“Do you want another display?” I drawl anyway, because of course I do. Because this is what I do. I push. I flirt. I poke at boundaries like they’re dares instead of lines.
Her eyes widen for half a second—just long enough for satisfaction to spark—before she schools her expression. She shakes her head, jaw tightening, gaze sharpening into something almost furious.
“Are you helping,” she snaps, “or not?”
There it is. The look. The one that says she’s already catalogued me and filed me neatly under problematic. Playboy. Asshole.
And the fucked-up thing?
I hate that she’s right.
I could stop. I know I could. Step back. Be polite. Normal. The decent guy my siblings swear I am. The one who handles responsibilities, who shows up, who doesn’t need cheap lines or a smirk to get through the day.
But with Ivy, it’s like a fucking switch flips.
She walked in all sharp edges and righteous outrage, pretending she’s made of steel when she’s clearly live wire underneath—and suddenly I’m playing the role again. The one she expects. The one that keeps things simple. If I’m the asshole, nobody asks for more.
Including her.
I laugh, light and careless, because that’s easier than explaining any of this. “Relax,” I say, already moving toward the door. “Come on. I’ll get you in.”
I hold it open for her, a small olive branch she probably won’t notice.
She hesitates. “I don’t want to interrupt your workout.”
“You already did.” I move closer, and she takes a half step back. “But I’m not complaining. Much better view than weights.”
“That’s inappropriate.”
"Is it? I'm simply stating facts.” My eyes take in her beauty from head to toe. “You provide a much better view than gym equipment."
She swallows nervously. "Mr. Hawthorne…"
"Declan, or you can call me Dec. We've been past Mr. Hawthorne since you saw me naked, remember?"
The blush spreads to her ears. "I'm trying to forget that."
"Are you? Because I’m not." I step closer again, invading her space just enough to make her breath hitch. "I think about it quite a lot. The way you tried so hard not to look but looked anyway."
"You're insufferable."
I gesture toward the hallway. "Your tablet's waiting, unless you'd rather stand here and insult me some more. I'm enjoying both options."
She makes a frustrated sound and turns abruptly, her shoulder brushing my arm. The brief contact sends heat through my still-pumping muscles.
I follow, keeping my stride lazy.
The facility feels different after hours. It’s less aggressive and more intimate. Emergency lighting casts everything in soft blue shadows. Our footsteps echo off the floors; hers quick and nervous, mine deliberately slow.
"Why are you here so late?" she asks without looking back.
"I needed to work off some frustration."
"Did you have a bad day?"
"A bad dinner and conversation. What about you? Why are you really here?"
I catch up to her, walking close enough that I can smell her shampoo. It makes me want to bury my face in her hair.
