I hope so. God, I hope so.
More importantly, I hope he doesn’t make the same mistakes I’m making right now with Eliana.
“Alright, good work,” Bishop says, clapping Sage on the shoulder. “Take five, then we’ll finish up on the parallel bars.”
When they’re done, Sage comes rolling out. He’s dripping with sweat and half-asleep in his chair from exhaustion.
I give him a slow clap as we head back to the car. “Truly inspiring work in there. Especially the part where you nearly dropped a dumbbell on your foot because you were too busy staring at Lilah’s ass.”
“Oh, fuck off, I was not,” he mutters, but his ears are as red as Rudolph’s nose.
We make it to the Range Rover, and I stand by helplessly while Sage hauls himself into the front seat.
“You were absolutely staring,” I continue as I fold up his chair and stow it in the back. “I thought Bishop was going to have to physically redirect your face.”
“I was checking my form in the mirror behind her.”
“The mirror that’s on the opposite wall?”
Sage flips me off. I grin as I slide into the driver’s seat.
“You should ask her out,” I suggest, starting the engine.
Instantly, his face sours. “Oh, yeah, great idea. ‘Hey, Lilah, wanna go somewhere ramp-accessible and watch me struggle to reach things while people stare?’ Real panty-dropper material.”
“Sage—”
“I’m not talking about this with you, Bastian.” He crosses his arms and stares out the window. “Besides, what the hell do you know about romance? Aren’t you still terrorizing that girl at work, whatsherface—Allie? Emily?”
“Eliana,” I mumble.
I can feel my ears heating up just like Sage’s. Guess it runs in the family.
“Yeah, that’s the one,” he says. “Have you finished ruining her life yet, or is that still a work-in-progress?”
“I’m—”
But we’ll never find out what I am or am not doing with Eliana, because before I can answer, there’s a rap at the window. I turn…
… and see Aleksei.
27
ELIANA
AN HOUR EARLIER
rest·ing: /'restiNG/: verb
1: allowing cooked meat to sit undisturbed after heat is applied.
2: when you finally stop running from your feelings and just sit with them for five goddamn minutes.
I watch Bastian’s Range Rover peel out of the Olympus parking lot like the hounds of hell themselves are chasing him.
Frank clears his throat behind me. “I’m in trouble, huh?”
I turn to face him. The man looks genuinely awful. I swear his hair has thinned in the last ten minutes alone, and angry crows are stamping their feet all over the creases in the corners of his eyes.
