DORIAN:We’re not done with this conversation, but yeah, I have to go.
After my very long and very hot shower, new messages pop onto my phone screen. None from Malachi.
CALLIE:Why did Dorian cross-examine me about your dating history?
CALLIE:Call me back. I need to tell you something.
Since I don’t feel like discussing Cillian or my love life, I don’t call her back. Instead, I order two hearty sandwiches from my favorite Italian place for lunch and flop down in bed with a book.
I try to get into the story but no matter how many pages I flip, my mind keeps drifting to what Malachi said:Because he’s probably dating you to get access to your money.
I toss my book aside, don black leggings and a black sports bra, then head to the bedroom I’ve converted into a home gym.
I punch the sandbag until fresh sweat dribbles down the runnel of my spine, and Liz—my doorwoman or doorbabeas she likes to call herself—phones me up to tell me my food has arrived. Instead of having her send it up, I grab a windbreaker and head down to the lobby.
ME:Which gym does Cillian work at?
DIEGO:The Studio in Cambridge.
“Here you go, Miss Elle,” Liz plops a paper bag on the counter.
I pop open the staple and root inside, removing the extra sandwich I purchased for her. “I got two for the price of one again, Liz. Here.”
“Are you sure?” Liz stares with envy at the butcher paper-wrapped sandwich.
“Absolutely. See you later!” I call out before stepping outside and hailing a cab.
I hate city driving with such a passion that I’ve never bought a car and am plenty happy funding taxi companies.
Fifteen minutes later, my ride pulls up in front of an ivy-and-brick building with large tinted windows. I tuck my sunglasses into my windbreaker pocket and amble to the front desk to ask where I can find Cillian Lowry.
The receptionist mentions he just finished teaching a class, so he’s probably in the employee locker room. After she points me in the right direction, I compel her to forget our chat.
My paper bag crinkles as I push into the locker room. The air is muggy and rings with the sound of water hitting tiles. I walk past the rows of lockers, finding two coaches gossiping about their personal training sessions and how handsy one of their clients was.
When I breeze by, they gape, and then one of them says, “You’re in the wrong locker room.”
“I’m looking for Cillian.”
“Why?” he asks.
I squint at his nametag—Carlos—and jiggle the paper bag. “To give him his lunch.”
“Are you a delivery girl?” Carlos asks.
His buddy, whose nametag is blocked off by his long, black ponytail, looks me up and down in a way that makes me wish I’d grabbed a regular windbreaker, and not the sheer one Calanthe bought me to spice up my dark and boring—according to her—athletic wardrobe.
“We should start giving dance lessons,” he says.
I grimace at his leap in logic but don’t bother setting him straight. “Cillian? Where is he?”
Carlos nods toward the back, his bald head gleaming like it’s been buffed with baby oil. “In the shower.”
I set my irises aglow and compel both men to forget they saw me, leave, and guard the locker room door until I walk out. Once they’re gone, I make my way toward the shower stalls, then take a seat on the bench beneath a red neon that reads:Love the burn.
I’ve just set down the paper bag when the water stops. I hear cloth whisper over skin, followed by the clink of a latch. And then Cillian is standing before me, hair so waterlogged it shines like teak, and skin so damp the indent between each ab glistens like a river bed.
Chapter 8
