The door closes behind them.
Liz slips her tote over her shoulder, then pivots back, eyes blazing. “Two things. One—congrats, boss, the place slaps. Two—your brother is next-level hot.”
I kill the front lights and fix her with a look. “Yep, he’s…a lot.”
Her grin goes feral. “A lot is exactly my dosage.”
“I’m serious.” I hook an arm through hers and steer us toward the exit. “He’s a player. Hall-of-Fame. He’ll put your body in a good mood and keep moving.”
“Duly noted,” she says, warm and wicked. “I’m not shopping for forever. If I ever go there, it’ll be for sport—eyes open.”
“Good.” I squeeze her arm. “Good time. Eyes open.”
She tips her chin. “Copy that. Now give me grand-opening details. I’m drafting your launch post, and I want it thirsty.”
“Deal,” I say, locking up. “And we’re not discussing my brother’s jawline again. Or any other parts of his…anatomy. Clear?”
“Fine,” she says, smug. “We’ll call it his bone structure if it comes to that.”
I roll my eyes and groan; she smirks. We head up York Avenue, our building only a few blocks away. Winter air bites at my cheeks, but for the first time in weeks, I let myself exhale. The clinic is ready. The calendar is booked. Tomorrow, it’s real.
My phone chimes again. I expect Nate. It’s a DM from a fan account I don’t follow.
The preview freezes on a candlelit table. Montreal. Me. Him. I tap.
The video rolls from a few tables back, phone zoom fighting the light. Nate scrapes his chair closer, spoon lifted to my mouth. The audio is tinny but clear enough to catch his voice: “Open up.” My lips part. He feeds me a slow bite and watches me swallow. A drip of espresso trails at thecorner of my mouth. His thumb wipes it away. He leans in and kisses the spot he just cleaned.
The clip cuts to a second angle from the bar. My wrists are out of frame, but you can see the shape of his other hand—steady, holding me still. The account slaps text across the screen:RUSSO’S PT…OR HIS GIRLFRIEND? Hashtags stack: #Montreal #Defenders #Russo #PT.
Comments scroll under it in a rush:
That’s not “hip mobility,” besties.
Tell me again how this is professional.
She’s stunning but…boundaries?
They’re together. Case closed.
I stop dead on the sidewalk. That’s me. My face open, my body leaning into him, every line broadcasting anything but distance. Every worst fear I’ve had about lines and optics is right there in HD.
Liz glances over, but I can’t move, can’t breathe.
The foundation I’ve built is cracking. The high of the day vanishes, replaced by ice in my veins that has nothing to do with the wind.
Another notification pings, then another—likes, reposts, comments piling in.
A new email flashes across the top of my screen.
Subject: Appointment Cancellation.
The text stares back at me. My first official client, gone before I’ve even opened my doors.
More notifications stack so fast I can’t keep up. Screenshots, reposts, captions with my name in them.Conflict of interest? Russo’s secret weapon? Unethical much?
I scroll too fast, catch one that makes my stomach lurch:
She’s not a PT, she’s a perk.
