Chapter 4
Chapter Four
COLT
By the time I get to my mom’s brownstone in Queens, the sun’s gone down and the November air bites sharp against my skin. I let myself in with the spare key and call out—
“Ma? I’m here.”
Her voice floats from the living room. “In here, sweetheart.”
She’s on the couch wrapped in a fleece blanket, watching some old Italian cooking show with the volume way too low. Her hair is tied in a loose bun, and she looks small tonight—smaller than usual. That always gets me.
I drop my bag and sit on the arm of the couch.
“How are you feeling?”
She shrugs one shoulder but doesn’t meet my eyes.
Not great, that shrug says.
Don’t ask.
“You take your meds?”
“Yes,” she says.
Then, with a smirk: “Did you take yours?”
I laugh and lean down to kiss the top of her head. “I don’t have meds.”
“You should. You worry too much.”
“I do not.”
“You do. You get it from me.” She pats my knee, then squints at my face. “Long day at the gym?”
“Yeah, I was there all day. Pretty normal.”
Her eyes narrow, suspicious. “Uh-huh. Anyone interesting come in?”
My stomach tightens.
This woman has known me since I was a screaming newborn, and she reads me better than anyone alive.
I keep my tone casual. “Not really.”
She makes a noise like bullshit.
I grab a water bottle from the coffee table, twist the cap, take a long drink. “Just trained a few clients. Nothing unusual.”
“Mmhmm.” She raises an eyebrow. “Is the ‘nothing unusual’ client pretty?”
Jesus.
I run a hand down my face. “Ma.”
“What?” she says, fighting a smile. “You get this look. It’s a very specific look. It’s your ‘I met someone and now I’m pretending I didn’t’ look.”
“I don’t have that look.”
“You absolutely have that look. Don’t lie to your mother.”
I sigh, staring at the blank TV reflection. And suddenly Elena’s face flashes across it. Her braid, her scrunched nose, her laugh that made something warm uncoil inside my chest.
“I was just…training,” I mumble. “Like normal.”
Mom watches me for a beat.
“Well…did she smile at you?”
I feel my ears heat. “A little.”
“Then she’s probably very nice.”
I huff out a breath. “It’s complicated.”
“It always is.”
We sit in silence for a moment while the cooking show host loudly cracks eggs into a bowl.
Finally she says, softer, “You deserve someone good, sweetheart.”
My throat tightens a little. “I’m not looking.”
She gives me that knowing side-eye. “You weren’t looking, but something found you anyway. Kind of like that fifty dollar dinner table I found at the resale shop. It found me. That’s how life works. What’s meant to find you, finds you. Whether or not you’re looking.”
I glance away because she’s too close to the truth.
And the truth is…
I can’t stop thinking about Elena.
Her laugh.
Not to mention her direct honesty, and her chaos and warmth.
The cherry on top, though, was her saying “derrière” like she was in a black-and-white French film.
Jesus.
I look down at my hands, trying to restrain a smile. “It’s not an option, Ma.”
“Why not?”
“She’s a client,” I say. “And older.”
Mom snorts. “Older just means better stories.”
I choke out a laugh.
“And my manager already warned me it looked… unprofessional.”
At that, her face changes, then softens.
I can tell she’s worried.
“Well don’t get fired over a girl,” she murmurs.
“I won’t,” I promise. “I’m keeping it professional.”
I take her empty tea mug to the kitchen, rinse it, and when I come back she’s drifting off as the TV hums quietly.
I turn off the lights, tuck the blanket around her shoulders.
On my phone screen, my calendar reminder pops up:
Thursday — 5:30 PM — Elena R.
I stare at it too long.
“Professional,” I whisper.
But my chest is already warm, already expectant, already betraying me.
I’m looking forward to seeing her.
Way more than I should if she’s just going to be a client.
Thursday, 5:27 PM
I keep checking the wall clock like it owes me money.
Professional.
It’s basically a mantra at this point.
I’ve wiped down the bench three different times. I re-racked the dumbbells in order of weight and shade of metallic paint, which is a new one for me. I even rolled out my damn quads just to kill time.
My Apple Watch buzzes.
Heart rate: 67 bpm.
Good. Calm. Controlled. Fine.
Professional.
I got this.
Footsteps sound down the hall.
My heart spikes to 76.
Calm down, Evans.
Then she appears.
And…
Oh.
Oh, I’m fucked.
Elena walks in wearing a deep forest-green matching set—a longline sports bra hugging her waist, high-waisted leggings sculpting the exact curve of her hips and thighs, the fabric buttery and perfectly fitted.
Her honey-blonde hair is in a loose braid over one shoulder, a little wavy at the ends, like she let it air-dry on the subway.
She looks soft and strong and insanely confident.
But also a little nervous.
And absolutely, undeniably gorgeous.
My throat closes, and something feels like it just punched my gut and released dopamine everywhere.
My Apple Watch buzzes again.
Heart rate: 99.
Jesus.
Get a grip, Evans.
She smiles when she sees me. “Hi.”
I gulp.
Audibly.
“Hey.”
My voice cracks like I’m thirteen.
Great start, Evans. Extremely professional.
From the desk, Damien is giving me the kind of side-eye usually reserved for criminals and people who cut in line at Trader Joe’s.
I straighten my shirt, clear my throat. “Is everything okay?” she asks, stepping closer.
“Oh—yeah. Totally.”
Professional. Say the thing.
I gesture vaguely, like I’ve forgotten how arms work.
“So, um, before we start, I wanted to—uh—talk for a sec.”
She tilts her head. “About what?”
I inhale.
“Just…we need to keep things…professional.”
Her eyebrows shoot up.
“Professional?”
“Yeah. You know. Boundaries. Protocols. Gym environment. Corporate standards. And—”
She cuts in, deadpan: “Look. Can you be honest for a sec?”
“Of course.”
“Do you have a girlfriend or something? A wife?” I notice her eyes narrowing toward my left hand.
I bark-laugh. Loud. Way too loud. Damien flinches behind the desk like I startled him.
“Sorry—no.” I shake my head. “Bone dry right now. My sex life is like the Sahara Desert.”
“Oh.”
“My last ex traumatized me.”
Her eyes widen. “Mine too.”
Obviously, I think, but manage not to say out loud. If you were mine, forget foreplay. You’d be riding my face on the nightly.
We stare at each other for half a second too long.
I clear my throat again. “Anyway. This is a gym. We’re professionals here. So, uh…no flirting.”
She follows my gaze to Damien, who suddenly becomes VERY invested in organizing the towel display and keeping us in his peripheral vision.
“No flirting,” she repeats seriously. “Absolutely not. I would never. I wouldn’t dream of getting you in trouble, Football Boy.”
I choke.
“That is flirting,” I say. “When you call me a name like that.”
She smirks. “Okay, fine. How about…Mr. Evans?”
“That’s worse,” I say.
She leans in a little. Whisper-soft: “Sir?”
I swear my soul leaves my body.
She immediately bursts into laughter. “Oh my God, I need to stop. I’m sorry. I’m really trying here.”
I collect what remains of my dignity. “Thank you. Appreciated.”
“Seriously,” she says, exhaling dramatically, “I am not flirting with you. At all. Zero. None. I just…really need to get laid tonight by my date, and saying stupid things is my coping mechanism. This is absolutely not flirting.”
I nod slowly. “Right. Of course.”
“And I do not find you attractive in the slightest.”
My mouth twitches. “That’s more like it.”
She grins at me.
“I mean it,” she adds, lifting her chin. “Not attracted. Not even a little. I see you and feel nothing. Zero. Way too young.”
“Mhm.”
“Complete emotional neutrality.”
“Good.”
“You could be a lamp,” she says.
I laugh. “A lamp?”
“A floor lamp,” she clarifies. “Very tall. Provides warm lighting. But a lamp.”
I scrub a hand over my face. “This is the least professional conversation I’ve ever had in my life.”
She shrugs. “You started it.”
“I did not.”
“You said boundaries.”
“Yes. And this—” I gesture between us “—is not boundaries.”
“Well,” she says cheerfully, “at least I’m dressed professionally.”
I glance down at her outfit again.
My heart does another stupid jump.
“Right,” I say weakly. “Very professional.”
She beams. “So…ready to train me, Lamp Man?”
I groan. “Please don’t call me that.”
“You prefer Football Boy?”
“No.”
“Sir?”
“Elena.”
“Yes?”
I take a long, grounding breath.
Because I need it.
Because…she’s funny, too? This woman is going to ruin me.
“Let’s start with warm-ups,” I say.
“Great,” she says brightly. “But no flirting.”
“No flirting,” I echo.
We lock eyes.
We both immediately look away.
Damien coughs pointedly from the desk.
And I know, with painful, absolute clarity…
I am in so much trouble.
“Alright,” I say, trying to mask how off-balance she’s made me. “Let’s hit the treadmill for a quick warmup jog.”
She steps closer, just within my orbit, and whispers—soft, conspiratorial, definitely out of earshot of anyone else:
“Besides, Colt…like I said, even if you are cute, you’re twelve years younger than me.”
Cute.
The word hits harder than it should.
My throat goes dry. “Uh. Thanks?”
She smirks. “It wasn’t a compliment.”
“Sure.”
“It wasn’t.”
I gesture to the treadmill. “Warmup. Now.”
She hops on, presses the speed button with a dramatic flourish, and starts jogging. I step onto the one next to her.
Professional.
No flirting, just running.
“Why are you next to me?” she asks, eyes forward.
“Form check.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“It absolutely is.”
She glances sideways, breath steady. “You want to stare at me while I run.”
“I want to, uh, evaluate your stride.”
She lifts a brow. “Uh-huh.”
I stare straight ahead. “Keep your shoulders relaxed.”
“They are relaxed.”
“No, they’re tense.”
“Maybe they’re tense because a tall floor lamp is judging me.”
I cough. “Okay—can you not?”
She grins. “No flirting. Promise.”
“That was flirting.”