Just two friends, playing a dumb game. I smile. He sees it and smiles back, softer this time. Like we’re both in on the same secret.
14
NOAH
Opening day was such a rush, but now that a couple of days have passed, and the dust has settled, we’ve got regulars trickling in that don’t need sign-ups or demos nonstop. Meaning I can actually take a minute between clients. Jules is running a mobility session in the corner, Zeke’s showing a guy how to set up a squat rack, and Aiden’s in the office grumbling at the computer.
My mind keeps circling back to Gabe and the friendship we’re building. We run most mornings, we talk most nights. I’ve even gotten him to playJust Dancewith me again. He seems more relaxed around me now, still jumps at times, and has that faraway look in his eyes some days, but he’s more present.
I see the way he tries so hard.
The author event is tonight, and I’m sure he’s working himself up over it. Every part of me strains to leave the gym and get back to him. Not that he’s asked me to be there for him, but I want to be.
By the time my last client leaves, I’m sweaty, starving, and itching to get home.
I’ve decided I’m going to do my best to look good tonight—better than good. I want to show up looking like I have my shit together. I mean, I kinda do, I’m twenty-seven and co-own a gym.
I shower quickly, shave, pull on my best pair of jeans, and a crisp blue shirt. I roll the sleeves to my elbows and let my hair air-dry so it curls a little at the edges. I pause at the mirror. Not bad. Am I overdressed for a bookstore event?Shit, I dunno. I’ve never been to one before, maybe I’m trying too hard.
Fantastic. Nothing screams casual support like panic-shaving and overdressing.
I look at myself and huff. I’m feeling self-conscious, and it’s not something I’m used to. The hopeful, foolish part of me wants to look good for Gabe. Which is silly, I doubt he’ll even notice.
When I step into the hallway, Gabe’s door is open. He’s standing in front of the mirror, wearing a deep-green shirt that brings out the different tones in his eyes. His trembling fingers are doing up the last button. The shirt fits perfectly, showing that lean body, the defined muscles of his back rippling as he shifts. Fuck, he looks delicious.
“You look beautiful,” I say before I can think better of it. Probably shouldn’t have said that, but here we are.
His head snaps toward me, eyes wide. That blush I can’t get enough of blooms across his cheeks.
He shifts on his feet. “Oh. Um, you too. I mean, thanks.” I smirk at him, enjoying his stammering more than I should, but it’s adorable. He lets out a shaky laugh, then finally locks eyes with me. “You look… good. Really good.”
He bites his lip, eyes flicking down my chest before darting back up like he didn’t mean to look. For one reckless second, I think he might actually be checking me out. The thought sets off a quiet, dangerous kind of hope that I have to shove down before it runs wild.
“See you down there.”
I throw him a wink before leaving, and I can’t stop grinning the whole way downstairs.
The place looks great. Wildflowers in jars line the windows, rows of chairs where display tables used to be, and a refreshments table near the door.
“Everything looks perfect,” Abbie says, stepping back to admire it.
“Of course it does,” Ciarán mutters in a serious tone, eyes narrowing on the space. He’s clearly in work mode. “I’ve been working on it most of the day.”
I lean on the counter, grinning. “You crushed it. Seriously. This looks amazing.”
Ciarán shoots me a wink, then turns to Gabe, who’s just stepped into the space, softening his voice. “Hi, you look very handsome,” he starts, making Gabe shift awkwardly, but he’s smiling. “If you’re up for it, you could do an intro tonight. Give them the charming-bookstore-owner experience. Only if you want to. If not, I’ll do it. No pressure.”
Gabe goes still. His thumb brushes the scar on his cheekbone, shoulders pulled up tight. Ciarán steps closer to him and touches Gabe’s hand gently. My body tenses, and a pang of jealousy shoots through me. It’s a small, comforting touch, friendly, there’s nothing romantic in it. But it burns. I want to be the one touching him, comforting him.
“I—uh—maybe?” He sounds unsure. Then his eyes find mine across the space. I can see him settle, and there’s a resolve in his eyes.
“I’ll do it,” he says, voice clearer. His eyes flick to mine again, like he’s drawing from something I haven’t offered out loud but knows I’ll give him.
Pride hits so hard it almost buckles my knees. I have to bite back a grin because I don’t want to spook him, butfuck, I want to cross the room and kiss his forehead or something.
I just give him a small nod. If I open my mouth right now, I might say too much.
Like how I’m wondering if he wants to live here forever or if we should look at houses with bigger gardens. Which is insane because there’s nothing more than friendship between us. No matter how badly I wish it were more.
