Chapter Twenty-One
Only two more. Two more pull-ups would be impossible, but that was how many Chelsea had assigned to forget about all the men in her life—Mac, Calhoun, and Liam. Two more pull-ups could erase her thoughts, including how she’d tried to call her dead best friend.
Her lungs burned, and her arms faltered. “Two—” So close, but she didn’t let go. She growled, gritting her teeth and cursing with the wrath of cupcakes and coconuts until she inched her chin over the bar then dropped.
One left.
At that point, she would rather die on a pull-up bar than fail. Fire bit her grip, and burnout shook her muscles, but she ignored the stars threatening to form in her eyes and refused to give up.
“You’ve got this.” Liam stepped into her peripheral vision.
If Chelsea had the strength to order him away with the grinding of clamped molars and pure determination, he would’ve disappeared in a poof of transporting magic.
Instead, she clung to his encouragement and rose above the bar, huffing. “One.”
She lowered, retaining as much control as she had left, then let go.
Stars danced, her limp arm muscles dangled, and the blood rushed in her head. A dizzy spell jeopardized her ability to remain upright. But she turned toward Liam, wanting to know if he was starring in her epic hallucinations or if he was really there.
He extended a hand as if she might topple over. “Overdoing it a bit?”
She tried to steady her breathing. Offering a simple no seemed harder than her oxygen-deprived mind would allow. But she wouldn’t let him gawk as if she were near respiratory arrest. Chelsea shook out her arms and reached for her water, semi-sure she’d remain standing. “What are you doing here?”
“I left my card at the bar last night.”
She cut a questioning glance. The gym was most definitely not the bar.
He gestured in the direction of Smokey’s. “But they’re not open yet.”
Still, that didn’t explain why he was in the gym.
“And I saw your Jeep.” He ran a hand over the stubble on his jaw. It was a shade darker than his hair, and it added an unmistakable edge that she’d never noticed before. His intense eyes settled on her as if he’d said all the explanation he had to give.
The look pinned her in place, but not in an uncomfortable way. More in a way where she consciously had to remind her lungs to work. Inhale, exhale. Don’t, for all that was good and holy, pass out under his scrutiny.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Decided on a sick day?”
“No. I…” Well, she didn’t want to explain what had transpired earlier.
“Am I supposed to guess?”
She focused on her water bottle. “My boss sent me home.” Then Chelsea snuck a quick peek at him.
Liam remained like a statue, silent and waiting for her to continue.
The idea of sharing Calhoun’s ridiculous accusation was irritating. She huffed. “Apparently, I might have a drinking problem.”
Liam pressed his lips together trying to stifle his laughter.
“Hey!” It wasn’t funny.
But he chuckled.
Chelsea smacked his shoulder. “It’s not funny.”
He snickered. “Yeah, well, it kind of is.”
“How?”
“You? You’re like a gun-toting cupcake.”
Her jaw fell then snapped shut. “First off, cupcakes could have a drinking problem.”
“If cupcakes could drink.” His amusement knew no bounds.
“You just said—” Her brows pinched. “And second, I don’t have a drinking problem!” Chelsea cringed, positive that anyone within a twenty-foot radius could’ve heard her. “I don’t, and you know it. I know it.”
He didn’t stop laughing.
“This will go in my file!”
Eyes watering, Liam gasped with mock horror.
“This is your fault.”
“Totally.” He crossed his arms, nodding sarcastically. “Absolutely.”
“I would’ve gone to bed if you hadn’t shown up,” she pointed out. “And arrived at work bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.”
“You’re always bright-eyed.” He cocked a half-grin. “Maybe even bushy-tailed too, if I knew what that meant.”
Her stomach flipped even if she wanted to strangle him. “It means eager.”
“Like a beaver?”
“What? No!”
“I didn’t think so.” Liam stepped under the pull-up bar next to hers.
“What does that mean, anyway?”
“Who knows, sunshine.” He stretched then grabbed a hold of the overhead bar, effortlessly lifting his chin high.
She watched the indentations of his muscles flex and the rest of the gym, with the clang of weights and the whirl of exercise machines, faded.
With smooth finesse, Liam eased down. His sinewy muscles straightened. He wasn’t dressed for the gym. The dark jeans and cotton shirt alone would be cause for him to stand out.
But his T-shirt clung to his sculpted back and powerful shoulders.
As he continued, each steady flex and pull over the bar belied its difficulty, and Chelsea couldn’t ignore his physique.
His shoulders tapered. His backside rounded.
For the quickest moment, she pictured his backside, bare.
She could imagine how his buttocks would flex when he thrust. She could almost feel the delicious friction between her thighs if he lay over her.
She staggered back, scared how much more she wanted beyond their drunken hug. She wanted him on her, in her, caging her to his chest.
“Excuse me,” a voice pulled her back to the loud gym. “Are you using that still?”
A woman motioned to the pull-up bar next to the one Liam was using.
Chelsea didn’t move. “Yeah, sorry.”
But she wasn’t sorry one iota. Liam held himself over the bar for a beat then eased down and dropped. He clapped his hands together then worked his shoulders back.
Fidgeting with her water bottle, Chelsea couldn’t look him in the face after her imagination had gone on a tear. “Are you done?”
“Not sure. Are you?”
She clenched the bottle, finally glancing up. Exertion colored his face, but he didn’t breathe hard—barely broke a sweat—and he held her in place with only a long, undecipherable look.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Working out with you.” His eyebrows barely arched. “What did it look like I was doing?”
She glanced away again, unable to explain his actions any more than she could her thoughts. “Because that makes sense.”
“Trust me,” he mumbled. “Nothing makes sense anymore.”