“See you in fifteen?”
“Five.I’ll be there,” she says, slamming the door.
I pause for a moment, before hearing her shout another “shit,” and then hear a muffled scream, followed by the sound of a wardrobe being flung open.
“No stress, boss,” I call through the door.
“Fuck off!”she shouts back.
Down in the gym, there is one bike, one ancient treadmill, and a free-weights area that has a bunch of mismatched dumbbells, kettles, and a vintage squat rack that rattles like it’s held together with tape.
Chloe takes all of her promised five minutes and several more, but to be fair, I knew she’d be late after drunk Chloe came out to play last night.It’s worth the wait, to be honest.She was so funny.
I got her back to the hotel room, and she invited me in for late-night beers and burgers.She said we should watch the 1984 Monaco Grand Prix.Although I wanted nothing more than to sit in her room and eat and drink some beers, it felt...not quite right after our talk.I got the sense she would have regretted it in the morning.
And I really didn’t want that.
While I’m waiting, I jump on the treadmill, flicking through my phone to find some good workout tunes, and then turn the knob that increases the speed.It springs to life with a grunt and a moan.
“Piece of shit!”I grumble, slapping the screen to get the lights to stop flickering.
“No need to assault the equipment,” says a voice.Then I feel a gentle hand on my arm.
“Fuck!”I nearly jump out of my skin before realizing it’s Chloe.
“Your reaction times could still use work,” she says, grinning.Her smart-ass tone makes me smile as the treadmill comes to a stop with a loud bang.
“Morning, boss,” I say, turning to look at her.
Chloe is in a tight, body-hugging gym outfit.A pair of black leggings and a matching sports bra hug her in all the right places, and her wild red hair sits in a loose bun on her head.My eyes skim back up from her waist to the curve of her breasts as she tosses a towel over her shoulder and cocks her head.I can’t help it; my eyes linger too long on the little beads of sweat on her chest.
Shit, I’m staring.I pull my earbuds out, step off the treadmill, and swig on my water bottle as casually as I can.
“What?”she says, narrowing her eyes at me.
“Just ah...nice kit,” I say coolly, fumbling for an answer.“Who’s the designer?”
“H&M.Not all of us have a closet full of free Lacoste training gear,” she says, jabbing a finger toward the little crocodile logo on my bright white T-shirt.Then she laughs.“I miss those old Adidas shorts and the Brackley United shirt you trained in.”
“Well, I’m really fucking rich now,” I reply, “so...”I shrug playfully.
“You are,” she says, grinning at me, that little dimple appearing in her right cheek.“Proof you can’t buy taste.”
I shove her shoulder lightly with my hand, laughing, and she nods toward the free weights.“Let’s get on it.”
“Yes, boss,” I reply, following her, trying not to stare at her ass.
She glances back at me over her shoulder.“And...sorry once again, for last night.I was drunk.It was embarrassing.”
“The team can’t ever see you like that.”
“I know.No more whiskey shots,” she says sheepishly.
“I meant going home with me.”
And that makes her blush, hide her face in her pale hands, and groan in abject humiliation.I can’t help but cackle at her.“Forget it, Bug.We all gotta cut loose sometimes.Though...maybe notthatloose.”
“I said I was sorry,” Chloe mumbles, reaching for a kettlebell.
