Chapter 22
“Hello,” Natalie grumbled as she arrived at the address Rylan had texted earlier.
She still wasn’t sure why she’d agreed to come, instead of staying back at her office to clean up after the glitter bomb incident.
Except that maybe she needed an outlet for her anger.
And, maybe, she needed to see him too—though she’d die before admitting that part out loud.
Rylan stood at the door, arms crossed, eyebrows in their usual “I own this place” position. But his gaze softened as it landed on her.
As she walked toward him, his eyes narrowed slightly. “Why are you… sparkling?” he asked, voice rich with confusion and just enough amusement to make her want to punch him before they even got inside.
Natalie sighed, folding her arms. “Someone sent me a glitter bomb today.”
He blinked. “What the hell is a glitter bomb?”
“It’s a package rigged to explode glitter everywhere,” she said flatly.
“Now I’ve got glitter on my clothes, my desk, my mood boards, my coffee…
basically my dignity.” She exhaled sharply.
“The cleaning crew’s going to vacuum tonight, but glitter is like the herpes of the craft world—it never truly goes away. ”
Rylan reached out, brushing his fingers over her braid. When he pulled them back, they glinted pink in the light. His smirk was both infuriating and… annoyingly attractive. “That’s… particularly evil.”
“You think?” she deadpanned. “Whoever sent it wasn’t aiming to be cute—they were aiming for a mental breakdown.”
The smirk faded, replaced by a flicker of something harder. He rested a hand at the small of her back, steering her inside. “Then you’ve come to the right place.”
The gym was alive with the rhythmic smack of gloves against heavy bags, the slap of jump ropes, and the grunts of people lifting weights heavy enough to kill small animals.
Natalie’s shoulders tightened at the noise—until Rylan led her into a private room.
The sudden quiet wrapped around her like a warm blanket.
The room held a heavy bag, a speed bag, and several pieces of intimidating equipment that looked like they belonged in a medieval torture chamber.
“Here,” he said, handing her a pair of padded gloves. “Drop your stuff by the wall and I’ll strap you in.”
Natalie tossed her purse aside, stepping toward him. His expression softened, unexpectedly gentle. “Want to talk about it?”
“No,” she said, sliding her hand into the glove. “I want to hit something.”
His grin was pure wickedness as he tightened the Velcro. “Good answer.”
Once both gloves were secure, he pulled on his own. “Let’s start with the heavy bag.”
Natalie stood in front of it, suspicious. “What do I do?”
“Punch it.”
“That’s it?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
“That’s it,” he said, driving his fist into the bag so hard it swung like a pendulum. “Or kick it. Whatever gets the anger out.”
He followed up with a spinning kick so precise it made her momentarily forget how annoyed she was.
“Come on,” he teased. “Someone just unleashed glitter hell on your life. Don’t tell me that’s all the fight you’ve got.”
Natalie narrowed her eyes at the bag, pulled back, and hit it. The dull thud was… satisfying. She hit it again, harder.
“I want to find the jerk who’s messing with my life!” she said, punctuating each word with a punch.
“Good,” Rylan encouraged, slamming his own bag in steady rhythm. “Tell it to the bag. Make it regret its life choices.”
She punched harder, every strike a satisfying thwack that sent her anger ricocheting into the heavy bag. Her kicks landed with solid thuds, her shoulder slams rattling the chains. By the time she was done, the bag looked like it might file for a restraining order.
Breathless, she finally stopped. Sweat dripped down her temples, her arms dangling at her sides like overcooked spaghetti.
Rylan was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, a thin sheen of sweat clinging to him in all the wrong ways—wrong, because she had no business noticing how good he looked like that.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, voice unexpectedly soft and gruff.
“Nothing,” she lied, the word cracking under the weight of her own voice.
He arched a brow but didn’t push, just watched her.
With a huff, she lifted her arms in exasperation—only to have the heavy gloves drag them back down in sad little flops. “Why does someone hate me this much? Breaking into my house, trying to run me down, and now this? A glitter bomb? Glitter! It’s like being mugged by a craft store!”
In two strides, he was in front of her, peeling off the gloves. Then, without warning, his arms were around her—solid, steady, unshakable. And for the first time in a long time, she let herself lean into someone else.
The tears came hot and fast, soaking into his shirt. “I’m not a bad person,” she whispered between hiccupping sobs. “Why would someone do this to me?”
“You’re not a bad person,” Rylan answered, voice firm and grounding. “You’re kind, smart, beautiful. And you definitely don’t deserve a glitter-based assassination attempt.”
She wasn’t sure how long she stayed there, wrapped in him, but when the tears eased, she felt lighter. Exhausted, but lighter.
“I think you should move in with me,” he said suddenly, tone maddeningly matter-of-fact.
She blinked at him… then the laugh hit her—sharp, startled, and unstoppable. “Move in with you?” She choked on another laugh, bending slightly at the waist. “Oh my God, are you serious? That’s your solution to attempted glittercide?”
“Dead serious,” he replied without flinching.
That only made it worse. She slapped a hand over her mouth, trying to smother the sound, but a snort escaped, which set her off all over again.
She leaned back against the wall, tears pricking the corners of her eyes for a completely different reason this time.
Her laughter bounced off the walls, high and unrestrained, like it had been waiting for days to get out.
Rylan didn’t move, didn’t interrupt—just watched her. On the surface, his expression stayed steady, even faintly amused. But beneath it, there was a flicker of something else—something sharper and possessive—that he carefully tucked away before she could see it.
Finally, she wiped at her eyes, catching her breath. “Thank you for that. I really needed a laugh.”
His gaze softened, though there was steel under it. “Think about it.”
She shook her head, still smiling. “I will,” she lied and they both knew it. “But thank you. I feel better. Sincerely, thank you—for all of this.” She waved toward the gym.
“Don’t thank me yet,” he said, that dangerous grin reappearing. “We still have dinner plans. Casual. But don’t skimp on dessert—we survived trauma-by-craft supply. That’s worth cake at least.”
Despite herself, Natalie’s heart gave an unhelpful little flutter. Maybe she could enjoy this… just a little.