I stifled a sigh and followed him inside.
The lobby was small but inviting, with a few chairs around the perimeter and a front desk. The air smelled faintly of cleaner and coffee. The space was an odd but surprisingly appealing mix of modern minimalism—black metal, glass, clean lines—and rustic charm. Rough brick walls and exposed beams softened the sharpness.
It was unexpectedly charming.
I trailed behind Graham as he led me deeper into the building, past neat offices and closed doors. The silence of the building made my nerves prickle.
“Are you sure we’re allowed to be here?” My voice echoed in the stillness.
He glanced back at me. “I had the keys, didn’t I?”
I lifted an eyebrow. “That doesn’t answer the question.”
He chuckled, the sound low and amused. “Like I said before, there’s a gym my brothers and I added when we expanded. We’re all welcome to use it.”
I folded my arms over my chest as we approached a metal door near the back of the building. “But is it okay that you brought me here?” I pressed.
I wasn’t exactly part of the Ramsey family.
Graham shot me a hard look, his voice firm when he spoke. “You’re with me,” he said flatly. “You’re welcome to use this space as much as I am.”
He pushed open the door.
Inside was a compact but well-equipped gym—weight racks, punching bags, even a padded mat area in the center. The faint scent of sweat and rubber hung in the air.
Graham flicked on the lights, and I squinted against the harshness of the fluorescents. He hadn’t turned on any of the other lights in the building, so it had been dim and shadowed the whole way here.
“I’ll take your coat.” He reached out a hand.
Reluctantly, I peeled off my coat and scarf, shivering a little as I handed them to him. His eyes trailed over me, so quickly I almost missed it, before he turned toward a set of hooks on the wall.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirrors facing me. I wore the kind of outfit I’d usually wear to run on the treadmill at my apartment gym—tight stay-dry pants and a matching long-sleeve shirt that clung to me like a second skin. The dark-purple color made me look too pale, like I hadn’t been in the sun for weeks. My lip was still bruised, the cut healed enough that I didn’t need a bandage anymore, but the whole thing looked…gruesome.
I glanced away abruptly, my eyes unexpectedly catching on Graham as he pulled off his sweatshirt. It clung to the navy T-shirt he had on underneath, lifting it and exposing a strip of skin at his waist. His abs were more defined than I ever would’ve guessed. I’d always thought of Graham as lean, but he definitely didn’t lack muscle tone.
My face heated—embarrassingly so—and I stared down at my sneakers as he finished taking off the sweatshirt.
“So,” I crossed my arms, trying to distract myself from the sight of Graham’s annoyingly sculpted abs, “what exactly qualifies a forensic psychologist to train in self-defense again?”
It was a weak attempt at distraction, but better than admitting what I’d actually been thinking about. Namely, wondering what the rest of him looked like under those button-down shirts. And that was definitely the last thing I needed to think about.
Graham didn’t answer right away. He stepped onto the padded mat area, motioning for me to follow. His hair was slightly unruly—more so than usual, like he hadn’t bothered to brush it before coming in. He pushed it back from his forehead as his eyes swept over me again, quick and assessing, from the top of my head all the way to my toes.
I tried not to fidget under the weight of his stare, but my mind supplied the words I feared he might be thinking: too thin, too pale, too hard and cold.
I swallowed, and his gaze flicked back up to my face.
“I work part-time here at Hearthstone,” he said slowly. “I mostly help with profiles and other insights of the criminal mind when they need them, but I also have training. I can help with physical security when needed.” He shrugged. “I’ve taken plenty of classes in combat and self-defense.”
A small, lopsided grin tugged at his mouth. “Granted, August or Reid were probably better trained, but I think I’m efficient enough.”
I didn’t reply, and he continued, “We’re going to start small, nothing too physical yet because you’re still recovering.”
He said it matter-of-fact, without judgment, but for some reason I still felt…shame.
“If someone is ever after you again, your goal is simple,” he went on, voice low and even. “Get away. Scream. Make noise to distract and gain attention. This isn’t as much about fighting as it is outsmarting your attacker and running.”
“Right.” It felt like there was something stuck inside my throat. “Easier said than done.”
