Chapter 2 #2
Checking my phone jars me back to reality; I’ve gotta be at work in half an hour or Dave will chew me out and I can’t let that happen.
That was the old Miles. Showing up late and hungover was the kind of crap that got my ass fired back in Seattle.
Mouthing off to the foreman didn’t help, either.
While my impulsive and smartass tendencies are partly my ADHD and can’t solely be blamed on drinking, still—that shit ain’t cute when you’re pushing thirty.
New Miles, though? New Miles is sober. Healthy. Going to therapy and AA. Sticking to the rules. Taking his meds. Learning about how his damn brain works. Grinding away at the gym every day and eating fucking vegetables and showing up on time for work.
I’m not gonna let myself fuck it all up again. Rock bottom isn’t a place you wanna visit twice.
I’m about to go hit the showers when the moaner strolls up beside me with his hands on his hips, staring right at her. Sliding my headphones off one ear, I turn down my music, already on my guard. I’ve put up with this obnoxious prick long enough.
“Y’know,” he says to her, “you should really watch how much weight you’re lifting. You don’t wanna get too bulky.”
The fuck?
Her weights clack down and she cautiously pulls out an earbud. “Pardon me?” she asks, her tone far more polite than this dude deserves. “I couldn’t hear—”
“I was saying,” he says, and I push off my machine to stand, “women shouldn’t lift too heavy if—”
“This guy bothering you?” My voice comes out louder than I meant it to.
“Uh…” Her eyes flit between us, lingering on mine for a beat.
The moaner immediately takes a step back and, when he clocks all six feet, four inches of me, visibly swallows. “Naw, man, sorry, I was just—”
“You were just giving unsolicited advice to a woman trying to work out in peace.” I barely stop myself from blurting out that he doesn’t look like he knows the first thing about how—or how not—to get bulky.
“I wasn’t—”
“Do better,” I cut him off. “I promise you, my girl can make her own fucking decisions about how she exercises.”
I glance her way, seeing surprise light her features at the words that fell out of my mouth. My girl. She’s not mine. Hell, I don’t even know her name. But this dickhead doesn’t need to know that.
“Sorry,” he says, holding up his hands. “Didn’t realize you were with—”
“Doesn’t matter who I am. You shouldn’t be approaching women at the gym, period.”
“Sorry, man,” he repeats, then throws a contrite face her way. “Just… sorry.”
When he fucks off, I open my mouth to check if she’s okay, but she speaks first.
“Thank you,” she says, her gaze slipping from mine, lingering for a beat on the honeybee inked on my left thigh before darting between the few onlookers nearby. She seems nervous.
Awareness slowly settles in—that I assumed she needed my help. Maybe she wanted to handle the moaning dingus herself.
Crap. Did I misread this?
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to…” I gesture uselessly at the retreating asshole, second-guessing everything.
“Wasn’t sure if…” I glance at the clock again and pull off my ball cap to smooth back my sweaty hair.
I gotta get out of here, but I don’t wanna run off on her yet—especially when I can’t finish a fucking sentence. Replacing my hat, I ask, “You okay?”
“Oh, yeah, I’m…” She makes a gesture like she’s waving it all off. “He was…”
I arch a tentative brow as I pick up my water bottle. “Fucking weird?”
Her eyes snap to mine, and she lets out a little laugh. “Uh, yeah. That’s one way to put it.”
I catch sight of the guy heading for the exit. Good riddance.
“Uh, look,” I say, turning back to her, “I hate to just take off here, but I need to get to work.”
“You know what?” Her shoulders drop and she stands, coming around from the machine. “I’m actually leaving too. I can walk you out.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m… I’m not really feeling it today.
The wind kept me up last night.” She quickly wipes down her machine, then hands me the spray bottle and towel.
“I also haven’t been here before, and I’m feeling kind of…
I dunno,”—she scrunches her nose, looking around the place—“out of my element, I guess?”
“Yeah, well,” I say, wiping down my machine, “I bet that asshole’s sex noises didn’t help.”
She tilts her head.
Fuck. Why did I mention sex?
“So, you wanna get outta here, or…?” I quickly replace the cleaning spray in its wall bracket and lift my chin toward the elevator. When she nods, we do an awkward little start-stop routine as we head for the exit. She’s taller than I thought. I could probably rest my chin on her head.
Whoa. What the fuck am I thinking?
Dismissing the mental image, I throw a glance toward the men’s locker room as we collect our gym bags. Guess I’ll have to change in my truck, and the guys on the job site will have to deal with me skipping the shower, because smelling good just took a back seat to spending another few minutes with…
I still don’t know her name. Shit.
“I’m Miles, by the way.” I hit the elevator button.
“Caroline.” She slings her gym bag over her shoulder.
Caroline.
“Like the song, right? Sweet Caroline?” I narrowly avoid belting out the iconic baah-baah-baah, calling it a win that, for once, I didn’t blurt the first thought in my head.
And that I didn’t fucking sing.
“Ugh, no,” she groans, dropping her shoulders as the doors slide open in front of us.
“No?” I follow her into the elevator, a bit thrown by her response.
Did I hear the wrong name?
“I mean, yes, Caroline, no to…” Juggling her water bottle and phone, she pulls a thick-looking hoodie out of her gym bag. “Sorry, I just really hate that song.”
Shit. She probably gets called Sweet Caroline all the time. And I should know better; I’ve had more than my share of song references because of my name. Regret flits through my stomach and I drop my gaze to her feet.
“Oh, uh,” I start. “Your shoelace is untied.”
“Oh?” She looks down, moving like she’s gonna fix it, but stops when she realizes her hands are full. “Okay, I’ll get it in a minute, I—”
“Nah, I got it.” On impulse, I swing my gym bag out of the way and kneel.
It’s only when I’m halfway through tying her shoe that I realize I’ve just met this woman and I’ve literally dropped to her feet.
And, God damn, now her beautiful legs are inches from my face and all I wanna do is slide my palms up these perfect calves…
I swallow, my movements slowing as I snug the bow tight. I flick an uneasy glance upward, catching the surprise in her expression.
What’s wrong with me?
“Um, thanks,” she says, her voice a little breathy.
C’mon, Miles. Be less of a wang. Fix this.
Slowly, I push to stand, but can’t seem to tear my eyes from hers as I straighten to my full height.
When the elevator door opens, I force myself to put some space between us and follow her through the lobby.
Momentarily distracted by the sight of her ass in those yoga pants, I have to rush to grab the door for her, willing myself to get my shit together.
Outside, the sun hasn’t come up quite yet, but the sky is already glowing in warm tones that contrast with the crisp fall air.
“So, you hate Sweet Caroline, huh?” I ask as she turns to face me on the sidewalk, her blonde curls catching the golden, orangey light.
“Is that ’cause you’re not sweet, or what?
” When she hesitates, I forge ahead, hoping I can smooth things over.
“Or you don’t like classic party songs? Or did Neil Diamond, like, murder your second cousin or something? ”
“Can’t believe you’d bring up the unsolved murder of my second cousin.”
Her grin is infectious, and I’m flooded with relief that I seem to have swerved awkward weirdo and landed on awkwardly charming weirdo. She’s doing nothing to dissuade me, even if every flirtatious word falling out of my face goes against my better judgment.
“Wow,” I say, rocking back on my heels. “I’ve really done a number on you, huh? First I put my foot in my mouth about your name, and now this.”
“Right? I’m gonna have to unpack this in therapy later.”
“Rough!” I laugh, clutching at my chest like she’s wounded me. I can’t tell whether she’s got a snarky, teasing side or she’s actually in therapy—or both. Green flag, any way you slice it. “Starting to think you aren’t sweet after all.”
“Maybe I contain multitudes,” she fires back.
Okay, I guess this flirting thing can go both ways.
“Well, if it’s any consolation, my therapist will be hearing all about you too.”
“Yeah?” Her brows quirk in confusion as she tucks her water bottle and phone into her gym bag.
“Y’know, about how I bravely rescued you from the moaning gym creep.”
“Right, right.” She readjusts her bag on her shoulder, then drapes her hoodie over it.
“Aaaaand then biffed it by being completely unoriginal and bringing up a song you can’t stand.” I take a swig of my water, still kicking myself. It’s one of those small things that doesn’t matter but, thanks to my anxiety, will haunt me nonetheless.
“You didn’t biff it,” she reassures me.
I tilt my head, not so sure. “Rookie move, really, because I actually get the song thing. My best friend likes to find any excuse to torture me musically. 500 Miles. Miles Away. I Can See for Miles…” I should stop, but I don’t.
“Miles to Go. A Thousand Miles… Honestly, if I ever tell him I’m going downtown, it’s over. ”
She squints in thought. “Because you’re… making your way downtown?”
I nod. “Bingo.”
There’s an amused wonder in her blue-green eyes. “How often does that come up?”
“You’d be surprised how much Gus sings. He’s uh… kinda aggressive about it.”
“Well, I guess that explains why you’re seeing a therapist.” She tilts her head, one brow arching up.
Laughter puffs out of me when her joke lands. “I’m gonna tell him you said that.”
“Oh, God, please don’t!” She holds out her hands like she can wave her words away. “I was just joking!”
“No way. It’s too good. He’ll find it funny. Promise.”
A chilly breeze kicks up, sweeping her blonde curls forward. She tucks a stray one behind her ear.
“So, what do you think that guy’s deal was?” Caroline asks, juggling her bag so she can pull on her hoodie.
In her moment of distraction, I let my own attention wander. My gaze slips down her neck and across her collarbone to that neon yellow bra strap before traveling even lower. Her shirt looks so soft and—shit. I snap my eyes skyward when I notice her nipples have hardened from the chill outside.
“Sorry, what?” I swallow, willing my thoughts to stop spinning through a thousand ways I could warm her up.
“That creepy guy.”
“Right.” I remind myself not to get lumped into that same category, grateful when she zips up her hoodie—though I can’t help but notice the way it hugs her curves.
Caroline shrugs against the cold as she shoulders her gym bag once more. “Like, do you think he travels around town, moaning inappropriately everywhere he goes, or…?”
I rub the back of my neck. “I dunno. Yeah, maybe tomorrow he’ll be at a restaurant or some shit, alienating everyone with his foodgasms.”
Her eyes dance with amusement. “Just leaving abject horror in his wake.”
“Yeah, like some kind of… socially repellent motorboat.” I almost wince as the words leave my mouth.
Great. Impress her with some unhinged brain connection. Women love that.
She does that cute nose scrunch again and her full lips quirk with uncertainty.
Forcing myself to stop looking at her mouth, I remind myself I’m not trying to impress her.
I shouldn’t still be flirting with her, even if my execution is a little rusty and she’s getting more verbal diarrhea than anything else.
And I better not mention motorboats again if I’m gonna have any hope in hell of keeping my mind off her boobs.
Look anywhere else, dumbass.
“Uh, listen…” I lean in, dropping my voice slightly. “Didn’t mean to call you my girl back in the gym. I wasn’t thinking. I just—”
“No, no, it’s fine. Really. It was effective, right?”
“Yeah, I guess he backed down pretty fast,” I admit.
She rubs her arms, snagging my focus. Her hoodie looks warm and, like everything else she’s wearing, expensive.
Once again, I find myself hoping I’m not too scruffy in comparison. Probably should’ve shaved. My stubble is quickly approaching beard territory, and I’m starting to look like my fucking brother.
Another cold breeze sweeps past and, when Caroline shifts slightly, her gym bag slips off her shoulder.
Without thinking, I step toward her and gently set the strap back in place.
Those ocean eyes lift to mine as her lips part slightly, and her subtle, sweet scent—vanilla, maybe?—has me inhaling a bit longer, a bit deeper, like I might hold on to it.
For the second time in the last few minutes, I’m acutely aware of how close we’re standing. As I let my hand drop, my fingers lightly graze her arm.
Accidentally. Probably accidentally.
“Sorry,” I mumble, taking a step back, and rub my jaw.
“It’s okay. Thanks.” She brushes the spot where I touched her arm with her fingertips, then steps aside to let an old man pass between us on the narrow sidewalk.
The interruption is insignificant, but it’s enough to snap us both out of whatever trance we’d fallen into.
“Wait. Didn’t you say you had to get to work? ”
“Oh, fuck.” My heart kicks at the realization, and I look over my shoulder toward my parked truck.
We’re only down the block from the construction site, but I still need to change.
I quickly check the time; I’m gonna have to jog there at this point.
“Yeah, I should go.” Walking backward a few steps, I keep my eyes trained on Caroline, reluctance to leave battling with the need to get to work.
Fucking New Miles and his adult responsibilities.
“Hey, thanks again for telling that guy off,” she calls after me.
“Oh, yeah, uh, no problem.” I smile, the moaner already a distant memory.
“See you around?” There’s a hopeful note in her voice, and my blood starts thrumming.
Shit, that’s a bad sign.
I can’t risk this kind of distraction. Not yet.
“Yeah, hope so.” As I turn to leave, I stumble slightly on a fallen twig but manage to recover with my dignity intact. Mostly intact.
Fucking windstorm did me dirty.