Chapter 31. Brynn
brYNN
I need to clear my head after the week I’ve had. Been eyeing this gym’s three floors of fit, sweaty bodies from the street and its first-month-free deal in the window on my way home from work for weeks; I’ve missed working out.
I should know within the month if I’m going to get a full-time offer. I push through the glass doors and fill out the paperwork, excited to disappear for the next couple of hours.
Except.
The last person I expected to see appears to be a fellow member.
Micah’s beautiful hands grip the long bar at the lat pulldown machine.
Some guy I don’t recognize goes over to talk to him.
I turn and walk the other way.
He insisted we dance last night. I got caught up in his brown-suede eyes and forgot where I was, relishing having his attention to myself.
Then Donovan made that comment—aimed at Micah, sure, but it cut me too.
The earlier praise and encouragement from coworkers I hadn’t met before fell away, degrading me to the intern who messes with her boss.
My hard work this past month and a half, erased.
I gawk a little at the eye candy around this place as I decide what to do first. The militant rows of cardio machines facing the TV screens scream of boredom. Maybe I’ll take a class and hide somewhere in the back. Working out with others tends to motivate me.
Before I met Cody, I played soccer and ran cross-country.
I was a decent endurance runner, could chill in my head for miles.
I stopped running spring of junior year, about the same time we started dating.
He’d pout his lips until I agreed to go with him to Starbucks or the deli after school.
Skipping practice once turned into twice a week.
Coach cut me from the team, thought I’d gotten lazy.
But I just loved being with Cody and didn’t want him to be with anyone else.
I knew other girls would be all too willing.
A small crowd gathers outside one of the studios.
I shuffle in behind them, trying to act like a regular.
The bikini-bod instructor calls the class together, her eyelash extensions focused on me.
Am I that out of shape? I shift my weight to either foot, folding my arms, and spot Micah out of the corner of my eye out in the main room.
Geez. Don’t look over, of all people, and see me in a sports bra and shorts with my hair piled on top of my head. Damn glass walls.
The music starts. Jumping jacks, squats . . . the warm-up has me winded. I keep messing up, I’m so out of practice with doing this kind of thing.
I walk out of class afterward and see Micah using the TRX. His mouth is moving, though no one’s near him. Must be counting reps.
I lay a mat down in the stretching area, lie on my back, and close my eyes.
Moments later, I sense a shadow over me. My eyes pop open.
“I thought that was you.” He wipes a towel across his face. “Never seen you here before.”
I jerk up to sitting and pull my limbs into a tight ball. “First time.” Of all the gyms in this city, I join the same one as this guy. “I took a class.” Like you didn’t know that already.
“Any good?”
I nod and extend my legs. I didn’t plan on talking to him, but I can’t ignore him now. Plus, I’m not mad at him. Not his fault Donovan says things for attention.
Sweat marks stretch across his T-shirt from his neckline to his abs.
Stop staring, Brynn.
I lower my head and eye my crusty kneecaps. I catch a whiff of my own stink and clamp my armpits to my sides, hoping Micah doesn’t notice it.
I glance back up at him and my mind wanders a bit, imagining the view underneath his shirt. I relax a little and let my pits air out.
Funny to see him not in work clothes. He could be someone at my high school. I like his hair without product in it. Free from its edgy style and for my fingers to run through its thickness.
He’s staring at me. Shit, did he just say something?
“W-what?” I stammer.
“I said the gym gets crowded after work. Not so bad Saturday mornings though.”
I slurp up my drool, pulling my arm across my chest.
Out of nowhere, he joins me on the floor. “Have fun last night?” He bends his knee and twists his body away.
His cut thigh and calf say hello. Focus, Brynn. “Um, how are you feeling today?” Let’s not forget the Backstreet Boys serenade.
“I had one shot too many.” His eyes avoid my face. “But I remember everything. Do you?”
“I drank water.”
His shoulders slump. “About what Donovan said—”
“He likes to stir up drama.”
“That he does.” He shakes his head.
I rock forward to stand. “Well, have a good weekend—”
“Want to grab an iced coffee or a smoothie downstairs?”
Uh-oh. I bite my lip, blinking at the wall clock for an excuse that doesn’t come. “Uh, sure, I’ll get my stuff.”
In the locker room, I press a towel to my face and neck and spray some of the gym’s fancy deodorant in front of a long row of sinks.
Even the revitalizing hand wash and restorative body crème look expensive.
Behind me, stacked gray lockers line the perimeter of the changing area, with black-and-white-striped benches in the middle.
I sit down on one of them, trying to still the pounding in my chest. Do I have time to take a shower?
Should I use the gym’s fancy dry shampoo I saw by the showers?
I’m being ridiculous.
I pull my tank top on over my sports bra and inspect my flushed cheeks and damp hairline in the full-length mirror.
It will have to do.
I walk up behind a guy with wet, combed-back hair standing near the counter in the café.
Wait.
“You showered?”
Micah turns and smiles. “Nope, just trying to tame the mane.”
“Still wordsmithing, even on the weekend.”
“What can I say?” He shrugs, eyes crinkling at the corners. “What would you like?”
We carry our almond iced lattes to the street.
“Thanks for the drink.” I lean away from him, dismissing the tug in my chest that urges the opposite. Monday can’t come soon enough.
“I’ll walk you to your subway. Which way?” He lifts his coffee toward Fifth Avenue, the opposite direction of where I catch the train.
“I live in the Village.”
His head pulls back. “So do I.”
“Bleecker.”
“MacDougal.” His mouth flings open.
I mimic him. “I’ve never seen you in my neighborhood.”
We turn on Fifth, heading downtown. I guess we’re walking.
He lifts his shoulder. “I’m not there a lot. I’m often in California on the weekends.”
“Oh, you have a girlfriend.” I cringe, digging my teeth into my tongue.
“No.” The corner of his mouth twists up slightly.
He’s gay then, great.
“Are you seeing someone?” His eyes stare straight ahead.
I suck in a sharp intake of air. Should he be asking me this? Then again, I did start us down this path. “I shouldn’t have asked about a girlfriend. Not appropriate.”
“Don’t worry about it. Let’s put work aside. It’s Saturday.”
“Then, no. Not a great time for me.”
He nods a few times. “Yeah. I get that. Sometimes getting through the day feels like enough to manage, let alone adding someone else to the mix.”
“Something like that.” I steal a side-glance.
“At least you got your workout in—now you can face whatever comes your way, right?”
“It does help. Sort of like therapy.”
He doesn’t say anything beyond a sly smile.
I eye his muscular arms. He’s nicely proportioned and . . . I so wish we didn’t work together.
“What?” A wrinkle forms between his brows.
I shake my head. “I’m not used to seeing you out of your work clothes.” Really, Brynn? Not okay.
“Yeah, I’m fairly grubby. I probably stink.”
“Me too.” I laugh and take a sip of my latte.
“These streets stink more. We’re perfume compared to them.” He gestures to either side of us.
I guffaw and snort, at the same time managing to knock into him. Damn pheromones.
He sighs. “Turned out to be a nice morning.”
Nice? Meaning the weather, or because we bumped into each other?
We fall into step with one another, passing shop owners hosing down sidewalks and raising metal cages from storefronts. My skin tingles under the sun’s warmth. A summer Saturday in the city. Every cell inside of me is on alert from the endorphins and caffeine—and him.
“Hungry?” He stops underneath the arch in Washington Square Park.
“Um, sure.” Like that’s ever in question.
“How’s Jane on Houston sound?”
My stomach rumbles in agreement, and I nod. “They have great vegan scones.” I dismiss the fact that other places are closer.
We arrive ten minutes later to a crowd standing underneath a blue-and-white-pinstriped awning. More cluster inside awaiting a table.
I hesitate. “I’m not sure we’re dressed for the weekend brunch scene. Want to go somewhere else?”
He holds open the door. “Let’s see how long the wait is.”
I excuse myself to make a pit stop in the bathroom. My eyes sparkle back at me in the mirror as I wash my hands. I blot the shine from my face and redo my ponytail. A memory flashes: Fighting with the zipper on my bag at Pete’s. Makeup I don’t own anymore coloring my eyes, cheeks . . . lips.
I blow out a hard breath. No. This is nothing like that. I swing my hair behind my shoulders and press them back.
On the other side of the bathroom door, a wall of patrons blocks my path. Every table, booth, and square stool in this place is occupied.
I hear my name and spot Micah at the end of a long counter. He gestures for me to stay put, then weaves through the line of people waiting.
A woman with a bright-painted mouth and her friend stand between us.
Micah stops and stretches out his hand.
My breath catches. I’m not . . . I shouldn’t. I look away, then back to his hand.
“This may be your only chance.” He tilts his head, a gleam in his eyes.
“Chance at what?”
“Freedom.”
The lady between us raises her brows.
I hold my breath and look down at my toes as if they’re hanging over the edge of a high dive. I don’t think; I jump.
His hand feels warm and strong and nice all at the same time. He threads me back through the crowd.
Dazed, I knock into people and step on a few feet, soaking in the tingles riding up my arm. I gape at his bicep and vein-popping forearm. The thought of touching him there spreads a warmth into my cheeks.
We reach the counter and he releases my hand.
My chest tightens.
“They said an hour wait for a table. I ordered us a couple of scones and waters.”
Oh my God. I’m such an idiot. He held my hand to drag me through the restaurant. Nothing more.
“Let me get this since you got the coffees,” I offer.
“Too late.” Grinning, he switches the bag of scones and his water to his other hand and passes me my drink.
“Thanks.”
His soft brown eyes find me. He extends his free hand. And suddenly, right there at the pick-up counter, I’m holding Micah’s hand. Again.
I stare at my fingers inside of his beautiful, strong hand. If he reads my face, he’ll know I’ve been crushing on him this whole time. Is he blushing too?
He lets go when we walk out onto the street.
I look away to conceal my disappointment. Guess it would be hard to eat and walk with our scones and water and hold hands. Still.
Less than a block from Bleecker, he gestures to a light purple row home with a brown door that sits below street level. “This is me.”
“You live in MacDougal-Sullivan Gardens?” I step back, taking in the colorful row of historic houses. “You share a private courtyard in the back, right?”
“Want to come in?”
“Um . . .” No. Yes. Not sure I should.
“Maybe you can help me with an obstruction in my décor . . .”
I clench my teeth. He hired me. He leads our team. Nothing good can come from this. All these mixed signals I’ve been giving him. Now he assumes I’m easy? I blame the handholding.
“Um, I don’t decorate.” I turn on my heel and hoof it down the street, leaving him holding the bag with my half-eaten scone.