Then her lips curve into a slow, knowing smile. “Wow. Was that an invitation, Knightly?”
I run a hand through my hair. “Yeah. Drinks. I’ve got this new alcohol-free bourbon that actually tastes like something besides regret.”
She hums, like she’s pretending to think about it. “Drinks with the boss. At his house. What could possibly go wrong?”
“Plenty,” I mutter. “But the view’s decent.”
And just like that, she nods. “All right. Why not? Lead trainer by morning, host by night. Very Tony Robbins of you.”
I snort, shaking my head. “Yeah, well, don’t think I’m going to start smiling or anything.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t dare,” she teases, walking backward toward the locker room, towel flung over her shoulder like a cape. “You’ve got the soul of a disgruntled walrus.”
She winks as she walks away, stirring everything up.
Now I’ve got a whole day ahead of me, a kitchen to run, a restaurant to manage, and a thousand chances to talk myself out of this…
…this thing that’s barreling forward like a train I can’t stop.
But she’ll be at my place tonight.
And that thought alone is enough to make the day feel dangerous.
And alive.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Josie
I’m limping.
Actually limping.
My quads are staging a full-on protest, my arms might as well be overcooked noodles, and I’m pretty sure I strained something important in my soul. All thanks to Knox “No Mercy” Knightly and his 6 a.m. death march disguised as a strength class.
Weighted lunges before sunrise? Whoenjoysthat?
Sadists, that’s who.
By the time I drag myself into The Marrow’s kitchen, I’ve sworn a blood oath against burpees, deadlifts, and whatever kind of twisted planking circus he made us do.
But despite the soreness, and okay, maybe because of it, I feel weirdly good. Energized. Focused. Like I proved myself. Or maybe just didn’t completely die. Either way, it counts.
And then there’shim.
Knox is everywhere. Not just present,everywhere. Elbows deep in prep with his sleeves shoved past his forearms, stalking from station to station with that scowl carved into his face like it was chiseled there at birth.
And somehow, every time I look up, he’s already looking away. Or worse, still looking.
We don’t flirt. Nottechnically.
But then his shoulder brushes mine as I reach for the sauté pan, and neither of us moves right away. There’s a beat, half a second, maybe, where I swear I sense himbreathe.
“Careful,” he says, voice low, almost rough. “Pan’s hot.”
“So am I,” I shoot back, just to mess with him. The corner of his mouth twitches… almost a smile.
Almost.
