He pauses, choosing his next step. “Speaking of your business,” he says, easy. “Nate dropped by the gym the other day. Said you’re his PT now.”
My stomach tips even though I knew it was coming. “Yeah.”
“So, it’s going well?”
“It is. He’s high profile. That kind of visibility matters.”
He hums. “I get it. I just want to make sure you’re good. You two have history.” A pause, then, “If it gets messy, say the word, and I’ll have him step back.”
“This is a big opportunity, Leo. I’m not walking away.”
“Fair.” A beat. “Be mindful of optics though. If anyone thinks there’s a personal thing, it will get messy fast. You’re building from zero. Protectthat.”
“I am.”
He hesitates. “When he asked about you, it felt…more than casual.”
I swallow. The room narrows.
He doesn’t push. “You know the line.”
“I do.” I shift my laptop on my knees. “We good?”
“We’re good.” His voice softens. “I’m proud of you, E. Send photos.”
“You’ll get them.” I breathe out. “Love you.”
“Love you more.”
I stare at the flooring grid on my screen and try not to replay the way he saidmore than casual. Leo’s instincts have kept me upright more times than I can count. His words hum in my head, right alongside the quieter, riskier truth:
No one has ever made me feel safer—or more wanted—than Nate Russo.
29
BREAKING (EDEN)
Nate yanks the door open before I even have a chance to knock.
Barefoot, joggers slung low on his hips, nothing on top but miles of smooth muscle. His brown skin glints warm in the early afternoon light, and my brain short-circuits for a second.
I laugh as he drags me straight into his arms and kicks the door shut with his heel. “Is this how you walk around your house in the middle of winter?”
“Technically it’s still fall,” he murmurs against my mouth, lips brushing mine. “And I wanted to make a good impression on my PT.”
“Consider me impressed.”
His grin is wicked, his kiss wet. “Sweet girl. How do you want to be fucked today?”
The bluntness shoots straight through me, but I manage to whisper back, “You can have me any way you want, big guy.” Then I wiggle free of his grip before my knees completely give out. “After your PT session.”
I turn, clutching my bag, forcing air into my lungs as Iwalk toward his gym. When I glance back, he’s leaning against the doorway, watching me with a look that promises trouble.
“Come on, Magic Man,” I toss over my shoulder. “Let’s get moving.”
After a torturous hour—his smirks, his groans, the way he turns every stretch into foreplay—I finally snap the band back into my bag. “We’re done.”
He slides off the table, eyes bleeding darkness. “Not even close, baby.”
