“She has a name.”
“Elyse Starkowsky,” Connor says.
“That’s better, but all the same.”
He opens his hands, palms up. “Oh, come on. It was a harmless prank.”
“Harmless? How so? Now you’re here.”
He leans back a fraction. “I suppose you have a point, and because I don’t want to endure more of this conversation, I’ll concede. I won’t moon anyone ever again unless I have their consent.” The gleam returns to his eyes as his gaze shifts and lingers on my folder with color-coded tabs. “My, you’re organized.”
“It helps to have a system.”
“It must be exhausting, running this place. What with waking up in the middle of the night, working, and having to deal with guys like me.”
“Yes, it’s true, but it also has its rewards.” At the reminder, I fight off a yawn. He’s right, I am tired.
“You’re French, don’t you have something called a fiesta, siesta, or something?”
“Two different things, neither French. But yes, in some countries, there is a time of rest and restoration built into the day.” I tell myself not to be chatty and get back to business.
“What else do we have on the docket this afternoon?” Connor claps his hands together as if sensing my flagging energy, yet he’s just getting warmed up.
I almost startle. “You’ll be meeting with the trainer,” I say, relieved because that means I can take a quick, twenty-minute power nap afterward, but before we meet for dinner.
But first, we head to the gym. I wear leggings and a fitted athletic shirt, suddenly self-conscious that it’s pink.
“Are you a gym bunny?” Connor asks.
“No, but I’ll take this opportunity to get in some exercise while you meet with the trainer.”
“Ah, my favorite part of the day.”
I ignore how his gaze, with the blaze in his eyes, follows me as I start up the treadmill.
Trying to outrun my thoughts is futile as they spin in circles around the school’s budget crisis, my work visa, my overdue trip to the dry cleaner, and Connor.
I cannot fathom why women are attracted to him. He’s a beast. When I glimpse myself in the mirror while I do squats and work on my quads, I look like a she-beast at the same time his eyes meet mine for the briefest moment. If I’m not mistaken, he wears a private smile.
The trainer has him doing a circuit on the machines. Connor lifts and lunges and explodes with power. His face is a picture of pure masculinity. I’ve never watched an American football game and I suddenly wonder what he looks like on the field.
Done with my workout, I wander over to him while I pat my forehead with a towel.
“Working out some frustration?” The question is out of my mouth before I have a chance to stop it. I guess what they say about cats and curiosity is true.
“No, working out my muscles,” he grunts as he lifts a heavily stacked bar.
“Looks like frustration to me.” The teacher and analyst in me observe that this question is actually a reflection of my current state.
Am I frustrated? Yes. This man has clawed his way under my skin and found the exact buttons to push to make me red-cheeked and flustered.
“What would I be frustrated about?” he asks.
“That you’re here and have to deal with me, for starters. Then there could be the deep need to prove yourself at odds with the bravado you show the world. Also, that your reputation as a lone wolf leaves you lonely at times.”
With a grunt, he says, “I’ll stop you there. I didn’t come here for you to psychoanalyze me.”
“It helps to understand the inner workings of my clients,” I counter.
