2 | Underwear Breakfast #2
Leo’s jaw shifted. For one moment, something sharper moved through his expression. He didn’t want someone else. He didn’t want me either. What he wanted was to be left alone while everyone continued paying for the privilege of waiting on him.
At least, that was the easiest interpretation.
“Maybe they should’ve sent the handbook with you,” he said. “Or did your father write it himself?”
Wesley turned toward him. “Leo.”
I left before my face could reveal how precisely he had hit the bruise.
The hallway to the gym seemed longer than it had yesterday. I walked fast, my sneakers striking the wooden floor hard enough to make the anger feel productive.
Behind me, Wesley said something I couldn’t hear. Leo answered more loudly. Kadir’s voice came once, low and brief, before the kitchen fell silent again.
I reached the gym and slammed the door.
The gym occupied the back corner of the lodge, with windows overlooking the snow-covered slope and equipment polished enough to suggest it had never experienced a real person.
There were treadmills, free weights, resistance machines, a rowing machine, and a squat rack that looked designed to expose anyone who had ever exaggerated how often they worked out.
I chose the treadmill.
Walking was difficult to perform incorrectly.
I stepped onto it, increased the speed until it felt purposeful, and stared through the windows while my body tried to catch up with the athletic version of myself I had invented five seconds earlier.
Leo’s comment continued moving through my head.
Or did your father write it himself?
He had known exactly where to aim. And it worked.
My father had never handed me a job outright. He had simply made sure people remembered my name, introduced me to executives who already knew who I was, and removed several obstacles before I had the chance to prove I could climb over them.
I increased the treadmill speed again, hoping that emotional clarity could be achieved through shin pain.
The door opened behind me.
Wesley entered wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt, both of which immediately improved my opinion of him.
He glanced at me, then spread his arms innocently.
“Fully dressed.”
I lowered the speed before responding so he wouldn’t hear how hard I was breathing.
“That’s the nicest thing anyone has done for me today.”
His smile appeared as he crossed toward the squat rack and began adjusting the bar.
I had expected him to follow me with an apology prepared on Leo’s behalf. Wesley seemed like the type who couldn’t leave tension alone. He would smooth it, joke around it, or drag everyone into a different activity until the original problem became too distant to continue.
Instead, he gave me space.
He moved quietly around the rack, adding plates and testing the bar with both hands.
The T-shirt stretched across his shoulders when he lifted his arms. His build was less imposing than Kadir’s, but there was nothing slight about him.
His body looked useful rather than displayed, shaped by movement and whatever unnecessary outdoor adventures he kept suggesting.
I faced the windows again.
Watching one member of the band exercise after accusing the others of inappropriate house clothing felt hypocritical.
The distinction was that Wesley had sleeves now.
I walked for another several minutes before he spoke.
“Leo says whatever he thinks will get the biggest reaction.”
I kept my eyes forward. “He succeeded.”
“That doesn’t make him right.”
I slowed the treadmill. “You don’t have to defend me.”
“I’m not.”
When I looked over, Wesley had lowered himself beneath the bar. His hands were spread wide, his expression more focused than I had seen it since we arrived.
He lifted the weight from the rack and stepped backward.
I suddenly became interested in fitness.
His thighs flexed as he lowered into the squat, controlled and steady, then drove upward again. The movement was beyond distracting. He completed several repetitions before returning the bar to its hooks and catching me looking.
I faced forward too late.
“You wanna try?”
“No.”
“You looked interested.”
“In the equipment.”
“Sure.”
His grin irritated me enough to make agreement seem preferable to retreat.
I stopped the treadmill and stepped off with more confidence than my legs currently supported. The floor shifted beneath me. Wesley noticed but politely allowed me to pretend otherwise.
He removed the plates from the bar.
“You can leave some weight.”
“You’ve used this before?”
“I’ve seen one.”
He laughed and continued stripping the bar until only the metal remained.
The squat rack looked less threatening without the plates. I stepped beneath the bar while Wesley adjusted its height, then placed it across my shoulders the way I had seen him do.
It immediately felt wrong.
Wesley moved behind me and settled his hands at my waist.
Every thought involving Leo disappeared.
The touch was practical. Wesley’s fingers rested through the fabric of my sweatshirt, applying pressure as he shifted my hips backward.
“Your stance is too narrow.”
His voice was close to my ear, lower than it had been in the kitchen.
I widened my feet.
“More.”
I moved them again. His hands remained at my waist, warm and steady.
I had spent the morning thinking of him as the safest of the three men. He was agreeable. Cheerful. The type to put on pants because someone expressed discomfort rather than transforming the request into a philosophical debate.
None of those qualities made his hands less distracting.
Wesley guided me through the movement slowly. My first squat was shallow. The second felt like my knees had been assigned conflicting instructions.
He touched the outside of one thigh, correcting its position, then returned his hand to my hip.
“Better.”
I tried again.
This time, my balance held. Wesley stayed behind me without crowding, close enough that I could feel the warmth of him but not the press of his body. The restraint felt deliberate. He could’ve made the position flirtatious. He seemed to know that not doing so would make me notice it anyway.
“You’re stronger than you look,” he said.
“I’m squatting an empty bar.”
“Still counts.”
I straightened and caught his eyes in the mirror.
His expression was open, but certainly not innocent. There was a flicker of satisfaction there, as though he understood that the exercise had given me something else to think about and considered that a success.
I stepped away from the bar.
He returned the bar to the hooks while I pretended to examine a rack of smaller weights. My legs had already begun warning me that tomorrow would be unpleasant.
“You really think I can do this?” I asked.
The question escaped before I could make it specific.
Wesley looked at me and knew I was no longer talking about squats.
“I think you’re the first manager who came in assuming we could still fix it.”
The answer settled somewhere Leo’s comment had bruised.
I picked up my water bottle and took a drink.
“You’re still irritating.”
His smile returned. “But the least?”
“Currently.”
He accepted the ranking with an amount of pride that suggested I had handed him an award.
When I left the gym twenty minutes later, my legs felt unstable, my mood had improved, and Wesley had somehow convinced me to try three exercises I had no business attempting.
He had also managed to cheer me up without excusing Leo, explaining the entire band, or asking me to admit how much the comment had hurt.
Wesley was still irritating.
I could handle that.