I increase my pace, not sharing that the only thing making me anxious is the last-minute publicist change-up. “I’m so used to putting myself out there, these events are pretty 101.”
“Music to a publicist’s ears,” he says. “Meredith was glad she didn’t have to broach media training with you.”
She said as much to me too. Apparently it can be a process, getting authors up to speed on how to present themselves best in interviews, talk about their book in short, snappy sound bites, and stay on message even when interviewers sometimes don’t. But I’ve always been comfortable with public speaking (Mar credits my level-eleven extroversion for this), and doing so much of it over the years has given me enough experience that I could probably become a media trainer myself.
“She’s been a dream to work with,” I say. I’ve been trying to keep my snark in check since the flight yesterday, but I realize belatedly that that may come across as a gibe if he reads comparison into the sentiment. “I’m going to miss her,” I add, hoping that expressing something personal may soften my previous words.
“Meredith’s one of the best in the business, and your book was a big coup for her,” he says, decreasing the pace on his machine. “But career decisions are a trade-off. We have to go with the option that will meet our greatest needs.”
It sounds like he’s speaking from experience, and I wonder what needs Woodsworth satisfies for him. If he studied creative writing, how fulfilling is it to promote other people’s creative output? And yet, I can relate. I went to med school and was so close to becoming a practicing doctor—a career path that would satisfy the most important people in my life, offer financial security, and do some good in the world—only to abandon ship when my most pressing needs demanded I pursue something else instead. Which at the time was less aboutSo Proud of Youitself and more about mydesperate, clawing need for self-preservation when it felt like the ground was crumbling beneath my feet.
Ryan’s treadmill stops and he wipes it down, ever efficient in his movements. He seems to be avoiding looking in my direction, but I do no such thing. I blame the fact that I haven’t had sex in a few weeks, but if his shirt clinging to his back was a sight, the way it hugs his pecs and taut stomach is a goddamn spectacle. I only just started my run and already I’m panting.
I throat-punch my libido. Ryan’s head doesn’t need any more inflating, even if he’s unaware that my thoughts are an air pump. What’s he trying to prove with that body, anyway? What does a publicist need so many muscles for?
“Excuse me?” he says, finally glancing my way.
My jaw clenches. I said that last part out loud, didn’t I? Shit. Fate won’t stop till she’s buried me under twenty metric tons of embarrassment, using my own inability to stop myself from blurting my every thought as a shovel.
He’s still waiting, and for once I’m not quick on my feet in coming up with a believable cover-up for my inopportune blurtage. Horniness is clouding my brain.
“I didn’t say anything,” I say instead. Like a smooth criminal.
He adjusts the weight on the chest press. Slowly, deliberately, as though to rub it in. “My mistake.”
He pushes the handles of the machine forward, his shoulders, biceps, and chest contracting in sharp relief beneath his shirt. I’ve already worked up a sweat, but fresh heat tingles like pins and needles up my thighs. Have I ever even seen his forearms before? No. I definitely would have noticed those veins and sinews. Or are they only emphasized by the light of the sunrise, glinting over the horizon of Lake Michigan?
“If my muscles offend you,” he says, pressing the handles forward again on an exhale, “maybe you shouldn’t stare at them.”
I scoff. “Don’t flatter yourself.” I stare straight ahead. Maybe if Iglare at the sun long enough, I won’t be able to see anything anymore.
“I’m not the one flattering me,” he says, a bit under his breath, but I hear it. And was that a smile in his tone? Is his face even capable?
I pause my machine and turn his way just in time to see him glance quickly back up at my eyes. The classic move of someone who doesn’t want to get caught looking where he shouldn’t be. Oh, but I caught those darkened eyes circling my legs, my stomach, my shoulders. The various expanses of bare skin starting to glisten with sweat.
“Now who’s staring?” I say, quirking a brow. My tone is flirty, but his face falls immediately.
“Shit,” he says, rattling his head. “I don’t know what came over me—I’m sorry.”
Iknow what came over him. I lookamazingin these shorts. “It’s okay—”
“No, it’s not.” He rises from the bench and wipes it down quickly. “I crossed professional boundaries. It won’t happen again.”
The air is thick with tension, and my instinct is to say something to dispel it, convince him it’s fine, I was only kidding. Because Iwasonly kidding. I’m used to people checking me out and I honestly don’t care if he does (especially not when I was checking him out too).
In fact, to put it more accurately, I kind of like it. A lot. Not that I’d tell him that.
At least now I know he’s not a robot. Beyond the indecency of that T-shirt clinging to his torso, it’s gratifying—in a way I don’t care to give too much thought to—that, for a few seconds there, he wasn’t the rigid, aloof Ryan Grant. He was decidedly…notaloof. Not with that heat flaring in his eyes, something wild overcoming the impassivity in them for just a moment.
He’s snapped back to factory settings, though, his movementsspeedy as he bids me goodbye and passes me on the way to the exit, gone before I can think of what to say. But not before I get a waft of his scent—warm skin and freshly washed clothes, with an overlay of sweat that, ridiculously, prompts a clench in my nether regions.
The room seems awfully quiet after he vacates it, the tension lingering and sending restless energy through me.Just forget it.Easier said than done. I blast my M.I.A. playlist and level up my workout, adding sprint intervals to my run, followed by high knees, jump squats, and the most punishing burpees I can manage, forcing the release of endorphins, trying and not quite succeeding to banish the insistent hum deep inside my body. Now who’s workingsomethingout?
I rush back to my room, beelining for one of my suitcases. Garments go flying as I dig through it, until finally I pull out the small pouch I packed with various electronic accoutrements—an extra power bank, a multi-pronged charger, noise-canceling headphones—and find what I’m looking for: a small travel vibrator.
I don’t allow myself to think. I just strip off my drenched clothes and put it to use.
Despite having explored Chicago extensively during past visits for speaking events, I’ve never been to Elevate Books. It’s near Lincoln Park, a scenic neighborhood with tree-lined streets boasting homes tucked behind wrought-iron fencing. Its plethora of architectural styles showcases the city’s evolution over time—redbrick Victorians next to opulent French-style limestone behemoths next to old factories converted to modern loft-style condos. The bookstore, tucked between an antiques gallery and an empty storefront on a major thoroughfare, looks like it’s lived here for a century. Its clientele does too.
