I roll my eyes and wait for him to cut the music.
“How long have you had that sign up?” I ask.
Graham shrugs with a grin. “A while.” He goes back to his monitor. “Do you need something?"
“Yeah,” I stress. “Give me the tea! What happened?”
He glances over his shoulder. “What more is there to say? I already told you.”
I throw my hands up with a scoff. “Did Rome say anything to you about why his dad was here?”
Graham shakes his head. “No.”
“Did you ask?”
He squints. “Uh, no?”
I glance to the ceiling with frustration. “Did you ask him anything?”
Graham chuckles. “How could I? He stormed off into the gym and has been there since.”
I glance at the large clock on the wall in the middle of the shop floor. “Still? That’s way longer than usual.”
Graham spins all the way around and eyes me closely. “Do you have him on a time limit or something?”
My spine stiffens. “What? No. I just…know his schedule.”
Never mind the fact that he didn’t exactly share it with me. It’s just nice to know where the enemy is at all times.
“Well…” Graham walks off toward the cars to tinker with something. “He’s still in there last I saw. Maybe you should go ask him all these follow-up questions.”
“I guess I will–”
“But I’d do it at your own discretion,” Graham interrupts me.
I pause. “What is that supposed to mean?”
He cuts the music back on and gives me a thumbs up. I scowl and leave the shop floor.
All drivers exercise to maintain high endurance and strength, mainly to handle the G-forces, so it’s not unusual that he’s training. Noah and Beck do the same, though later in the day. But Graham’s warning rests quietly in the back of my mind until I spot him.
My steps falter. I wouldn’t be surprised if the glass window didn’t fog up from the rush of warmth to my skin.
The visual of a sweaty, bare-chested Rome will forever be embedded into my brain.
I hate that he’s so damn attractive.
The dips of his toned stomach rise swiftly from his run on the treadmill, and not only can I see from the bulging of his muscles that he’s been lifting weights, but the floor is scattered with dumbbells.
I step away from the glass, but my gaze doesn’t lag. I follow him across the room as he hops off the machine and moves to the punching bag. He punches it several times before pushing off it to turn toward the window.
I stop breathing.
Our eyes lock, and he pauses.
Sweat trickles down the side of his flushed face, his dark hair sticking to his forehead.
Jesus.
