She even went for coffee with Charlie, Lulu, Tamara, and Zoe last week. Brought Heidi along, and introduced her like they were all part of the same damn coven. I wasn’t invited—thank God—but the thought of that lineup still sends a ripple of fear through me.
I rack the bar and shift my grip. Sweat drips down my spine, and the hum of the air conditioning clicks on in the background.
Another set, another shot at getting it right. At being ready.
Because if this is my last season, I want it to be the one people remember.
Not the year I was injured, or the year I missed the Olympics.
The year I came back swinging.
I’m in the midst of another set when I hear it. Bare feet on concrete. I hear her before I see her, then her drowsy but amused voice.
“That bench taken?”
I turn my head, and the bar nearly slips.
Carina stands in the doorway of the home gym wearing one of my shirts—my softest Storm button-down, the navy one—and nothing else. It’s open, loose over her belly, her skin glowing in the morning light.
Her hair’s mussed, eyes still half-lidded with sleep. And somehow, still the most dangerous thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.
“Jesus, Park.”
She pads toward me. “You always this reverent at six in the morning, or is it the shirt?”
“It’s the shirt,” I lie. “Looks better on you.”
She stops at the edge of the bench and tilts her head. “You done?”
“Almost.”
“Shame.” She drags her fingers lightly across my shoulder, then lets them trail down my bicep. “Guess I’ll wait.”
My brain short-circuits as her hand slips even lower. “I gotta finish the set.”
“Mmhmm.” She perches on the edge of the bench between my knees. “Don’t mind me. Just observing proper form.”
I groan under my breath and lift the bar again, refusing to look at her. One rep. Two. I can feel her gaze like a spotlight.
She hums. “Nice… grip.”
“Park.”
“What?” She’s smiling now. “I’m just appreciating the view.”
“Then let me finish—” I grunt as the next rep burns through my triceps.
But she doesn’t let me, because the next thing I know, she’s swinging one leg over me and straddling my hips right there on the bench.
The bar hovers over my chest, and my brain flatlines completely.
“Carina.”
She leans forward, her palms dusting my collarbones for a moment. “Hi.”
I rack the bar with more force than necessary and grab her hips before she can do anything else that might break me.
“I’m sweating.”
