He bit his lip.
“What?”
“Whorehouse? Do they even use that term anymore?”
“How the hell would I know?” She could still feel him under her skin.
“Never mind. Not important.” He leaned up on his elbows, looking more in command of himself, as if he had nothing to hide, just hanging out on the floor. “How about Thursday night?”
“Okay.” Should she dictate the plans for their date? She normally did. Maybe this time she’d try something different.
He watched her, looking for what, she had no idea.
To set him straight, she explained, “But I’m not going out with you for happy Zoe time.”
“Huh?”
“No sex, buddy.”
He flushed,finally. “Yeah, well. This was…an accident. Forget it.”
“You mean you don’t normally roll around in the gym with a poker in your shorts?”
He laid his head down and groaned. “No, I do not. Tell no one about this, and I swear I’ll buy you a kick-ass dinner.”
“With dessert?”
“Sure, whatever. Now go away so I can be presentable again,” he said, his words muffled.
“Well, at least you’re more presentable than you were the other day in that fire engine–red gym shirt.”
“I know.” He paused. “Tell me I didn’t look like a stop sign while wearing it.”
“I was thinking more like a yield sign, actually. You know, because you have nice lats, your back like a V.”
“Thanks, I think.” He turned his head, glanced up at her, and turned back to the mat, swearing softly. “Now go away. You’re not helping.”
She walked toward the doorway, her awkwardness vanishing with the emergence of his. “I’ll leave my cell number with the front desk.”
“You do that,” he said, sounding pathetic.
Zoe laughed. Talk about mastering the art of self-defense. Zoe, one. Gavin, zero.
