3. Luke
Luke
The stockroom at Mr. and Mrs. Peplinska’s grocery store smells like cardboard, dust, and the faint metallic tang of canned goods.
Maybe it’s just me, but I kinda love the stockroom!
I’ve got a clipboard in one hand, a black marker in the other, and a towering stack of coconut milk cans that refuses to cooperate with my brain.
“Hmm… twelve, thirteen… wait, did I already count that row?” I mutter, tapping the marker against my lip.
As I move around, my hair keeps slipping forward and tickling eyebrows, but I barely notice. Because my mind isn’t here in this dusty little room…
My thoughts are back at the gym yesterday morning, replaying the exact moment a six-foot-something mountain of muscle named Mason stepped in and saved me from turning myself into a pancake under a barbell.
God, he was hot.
Like, unfairly hot.
The kind of hot that makes your stomach do little flips even hours later.
Those broad shoulders stretching his tank top, the dark scruff on his jaw, the way his voice dropped low and stern when he told me the gym wasn’t a playroom. Little one. He called me little one. Just thinking about it sends a warm shiver straight down my spine and settles low in my belly.
I shift my weight from one foot to the other, pressing my thighs together without meaning to. My nipples are already tight against the soft cotton of my work t-shirt, and there’s a definite throb between my legs that has nothing to do with unpacking groceries.
I glance at the stockroom door.
I can’t, can I?
Or… it’s only got a simple slide bolt on the inside. No one ever comes back here during morning restock unless they absolutely have to. Mrs. Peplinska is up front chatting with customers, and Mr. Peplinska is doing the produce order in the back alley.
I could just… lock it for two minutes. Maybe three. Long enough to slip my hand down the front of my jeans and—
Click.
My heart leaps into my throat as the door swings open. I spin around so fast I nearly knock the entire pyramid of coconut milk cans over. They wobble dangerously. I throw my arms out like I’m herding kittens and manage to steady the stack just in time.
“Luke, honey? How’s that delivery coming along?” Mrs. Peplinska’s kind face appears around the doorframe, silver curls bouncing as she tilts his head.
“F-f-f-f-fine!” I squeak, cheeks burning hotter than the pre-workout I drank yesterday. “Totally fine. Just… counting. Lots of counting.”
Mrs. Peplinska’s eyes crinkle with amusement. She’s in her late sixties but still runs this place like she’s twenty-five, and she’s got that all-knowing mom look that makes me feel about five years old.
“Mmhmm. That’s the same dreamy look my Henry used to put on my face back when we were courting. Plenty of time to think about handsome young men after your shift, dear. Don’t go dropping my coconut milk because of it.”
I let out a mortified little laugh and nod so hard I’m surprised my head doesn’t fall off my body!
“Yes, Mrs. P. Sorry,” I say. “I’m focused now. Promise.”
Mrs. Peplinska chuckles warmly and backs out, letting the door swing shut behind her. The second she’s gone, I sag against the metal shelving and press both hands to my flaming face.
“Oh my gosh, Luke, get it together,” I whisper.
But even as I say it, my brain helpfully supplies an image of Mason’s big hands gripping the barbell like it weighed nothing, the way his forearm muscles flexed, the stern set of his mouth when he told me I was training with him from now on.
No buts. It’s you and me now, little one.
A fresh wave of heat rolls through me. I squeeze my thighs together again and bite my lip. Maybe I can still…
No. Nope. Focus. Cans. Stock sheet. Work.
I force myself back to the clipboard and start counting properly this time, muttering the numbers out loud like a chant. It helps… a little. But every time I bend down to grab another case, I imagine Mason’s eyes on me, that deep voice telling me to be careful, to do it right.
By the time I finish the last pallet, I’m flushed, a little sweaty, and seriously considering whether I need to keep a spare pair of briefs in my locker.
The rest of the morning drags, but I manage to stay mostly professional. When my shift finally ends, I practically skip out the door and head straight to the diner two blocks away.
Taron is already in our usual booth by the window, sipping a strawberry milkshake with extra whipped cream and a cherry on top. His hair is shiny as ever, and he’s wearing an oversized pastel hoodie that screams Little energy. My wonderful friend lights up the second he sees me.
“Spill,” Taron says before I’ve even sat down. “Milo texted me you had a moment at the gym yesterday.”
I slide into the booth, grab the milkshake, and take a long, fortifying slurp before I answer.
“Okay, yes. Moment. Capital M. Mason… the Mason, Connor’s friend, literally saved me from squishing myself under a bench press like a cartoon character.
Then he went all stern and authoritative and told me I’m training with him from now on.
Called me little one.” I fan myself dramatically.
“Taron, I almost melted into a puddle right there on the gym floor.”
Taron grins, eyes sparkling.
“Mason’s a good guy,” Taron says. “Like, genuinely. Kaleb says he’s solid. But… he doesn’t date much. Works those long stints on the oil rig. Months away at a time. It’s why he’s been single forever.”
I stir the milkshake with the straw, watching the whipped cream swirl. “Yeah, that’s what I figured. I don’t want to catch feelings for someone who’s just going to disappear for four months. Been there, done that with the whole ‘guy with a complicated life’ thing. Patrick 2.0, no thank you.”
Taron reaches across and squeezes my hand.
“Then don’t catch feelings yet. Just… go for the training.
Let the big grumpy mountain man spot you.
Win that contest against Milo. And see what happens.
Worst case, you get stronger and some serious eye candy.
Best case…” He waggles his eyebrows. “You get yourself a Daddy who can deadlift you and the barbell.”
I laugh, but there’s a nervous flutter in my chest. “I was supposed to meet him again this morning and he didn’t show. So maybe he already changed his mind.”
Taron shrugs. “Or maybe he had a reason. Give him a chance to explain. You’re going back tomorrow, right?”
I nod, trying to sound casual even though my stomach is doing excited little somersaults. “Yeah. I’ll go. At least for the competition. I need those victory pancakes.”
We spend the rest of lunch giggling over milkshakes and gossiping about Milo’s surprise road trip with Connor.
By the time I hug Taron goodbye and head to my afternoon shift at Jonathan Melville’s stationary store, I feel lighter.
I’m still distracted by thoughts of Mason, but in a warm, buzzy kind of way instead of a frantic one.
The stationary store is quiet this time of day.
Jonathan’s in the back doing inventory, so I’m manning the front counter with a half-finished crossword puzzle and a pack of glitter gel pens.
I’m tapping my pen against the paper, trying to think of a seven-letter word for gruff but ridiculously attractive mountain man, when the little bell above the door jingles.
I look up.
And there he is.
Mason. In dark jeans, a fitted black Henley that does nothing to hide how broad his chest is, and that same serious expression that makes my knees feel wobbly. His eyes lock on mine and something electric crackles in the air between us.
“Well, well, well,” I say, folding my arms and tilting my head in my best sassy Little pose. “Look who decided to show up after missing gym this morning. Some spotter you are.”
Mason’s mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile. He walks straight to the counter, all six-foot-whatever of him, and rests one big hand on the wood.
“Yeah. About that,” Mason begins. “I overslept. Long night at the Lantern with Kaleb. Won’t happen again. Trust me.”
I raise an eyebrow, trying to ignore how good he smells, like clean soap and something woody. “We’ll see about that, mister. I might have to start marking you tardy.”
Mason chuckles, low and rough, and the sound goes straight between my legs. “You planning on keeping attendance, Luke?”
I shrug, biting back a grin. “Maybe.”
Mason reaches into the notebook display on the counter and picks up a sturdy black A4 one with a simple leather-look cover. He sets it down in front of me along with a pack of pens.
“This is for you,” Mason says, handing me some money. “Training log. Every session, every lift, every PR. You write it down. I check it. No more flying solo on heavy bench attempts.”
I stare at the notebook, then up at him.
Something soft and warm blooms in my chest. It’s such a simple thing, but the fact that he thought of it… that he wants to help me track my progress… it feels thoughtful. Caring, even.
“That’s… actually really sweet,” I say quietly, running my fingers over the cover. “Thank you.”
Mason grunts, but his ears go a little pink. “Don’t push it, little one.”
There it is again. Little one. My breath catches. The air between us feels thick, charged. I can practically feel the heat rolling off his big body. For a second I wonder if he’s going to reach across the counter and—
The moment stretches. Then Mason clears his throat and steps back.
“Tomorrow,” Mason barks. “Don’t be late.”
“I won’t if you won’t,” I fire back, but my voice comes out breathier than I intended.
He gives me one last long look—dark eyes tracing over my face, my lips, then quickly away—before he pays for the notebook and pens and heads out.
The bell jingles behind Mason and I stand there for a full ten seconds, heart racing, before I flip open the brand-new notebook. On the first blank page, in glitter gel pen, I doodle a little cartoon version of Mason.
Broad shoulders, stern eyebrows… and, because I’m clearly a menace to myself, a very large, very happy erection straining against his imaginary gym shorts.
I giggle, cheeks burning, and quickly turn to a fresh page to start an actual training log header.
But I leave the doodle right where it is.
For my eyes only.
The rest of my shift passes in a happy haze. I catch myself smiling at nothing, replaying the way Mason looked at me, the way he said little one like it was the most natural thing in the world.
By the time I lock up and head home, I’m buzzing with anticipation for tomorrow morning.
I might not be ready to catch big feelings for a guy who disappears for months at a time… but I am definitely ready to let Mason spot me on the bench press and help me come out on top against Milo.
And maybe, just maybe, I’m ready to let him boss me around a little while we’re at it.
Because something tells me training with Mason is going to be a whole lot more fun than I expected…