Chapter 13 The Day I Loved Sweat #2
Oooh, did my brother just expressly tell me not to date?
Normally, nothing would make me want to date more, because I don’t need or want his permission to see anyone.
But…that’s some solid advice. I wasn’t even on the apps—I deleted them all after Dax dumped me—but this is a good reminder that it’s best I focus on my love for sugar and butter, rather than on hearts and flutters.
I hold out a hand to shake. “It’s a deal.”
Theo blinks.
I might have fallen into a parallel universe because my brother never blinks. Metaphorically, of course.
“For real?” he asks.
I glance around like I’m checking for spies. “For real. And look, don’t tell anyone that I agree with you. I need to give this business my all. I want Afternoon Delight to be a big, raging, ridiculous success. Romance is a distraction.”
“Damn straight it is. Always choose the bear,” he says, still shaking my hand.
“The bear,” I echo with a decisive nod, like we’re sealing a deal for picking the bear over the man when confronted with that choice. I meet his gaze. “And hey, it works both ways. You’ve been a little romance-shy since Ginny.”
He glares at me. “We don’t need to mention her.”
“I’m just saying, if and when you get back out there, you should let me do some vetting too. I can make sure you’re not with a backstabber.”
He peers over his shoulder. “Is the knife she twisted in me still there?”
I pat his shoulder. “Nope.”
When we resume our pace, he tilts his head. “Afternoon Delight, huh? That’s a little naughty.”
“So’s Sweet Cheeks. So’s Hot Buns. So’s Tease and Taste.” I rattle off the names of some of the top bakeries in Los Angeles, Seattle, and Portland. “Know what all those bakeries have in common?”
“No, but I bet you’re going to tell me.”
“They’re successful.” We arrive at the double doors that lead to the personnel-only entrance. Theo slides his key card against a lock and swings the doors open. The corridor’s mostly quiet, but up ahead, a man in a purple polo pushes a laundry bin down the hall.
As we pass a series of framed photos of the lineups over the years, my brother takes me to the weight room. Corbin’s alone on a bench, doing preacher curls. Have his biceps always been so…big? So strong? So mouthwatering?
“Have fun,” Theo says, then takes off.
Easier said than done. Corbin lowers the big barbell to the gym floor, lifts the hem of his T-shirt, and wipes the sweat off his brow.
Is this a test of my newfound resolve? If so, I’m failing.
I swallow and stare, my eyes darting across the expanse of fair skin, glistening and firm, but not in a picture-perfect, polished way. A bruise lives right under his pecs, that appendix scar dips in his abs, and a dark trail of hair travels down and disappears into his shorts.
And his muscles are just so…hard. And so muscly. And so—
“That work for you?”
Shit. I jerk my gaze up, meeting his eyes and rolling my lips together. “Mm-hmm,” I say, without opening my mouth. I have no idea what I’m agreeing to, but hey, I only told my brother I wouldn’t date. I never said I wouldn’t ogle his hot hockey-playing best friend.
“Great,” he says, then grabs a towel and slings it over his shoulder.
I snap back to reality. “If you have a towel, why did you wipe your forehead on your T-shirt?”
His smile is wicked. “I did it for you, Mabel. I did it for you.”
I let out a big breath. Corbin crosses the room and sets his water bottle right next to an exercise bike.
“We’re going to talk while you’re on the bike?” I ask as I follow.
“Are you worried I can’t bike and talk?”
I shake my head. “No…I…I’m not.” I’m just still stupidly flustered by that shirt-brow-move, and I kind of want to see it again.
He steps closer to me and sets a finger under my chin. “Are you sure? I did ask if you minded if we talked while I did cardio. I need to get my twenty minutes in.”
Ahhhh. “Riiiiight,” I say, dragging out the word as I nod. “You did. Of course you did. And I heard you perfectly. I knew exactly what you were saying. Twenty minutes. Who doesn’t need to get twenty minutes of cardio in before an NHL game?”
He laughs, shaking his head as if he doesn’t believe my lies. “You get me,” he says, then hops up on the bike. At least he’s still wearing his shirt.
The second he starts pedaling, he nods to me. “What do you want to show me?”
I am a woman on a mission. I will not be distracted by miles of glistening skin or how his thigh muscles show off with every pump of the pedals.
I hold up a finger, then reach into my bag to grab my tablet. “I took pictures, but I also have paint chips,” I say, but when I raise my face, he’s…shirtless again. “Corbin!”
“What?” he asks so innocently.
“I asked you not to—” I wave a hand, dismissing my prior request for him to keep his shirt on. “Never mind.”
Taking a soldiering breath, I show him the pics on the tablet, and if I thought he smelled good before, that’s nothing compared to how his lake-and-campfire scent mingles with the sweat of his workout.
I really should have talked to my friends before I agreed to this partnership. They’d have sat me down and made me face the reality of the fact that I want to bang my business partner. They’d have made me confront my newfound attraction to…sweat so I could be aware of the perils of this situation.
But right now, it’s just me, and the photos.
As Corbin pedals like the wind, I start with the furniture, showing him pics of the chairs and tables I’ve been scoping out, along with some baking equipment, including a few items we can snag used.
He looks closely, checking each one, offering some suggestions, asking questions, then picking favorites from among mine.
“That was easy enough,” I say with a smile.
“It was.”
After I tuck the tablet away, I take out the paint chips, carefully setting them on the bike console, then I lean over, pointing to each one.
“This is Morning Mist, but they should just call it salmon pink. This is I’m A Showgirl, but it’s really neon, like the couch in the bookstore.
Here is Cherry Blossom, like the cake I made at the romance fair.
We’ve also got a pastel pink called Blush. Then this peachy one is Sunrise Mist.”
The only sound in the room as he studies them is the mechanical whoosh of the bike until he finally looks up. “The names don’t really matter,” he observes.
“Right, right. That’s just marketing. I know I kind of bulldozed you with the name of the shop, but I want this to be collaborative.” I speak with all the enthusiasm I feel for the process and for working with him. Which is…gobs.
“Sure,” he says, with a nod, squinting at the squares of color as his breath comes faster. I steal a glance at the console. He’s logged seventeen minutes already.
I’m glad he’s studying the paint chips so carefully. It even feels as if he’s spending as long staring at the colors here as Remy, Skylar, and I did at the paint store.
“Which one do you like best?” I ask.
He’s pedaling hard as he looks back at me. “Honestly?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“They all look gray to me. You pick,” he says.
His tone is warm, friendly. But I’m a little lost. “Gray? Does that mean—”
He lets go of the bike handle to place a warm palm on my arm, as if he’s reassuring me. “I’m color-blind. You should pick.”
I part my lips to speak, then hesitate. I don’t know what to say.
I had no idea. Have I been railroading him about color too?
Or teasing him unfairly? I replay our interactions, like last week in Cozy Valley when I asked about the couch and he seemed uninterested, then to the day I tended to his scratch and joked about the color.
I feel a little queasy about that one. “Was that rude when I said You’re in love with your gray shirt? ”
“No,” he says. “Gray matches everything. It’s easier.”
“True, and that’s part of the beauty of gray. But I don’t want to be a dick. When I asked about the neon pink couch, and when I said pink was the best color—have I been excluding you?” I really hope not, but I worry I might have been.
He laughs, shaking his head, his forehead shiny from sweat. “You would have had no way of knowing, except you noticed I wear a lot of gray.”
“But you can see gray?”
He seesaws his hand. “Definitely. But some pinks often look gray, and some blues do too. I have red-green color-blindness, which means red and green look sort of brownish or dull and pale-ish. And a lot of blues kind of blend together.”
“So a lot of colors are basically muted?”
He seems to give that a second or two of thought, then nods. “That’s a fair way to put it.”
My mind is a little blown. Of course, I’m aware of color-blindness, but I don’t think I’ve known anyone who is color-blind, or thought hard about how it must be for them to navigate life, and traffic lights, and fashion, and sports.
“Does it affect how you play?”
Obviously, it doesn’t. He’s an elite athlete and has been for more than a decade. But still, I’m so curious how he works around it.
“When I was younger, yes, but only for practice when you’re in different colors and you need to figure out who’s on your team.
But not now. The team knows, and I’ve asked the coaches to always put my line in white practice jerseys, so I never have to wonder who’s on my line.
There are at least a couple of other pro hockey players I’m aware of who have color-blindness. ”
“White is easy for you to see?”
“Yes. It’s a high contrast color.”
“And what about for games?”
“Teams usually face each other in alternating dark or light jerseys, so that’s not really a problem.”
“That’s good then. And smart for practice too,” I say, picturing how it could be easier for those who might not be able to see the fine differences in shades of shirts.
He just shrugs, as if to say, It is what it is. And I suppose, it is for him.
“And with home and away jerseys always being light and dark, it’s not an issue on the ice. Plus I know who to pass to and so on.”
He explains it with the confidence he carries around with him every day. I’m kind of amazed, especially since this is second nature to him. I want to understand him better.
“I’m sorry if I was barreling on about colors that didn’t mean much to you.” My mind races several steps ahead. “Is there something I should do differently when it comes to…design?”
He slows the pedaling, his chest rising and falling with the exercise as he slides into the cool-down. “Yeah. Take the lead, Mabel.”
I blink, processing that. “Really? You just want me to be in charge of design stuff?”
“You said I could be the nut taste-tester, right? Because you, for some unholy reason, dislike nuts?”
“Do you dislike color?”
“It doesn’t…inspire me. It doesn’t excite me. But it excites you, right?”
Is it weird that I feel incredibly seen right now? “It does,” I say, with a light, nervous laugh. “I love color combos, looks, and design. I’m pretty sure Pinterest was made for me. And there’s nothing as enjoyable as picking a design for a cupcake box. Except maybe doing a paint-by-numbers mural.”
He tilts his head, perhaps considering me or my remarks. Looking at me with a scrunched brow like he’s really taking that all in. “What’s your favorite color? Is it pink?”
“You might think so, and I do think the bakery should be pink and white, but actually, I’ve been having a love affair with lilac for a long time. It’s pretty much perfect.”
He smiles in a way I’ve never seen before on him—it’s amused meets fascinated.
As he stops and steps off the bike, he says, “I’m not into any of that stuff since I’m no good at it.
You should pick the colors. And pick the mural—we should have one on the wall in the shop.
But I’ll show up and help you paint, especially since it’ll be paint-by-numbers.
I’d be baller at that. And then you’ll help make the things with nuts.
” He pauses then adds, “You trust me when I say people like brownies with nuts, right?”
That’s an unusual way of putting it, yet it makes perfect sense. “I suppose I do.”
“Then I trust you when it comes to how things look. Just let me know what colors you pick for the sign and the store and all. So I can act like I know what they’re talking about if a customer mentions it,” he says, and I file that detail away—he’s learned how to manage his color-blindness.
The least I can do is make the picking easy for him. “I’ll tell you right now. It’s pastel pink,” I say, then show him my favorite one. “We can use it for boxes, for the sign, for our cards with QR codes and so on.”
He looks at the paint chip, and at first it seems like he’s studying it, committing the color to memory. But then he looks up at me, locking eyes for a beat before he says, “Very pretty.”
My breath catches. He’s talking about the paint, but he’s looking at me. My chest squeezes. “I’m glad you like it,” I say, sounding breathy. “The color, that is. It’s called Blush.”
As if to demonstrate, my cheeks flame. Heat rushes up my neck, too, as Corbin’s gaze holds mine for even longer.
“Blush,” he repeats, with a crooked smile forming on his lips, like he’s having fun with the name of it, or perhaps the manifestation of it.
“It sounds perfect,” he adds, wiping the back of his neck with a towel.
“And this is one of the reasons I said yes to this venture. With you, I don’t have to think about how anything looks.
Or stress about the design. Or worry it’d be ugly. It’s a relief.”
A smile teases my lips. I feel a lot less foolish and a lot more useful. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Because I know you have great taste,” he says.
“How do you know?”
He steps closer, tilts his head, and lets his gaze roam up and down me. “Because you’re hot for me.”
Then he walks to the door, leaving me with my pink paint chips and his unfiltered assessment of my lust.
He looks like he’s about to turn down the hall on that mic drop. But instead, he turns around, shooting me a thoughtful look. “You want to come to the game tonight? I can leave a couple VIP tickets for you.”
I furrow my brow, thinking through my schedule. But really, my schedule for tonight is picking a mural for the wall of our bakery. Something fun, frothy, and playful. “Would it bother you if I was researching murals on my tablet while you’re chasing a little black disc?”
“Only if you don’t cheer when I score a goal.”
I tilt my head. “You already know you’re going to score tonight?”
He points to the exercise bike. “I just did eight and a half miles in twenty-two minutes. That’s an average speed of over twenty-three miles per hour. Better than my average.” He pauses, exhales. “Maybe you’re my good luck charm. Guess we’ll find out tonight.”
I guess we will.
As I leave, I congratulate myself for sticking to the deal I just made with my brother. Well, it’s not like I was going to date Corbin in the weight room.
But still, I’ll count that exchange as a victory.