“Little Trouble?” she groans, and I can’t help but notice the way her muscles flex with the strain of her last rep. “What is that supposed to mean? I have a name, you know.”
I swallow hard. “You’re right,” I say, my voice coming out lower than intended. “I’m sorry. Cora.”
Her name feels intimate on my tongue. I shove it down hard.
She clears her throat. “Right. Well, good. Use it.”
Cora bends to retrieve her water bottle, and the machine’s arm swings down. My hand shoots out, palm flat against the metal just as she straightens.
“Careful,” I warn, my voice gruff.
Her head brushes against my forearm, and the silky strands of her hair ghost over my skin. An electric current zips through me at the contact.
She turns, her eyes wide, and I realize how close we are. Her breath fans across my face, warm and sweet.
“I... Thanks,” she mutters, a flush creeping up her neck.
I step back, dropping my arm. “Just doing my job,” I reply, my voice rougher than I intended.
Cora clears her throat and moves to the next station. I follow, my eyes tracking the sway of her hips. I clench my fists, nails digging into my palms. The pain helps ground me and reminds me of my purpose here.
I need to get it together.Now.
“You’re like a walking billboard screaming ‘Notice Me,’” she mutters.
“Pot, kettle,” I can’t help but retort. “You seem to thrive on attention yourself.”
She whirls around, clearly not expecting me to be so close. Our bodies collide, and my hands go to her waist to steady her. The feel of her curves under my palms sends heat coursing through me.
I release her, guilt and desire warring inside me. “Sorry. That was just for your safety.”
“What do you mean, I like attention?” she demands, her cheeks flushed.
I struggle to keep my voice even. “You have a private gym at home, yet here you are, surrounded by prying eyes. It’s safer at home.”
“I like the energy here. The music. The community,” she argues.
“Exactly. You thrive on attention,” I say, unable to keep a hint of challenge from my tone. Why does baiting her give me such a thrill?
“That’s not—” she starts, then catches the glint in my eye. I see the fire ignite in hers, and something in my gut tightens. “This isn’t working. I need someone less...you.”
The words sting more than they should. I cover it with bravado. “Too bad. You’re stuck with me.”
She inhales, and I find my eyes drawn to the rise and fall of her chest. I force my gaze away, cursing my lack of control.
“There has to be a replacement, someone I can talk to,” she insists.
“I’m sure there is. But until I’m officially released, I’m your shadow.” The thought of someone else protecting her sends an irrational surge of possessiveness through me.
“I can fire you. I hired you,” she argues.
I quirk an eyebrow. “Technically, your father did. His signature, his call.”
This assignment is going to test every ounce of my training and self-control. And we’re only two days in.
“Fuck,” she curses. “Then I need you to be less, well, less. You’ll terrorize all my clients if you act like this at work.”
Work. Right. I’m curious despite myself. “Speaking of work,” I say, shifting my tone. “Can I ask you something?”
