“Yeah, I am. Of course, I am. I just...”
“It was nice having someone fancy you?” Marcello offers.
I look down at him and realise then that his eyes are a very unusual shade of brown, like caramel or whiskey. There must be a spotlight directly on him because I can even see the swirls of gold that make them look liquid, like honey.
“Yeah, it was,” I admit and feel my shoulders sink.
“Well, he can't be the only one.”
“What?”
“I mean, look at you.” Marcello nods at me and his eyes drop down my body. “You're fucking stacked.”
Having had its way with my shoulders, it feels like gravity now pulls down on my face and I look down at my feet.
“Did I say the wrong thing? I just thought I was pointing out the obvious and clearly, you work fucking hard at your body so I thought me admiring it – in a completely straight guy way, I hasten to add – and complimenting you would be a nice thing to do, but if it wasn't then I'm—”
“It's fine,” I say and I give him another forced smile.
“It's clearly not,” Marcello says. "Your moustache isn't bouncing.”
“What?” I blink at him.
“When you smile properly, your moustache bounces. Those curled ends, they kind of wiggle.”
I feel my cheeks move as a grin takes over, a real grin.
“Yeah, like that!” He nods at me and mirrors my smile.
“Enough of this chit-chat,” I say, happy to be ending this conversation on a better note. “Can't have your body cooling down too much. I'm about to introduce you to your lats, remember?”
As I kneel down next to Marcello, he pulls back on the ropes and immediately mutters another string of Italian words.
And I like it. I like it so much it feels like my breath stutters and my body temperature heats up a little. I always have found Italian a beautiful language. It doesn't hurt that an attractive man is speaking it almost close enough to be directly into my ear.
The image of Marcello whispering more Italian into my ear threatens to take over my mind so I'm quick to shake it off.
The last thing I need right now in my life is developing a crush on a straight guy who I've promised to work out with multiple times a week. That would be one sure fire way to make the disaster that is my romantic life get even worse.
“Is this right?” Marcello asks, and I am grateful to him for pulling me out of both my daydream and my catastrophising.
I study him for a few reps, while keeping up the count.
“Yes, nearly. As you pull your arms back let your elbows stick out. Yes, like that. And then… Do you mind if I touch you?”
“Knock yourself out,” Marcello says. “Feel like I should have probably asked the rope the same question.”
I huff out a quick laugh and then hold his arms so that when he releases the pull, he does so slowly, resisting it a little. When I'm confident he's got the action, I take my hands off his elbows and try not to think about how soft and warm his skin felt.
It's only because I haven't touched anyone else's skin other than my clients or an accidental knock or brush against Radia at work. It has nothing to do with how I can't stop thinking about how like liquid gold his eyes are. Not to mention how when I'm not thinking about it, I'm seekinghis eyes out, wanting to feel them on me, wanting to catch another glimpse of the caramel swirl that are his irises.
“Figlio di puttana!” He exclaims, and I realise I've stopped counting. An ice-cold rush of panic floods me.
“What number are you on?”
“Twenty-two,” he grits out, barely.
“Shit. Sorry. Give me two more.”
