds, “this has never happened to me before.”
“What hasn’t?”
“Not knowing what happens next.”
Her eyes stray toward the ceiling. “It’s like my brain just … stopped cooperating.”
“That sounds frustrating.”
“It is.”
She glances back at me. “You ever have that happen?”
“No.”
“Of course you don’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because you seem like the type of person who always has a plan.”
I consider that for a second. “That’s usually the goal.”
Kayla smiles slightly. “See?”
Then she stands and stretches her arms again.
“Well,” she says, “thanks for letting me interrupt your midnight training session.”
“You didn’t interrupt it.”
“I definitely did.”
She walks back toward the treadmill and grabs her water bottle, then pauses.
“For what it’s worth,” she adds casually, “I think the workout is helping.”
“With what?”
She indicates me with a small wave of her hand. “You seem less … tense than when I walked in.”
I pick up the towel again. “That’s the idea.”
Kayla nods once and heads for the door. “Good night, Sawyer.”
“Good night, Kayla.”
The door closes behind her a second later. The gym is quiet again.
I stare at the closed door for a second longer than necessary.