Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
COLT
We lose all pretension after that moment in her office.
No more pretending we’re “being careful.”
No more telling ourselves we’re keeping things “professional.”
Definitely no more pretending we’re casual when we’re both acting like anything but.
Over the next few weeks, it becomes a rhythm, a secret orbit we fall into without saying a word.
We’re hanging out all the time.
Sneaking around, really. Let’s list them off. Yeah. A list.
1. Her office, late afternoons
Sometimes I “drop something off.”
Sometimes she “needs help carrying something to the storage floor.”
Sometimes her door mysteriously stays locked for thirty minutes and when she opens it, she’s got messy hair and a flushed face. I even dressed up as a UPS delivery person one time.
Every time she looks at me over that desk, I swear something punches me in the chest.
I’m supposed to be her trainer.
Her younger guy.
Her little…whatever I am.
But then she touches my wrist, or laughs quietly at something stupid I say, and suddenly I’m not twenty-seven anymore.
I’m a man.
Her man.
Even if I’ll never say it out loud.
2. Early mornings at the gym
The 6 a.m. sessions are the worst.
AKA the best. So we start scheduling our workouts then, instead of evenings.
Because the gym is empty and she comes in wearing something soft and clingy, and suddenly I’m forgetting every professional guideline ever written.
I spot her through deadlifts.
Through hip thrusts.
Through rows that shouldn’t be legal in public.
She teases me under her breath, and the banter goes something like this:
“You’re staring…”
“I’m checking form.”
“Uh-huh.”
She knows exactly what she’s doing.
And I’m done for her every single time.
3. Late nights at the gym
Some nights she still comes after work to get some exercise in, sporting her pencil skirt and heels when I’m closing the place down, a schedule request I made to Damien.
I swear that’s going to kill me one day.
I turn off half the lights.
Lock the front door.
We “stretch.”
And that always, always leads to something more.
But we never talk about what it is.
She calls it fun.
She calls it casual.
I call it whatever keeps her close. We don’t need labels.
4. Sneaking into her building
Well, it’s not exactly sneaking, because the doorman knows me by now.
I don’t think he knows the situation, but I know he’s guessed at least part of it.
It’s fun to be a little sneaky, though.
He always smirks when he lets me up.
Some nights I bring food.
Some nights she opens the door wearing nothing but a robe.
Some nights she pulls me inside before I can even say hello.
I tell myself I’m cool with this, and that I don’t want more.
But every time I leave before sunrise, I feel it a strange ache in my ribs.
The one that feels like longing.
5. And then? Tonight.
We’re at her place again.
The lighting is warm, and the candles are lit.
Her hair is messy from the couch, and her cheeks are pink.
We’re lying tangled in her sheets, breathing in sync, her hand resting on my chest like she owns the oxygen supply in my lungs.
I could stay like this forever.
Her phone buzzes.
She reaches over lazily, glances at the screen, then snorts.
“Harper,” she says.
Her best friend.
The one who is onto the fact that she’s seeing someone. But Elena told her she’s dating someone “age appropriate,” and that her younger trainer thing was “just a crush that never materialized.”
I try to sound relaxed. “What’s she want?”
Elena reads it aloud:
“Me and some of the girls are getting drinks at The Aurora. You should come.”
I stiffen without meaning to.
The Aurora is money.
A hedge-fund-and-glitter type place.
Girls in dresses that cost more than my car.
Guys with last names that sound like law firms.
This is her world, not mine.
Elena sits up, brushing hair off her shoulder.
She looks beautiful—effortlessly beautiful, the kind of beautiful New York notices when she walks in a room.
She starts typing without looking at me.
I force a casual laugh.
“I should probably, uh…head out. Let you get ready.”
She pauses mid-text.
“You sure?”
She sounds genuinely confused, like she expected me to stay.
I swallow, and my throat feels tight.
“I—I’ve got something tonight,” I lie.
“Something?” she asks softly.
“Yeah,” I make up, pulling on my shirt.
“Family stuff. Gym stuff. Just…stuff.”
She nods slowly, like she’s trying to read me. My heart is starting to thud too hard.
Because truth is?
I want to go with her.
I want to sit beside her.
Maybe hold her hand under the table, and pretend for one night that I belong in her world.
But I don’t.
I’m her little secret.
Her trainer.
Her younger guy.
Her something fun.
I’m not someone she introduces to her friends at a fancy bar.
I grab my jacket.
“Text me later,” I say lightly.
She bites her lip.
“Yeah. Okay.”
I lean down and kiss her. It’s a soft one, a lingering one, and it takes everything in me not to stay.
When I pull back, her eyes flick over my face like she wants to ask something.
But she doesn’t.
And I don’t give her the chance.
I head for the door, trying to breathe and just act normal.
Trying not to think about how she’ll walk into that bar later, looking incredible, as I’m walking home alone.
And trying not to think about how much it bothers me.
I’m trying to be normal.
Trying to be professional.
Trying to be the version of myself that doesn’t kiss her senseless in her office, or lift her onto her kitchen counter, or stand under her shower with my hands on her hips as she gasps against my neck.
But today?
I’m nailing exactly none of that.
We wrap up her last set of Romanian deadlifts.
No touching.
No leaning in.
No “accidentally” brushing her arm.
Just… admiration.
Pure, wide-eyed, stunned admiration.
She stands there, breathing hard, sweat glistening across her collarbone, her leggings hugging her like a second skin.
I hand her a towel.
“Damn,” I murmur before I can stop myself.
She tilts her head. “What?”
“You were hot when you started training with me.”
I gesture at her, unable to hold back the grin.
“But now? Now you’re strong. Stronger than half the dudes I train. And your form is perfect. You’re… just—damn.”
Her grin spreads slow and wicked.
“So you’re saying my, ahem, derrière looks good? Is it Instagram worthy yet?”
Before I can react, she turns and gives a little half-twist, showing me.
“Elena,” I hiss, glancing around in absolute panic.
Damien is across the gym, reorganizing kettlebells with the intensity of a man rearranging his will to live.
She laughs softly. “Sorry, sorry. Not in front of Damien.”
“You think?” I whisper, rubbing my temple. “We literally hooked up here after hours last week.”
She laughs again—this low, warm sound that curls into my chest and stays there.
We move through cooldown stretches.
She’s focused, and I’m pretending to be.
When we stand up, she grabs her water bottle and says casually:
“Well… that’s the last session,” she says.
My stomach drops.
She didn’t buy more?
I try to keep my voice relaxed. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She shrugs lightly. “I’m going to Cabo in a couple of weeks. Friend’s wedding. Destination thing.”
Destination.
Wedding.
Cabo.
She hadn’t told me.
Not once. Not even…hinted at it.
Something in me tightens.
“Sounds…fun,” I say with a smile that feels too fake.
“It will be,” she says, and I’m not sure if I’m imagining the little flicker in her eyes.
She picks up her bag. “Thanks, Coach Evans.”
Her tone is joking.
Mine isn’t, when I say, “Anytime.”
We walk toward the front doors together.
Damien is glaring at us from behind a stack of protein samples like a gremlin preparing to strike.
She waves at him. In return, he gives her a stiff, suspicious nod.
“Bye, Colt,” she says, pausing at the door.
“And…thank you.”
I watch her walk out.
Through the glass of the gym, I watch her get into a cab, and then see said cab disappear down the street.
Something in me sinks lower than my stomach.
The feeling burrows right into my ribcage, where it might hurt later.
I turn back toward the gym, and see Damien is waiting for me.
Hands clasped behind his back like a school principal who’s finally caught the class clown.
“Colt,” he says, voice dripping false sweetness.
I sigh. “What now?”
He holds up his phone.
On the screen:
Footage from the gym’s security cameras.
Late night.
Lights dimmed.
Two silhouettes intertwined.
One unmistakably me.
And the other…
Well it’s not hard to figure out.
“Dude,” I whisper, feeling all the blood drain from my face. “Damien—"
He grins.
A villain’s grin.
A shark who smells blood in the water.
“I can’t believe I didn’t look at the camera footage weeks ago.”
I hold his eyes. There’s nothing for me to say, really. I did know we had one security camera. I always knew it was a risk. But it was one I was very willing to take.
“Oh, Colt,” he says in a singsong voice, smiling. “You’re so fired.”
My jaw clenches.
“Damien, you know—”
He interrupts me with a dramatic flourish of his hand.
“You…”
Another flourish.
“Are the weakest link.”
He spins on his heel.
“Goodbye.”
The word echoes around the empty gym.
And for the first time in weeks, I feel something like panic twist through me.
Not because of the job.
Because of her. What the hell am I going to tell Elena? She’s going to feel awful. Even though this wasn’t her fault.
I don’t go home right away.
I can’t.
Damien firing me wasn’t exactly a shock—the guy’s been waiting for the chance since the day I showed up with biceps bigger than his entire personality—but the timing?
The timing hits hard.
Elena walking out just before it happened…
Yeah. It stings.
So instead of heading to the train, I keep walking.
Past the traffic.
Past the honking cabs.
Past the overpriced juice place she likes.
My feet take me to Central Park without me realizing it.
The air is cold enough to bite my nose.
Joggers glide past. Dog-walkers shuffle along. A couple is arguing about subway directions.
Normal New York life.
And me?
I’m just standing there like a man who has no idea what the hell he’s supposed to do next.
I sit on a bench.
Put my elbows on my knees.
Stare at the bare trees stretching toward a gray winter sky.
What am I going to do?
I was barely scraping by as it is.
Mom’s medical bills.
My own rent.
The extra expenses I never tell anyone about.
And now I’ve lost my job, because I couldn’t stay away from Elena.
A soft laugh escapes me—humorless but real.
Maybe Damien’s right.
Maybe I am the weakest link.
I flip my phone around in my hand.
Screen on.
Screen off.
Screen on again.
Her name isn’t there.
No texts.
No “hey how’d the rest of your day go?”
No “forgot to tell you something funny.”
No “miss you.”
I start typing something anyway.
Colt: Hey. Today was…
Delete.
Colt: Guess what happened…
Delete.
Colt: So I got fired because…
Delete.
Every version sounds pathetic.
Every version sounds like I’m asking for comfort I shouldn’t need.
She told me she’s going to Cabo.
For a wedding.
A big, fancy one.
This is her world, not mine.
She never told me, until today.
Which means I’m still just…fun.
I’m a phase.
I am—I was—just a thing she’s trying on until life takes her somewhere more permanent.
Maybe it’s for the best, and we’re supposed to end here, today.
Before things get messy for real.
Before I want more.
Before she realizes I don’t fit into her world at all.
I put my phone face-down on my thigh.
Stare out across the lake.
A couple strolls by holding hands.
Unfortunately, it’s a little late for me not wanting more.
She leans her head on his shoulder, and he kisses her hair.
The ache of envy hits at full force.
I thought I didn’t want anything serious.
Thought I was fine being her secret little distraction.
But watching her walk away earlier?
Yeah.
It hurt.
My phone vibrates suddenly, and I nearly drop it.
Her name pops up.
Elena: Made it to the bar! Harper’s already drunk lol. How’s your night going?
My heart lifts…then sinks.
She doesn’t know.
She doesn’t know I got fired because of her.
She doesn’t know how messed up I feel.
She doesn’t know anything.
She’s just… checking in, innocent, friendly and casual.
Do I just suck at communicating? Am I totally misreading the situation?
I stare at her message for a long time.
I type something.
Delete it.
Type something else.
Delete that too.
I let the screen dim.
Let the message sit there, unread but burning a hole through my chest.
And for the first time since this whole thing started, I don’t text her back.
I push my phone into my jacket pocket, stand up, and walk toward the exit of the park as the city lights blink awake.
If this is the end, I guess I should let it be the end, and leave it as a shining memory.