"Yeah." He stops his music and I crack a tiny smile at the little internal victory because I know him so well. It makes me loosen up a little, and try for casual.
"Why do you work out so early?"
He yawns in his hand and rubs his jaw. "Good time to chill."
"Chill?" I echo sarcastically. Give him a look. "Who goes to gym to chill? Weirdo."
"Someone who works eighteen hours a day. Random hours," he exhales, and crouches to gather the spilled containers I left behind. "You? Why so early? Trying to avoid people?"
"Yeah. It's generally empty till seven."
"Did I ruin your plan?"
"You could say that."
"Sorry, not sorry," he says and I pull a face at him. "Still not a people-person?"
"Yeah. Still prefer the conversations in my head," I admit nonchalantly.
"You know, talking to people can tame that madness," he teases, caught up reading the backside sticker on one of the protein powders.
I should go help him but I'm stuck—watching his forearms flex, pumped from the workout so the veins stand out like cords under his skin. My mouth goes dry. God, it's just his hands, andhere I am, recalling that dream, picturing them gripping my thighs, pressing me against the wall until I forget how to stand before someone walks in on us.
Jesus. Enough with the twisted fantasies, Emma.
I clear my throat. "That's debatable."
He looks up, eyebrows raised, processing both my words and whatever energy is radiating off me, but I'm already retreating to the shelf, fiddling with it while it's completely slanted.
"Thanks for your help. You can go back to your workout," I mutter, trying to fix it, but actually make it worse—touch the wrong spot and the rest of the containers tumble out.
He catches them in his long hands, like he's been waiting for me to screw up again, and laughs under his breath.
"Not much has changed. You're still a hazard in cute human form," he says and sets the containers down carefully.
I glare, but it doesn't land, because he's too freaking calm.
He brushes dust off his palms, and straightens in front of me like a tower. Then he nods his chin at me. "And you're still doing that."
I frown. "Doing what?"
His eyes drop to my mouth, lingering there. "Biting your lip when you don't want to feel something."
So I bite it harder, of course. My teeth sink in just as I swivel away toward the shelf, the elevator button, anything to save me from being entirely exposed.
No. I can't wait here and feel him watching my every move. Screw the elevator.
"I'll go down the stairs," I say, already edging toward the door. "Finish the workout out there. You have a nice day."
His mouth curves as he waves at me faintly. "You too, Emma. See you around."
A harmless polite answer. Except it doesn't feel like that at all.
I bolt, feet pounding the stairwell, thumbs flying over my phone to Lucy.
Which I shouldn't because knowing me, I could very well trip and somehow land forty floors down, but I have to text her now.
She will make me laugh or scream or both. I need that. I need sanity.
