Chapter 2
MILES
Iswear to God: some people shouldn’t be let out of the house. Especially this fuckstick doing lat pulldowns beside me.
We’ve all let out a grunt or two at the gym, but this guy’s sounds are… I mean, I’m no pearl clutcher, but let’s just say there’s a time and a place for sex noises and a busy gym on a Tuesday morning ain’t it. Not even the music in my headphones can drown this dude out.
A glance at the clock on the wall reveals it’s a few minutes past six.
For fuck’s sake.
When I catch Gus’ eye across the gym, he grimaces—and not just from the pair of eighty-pound dumbbells he’s shoulder pressing. He sets them down and gives the moaner a long side-eye, then mouths what the fuck my way.
I shrug and shake my head, then set up for my next set of squats at the rack.
It’s not only me and my best friend who’ve noticed this morning’s human train wreck; everyone within a twenty-foot radius has the same awkward look on their face.
I can’t tell if the guy’s doing it on purpose or if he’s straight up oblivious but, either way, it’s uncomfortable as fuck—like making eye contact with a dog while it’s shitting.
But I try not to judge. It’s not like I’ve always been on my best behavior in public.
I know what it’s like to be stared at. Whispered about. Hell, probably pitied.
But, even at my messiest, I never pulled this kind of shit.
At least, I fucking hope not.
I readjust my headphones and wipe my forehead with the hem of my T-shirt.
It tugs at my nose as I let it drop, and my eyes flit to the TV screen in the corner.
Some politics shit on the news, as usual.
No fucking thank you. They couldn’t put on sports highlights or something?
Hell, I’d settle for golf, and golf makes me want to poke out my eyeballs.
Gus walks over as I finish my set and rack the weight. I pull my headphones down to my neck and the din of the gym whooshes around my skull.
He jerks his chin at the TV. “What’s this dickhead yappin’ about now?”
“Fuck if I know.” I lift my gaze to the screen again, where red-nosed Senator Pete Brennan drones on about urban density regulations and preserving the character of town centers. “Probably a bunch of whiny boomer shit.”
“So fucking oblivious,” Gus sighs, smoothing over his mustache. “Can’t believe this guy is running for governor.”
“Yeah, more like Gover-no-thank-you.”
He smirks at the weak joke—admittedly, not my best work. “You almost done?”
“Uh, I was gonna do a bit more, actually. They need you at the station early?”
He rolls his shoulders. “Yeah. Nothing major. Just some lines down and shit after last night. More overnight calls than usual. Figure the crew could use a hand unloading.”
Typical October in this small town. Rain, windstorms, power failures. Keeps Gus and the rest of the Lennox Valley Fire Department busy, though.
“Shay’s gonna stop by too. Pick up the last of her things.”
I pause, spray bottle and towel in hand. “She didn’t change her mind about Lumpy, did she?”
I’ve gotten quite attached to Gus’ long-suffering black cat. Officially named Coal—but unofficially Lump of Coal, Mr. Lumps, Lumpy, Sir Lumps-a-lot, or any variation on the theme—he’s my favorite fuzzball, next to my brother’s golden retriever, Murphy.
Gus cracks a smile. “Nah, you’re good. I got Lumps in the divorce.”
It’s still weird to hear him say he’s divorced. At least it was amicable—which is also weird, to me anyway. I’ve never managed to stay friends with an ex.
“Okay,” I say, lifting my chin. “Catch you… what, Thursday, I guess?” Gus’ shift work always fucks with my head. I don’t know how he copes with working twenty-four hours straight.
“Yeah. Send me a selfie or something when you get here tomorrow.”
I do a mock salute in response.
“And not a pic of your ass this time, dipshit.” He chucks me on the shoulder and heads for the shower.
“You said you wanted proof I got my ass to the gym!” I call after him, but he doesn’t look back.
Gus could work out at the station instead, but he knows the accountability is good for me, so he tags along whenever he can swing it. Plus, we both have physical jobs; working out together keeps us on our game—and helps keep me sober.
I unlock my phone and pull up the Lump-sized lobster costume I found online, tapping my way through the checkout.
Something to celebrate their bachelorhood?
Honestly, any excuse to dress up that ridiculous fucking cat.
I double-check I got the biggest size, make sure the shipping address is set to Gus’ house, and place the order.
Lumpster. Nice.
Beside me, the moaner drops his weights with a loud crack and I flinch. My amusement instantly evaporates when I watch him walk off without wiping down his machine, because of course he fucking doesn’t. I clench my fists, then let go.
The guy’s probably in his twenties but has kind of a dad-bod going on.
Curly blond hair sticks out from under a newsboy cap—of all fucking things to wear to the gym.
He doesn’t seem like your average gym rat.
I hope with every fiber of my being that means I won’t have to put up with his weird bullshit again tomorrow—sounding like he’s gonna come in his pants on the damn treadmill.
Reminding myself to focus on my workout, I scroll through my playlists.
I’m pulling my headphones back up when I catch sight of a blonde near one of the stationary bikes across the room. I haven’t seen her here before; I’d definitely remember her if I had.
You know that phrase a sight for sore eyes? I’m suddenly living it. Everything offensive around me dulls, my senses now tuned to supple curves and long, toned legs. I let out a slow exhale. Fuck me, she’s got a nice pair of legs.
But she also looks like she probably spent more on that fancy-ass water bottle dangling from her manicured fingers than I did on whatever random T-shirt and shorts I grabbed on the way out the door.
I glance down to double-check my shirt isn’t on inside-out.
Thankfully, I seem to have had two functional brain cells to rub together when I zombie-lurched out of bed this morning.
Catching myself staring, I thumb at my phone and crank my music, now needing to drown out two very different distractions. But I’ve barely finished one set of lunges when the moaner rolls up beside me again and grabs a couple twenty-pound dumbbells, setting up at the bench to my right.
Lord, give me the strength.
I get through another set of ten reps before letting my attention wander again to the stationary bike. Well, technically, to the bike’s current occupant.
Her curly hair is tied up in one of those on-purpose messy buns girls do, with little ringlets framing her face in all the perfect places.
It’s less I woke up like this and more I spent an hour in the mirror getting this right.
One neon yellow sports bra strap peeks out from under a loose-fitting crop top that slips off her shoulder.
When she leans forward onto the handlebars, I remind myself not to look down her top.
This gym has reached its creeper quota in spades today; I don’t need to be that guy.
Plus, I’m sure the last thing she wants is some scruffy dumbass like me ogling her. She looks fancy and put-together—my polar opposite.
When the moaner gets back on his bullshit beside me, louder than before, I cut him a wary glance.
I have half a mind to say something, but I let it slide; I don’t have the energy to take on a gym creep before six-thirty in the morning.
This guy isn’t gonna scare me off, though.
I return to my lunges, determined to put my head down and wrap this up so I can get to work.
Finished with my last set, I rack the dumbbells and wipe my brow again, unable to resist flicking my gaze to the bikes as I let my T-shirt drop—and try not to react when I catch a certain someone looking back at me.
She quickly averts her eyes.
We both do, though I can’t suppress a private smirk.
Caught ya.
Focusing on my reflection in the mirror, I stretch my quads, frowning as the moaner ramps up again beside me.
Fuck, buddy. Give it a rest.
I’m determined to block out his weird ass.
Ass.
That girl has a great ass.
Fuck. No. Focus up.
Movement in the mirror catches my attention, and I drop my leg as the blonde climbs off the bike and heads for the cleaning spray. Her cheeks are flushed pink from her warm-up and… Damn. She’s beautiful.
I’m about to set up for calf raises when she settles into the chest press machine nearby, and my lats suddenly feel like they need some attention.
It’s Tuesday. Tuesday is leg day. It’s always leg day.
Or… it was until this girl walked in here.
On a whim, I abandon my calf raises plan and set up shop on the other side of her machine.
What am I doing?
Sure, I might be single, but single and fit for consumption are very different things. But, when our gazes lock and she gives me a sheepish smile, I hold my breath.
Oh, yeah. Calf raises can get fucked.
I’ve never seen eyes like hers before. They’re like a damn tropical ocean, or maybe one of those glacial lakes up in Canada that are almost turquoise. Like pools of light and calm. They’re fucking gorgeous.
Aggressive moaning cuts into the moment, and we both turn to the asshole nearby. When she looks back at me, eyes wide in a bewildered kind of amusement, I have to suppress a laugh. I screw up my face, hoping my expression reads half that guy’s a fuckwad and half sorry about men, generally.
With another small twitch of her lips that nudges my attention toward places it can’t go, she returns to her workout, tapping at something on her watch.
Her watch.
Shit. What time is it?