That shouldn’t make me this happy. It absolutely does.
Dean showers faster than I do—somekind of firefighter efficiency thing—and texts that he’ll meet me in the parking lot. Which leaves me alone in the men’s locker room, taking my time, trying to figure out if I should find Delilah before I leave or if that would be too obvious.
Too obvious, probably. But when has that stopped me?
I grab my gym bag and push through the door into the hallway that connects the locker rooms—a short corridor with water fountains and a bulletin board covered in flyers for yoga classes and personal training specials.
Delilah is standing at the water fountain.
She’s changed into jeans and a blue lace top, her damp hair loose around her shoulders. She looks up when she hears the door, and something flickers across her face. Surprise. Nervousness. Something else I can’t quite name.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey.”
We stand there like two idiots who have forgotten how conversation works.
“Good workout?” I try.
“Fine. You?”
“Fine.”
More silence. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead.
“I saw you,” she says finally. “In the mirror.”
“I saw you too.”
“You added extra weight. To the dumbbells.”
“I was feeling ambitious.”
She gives me a knowing smirk. “You were showing off.”
“Maybe.” I take a step closer. “Did it work?”
She doesn’t step back. “Did what work?”
“The showing off. Were you impressed?”
A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “I’ve seen better.”
“Liar.”
“Prove it.”
I don’t know which one of us moves first. Maybe both of us. Maybe neither of us. But suddenly the space between us is half of what it was, and her chin is tilted up, and I can smell her shampoo—something floral and clean—and her eyes are very green this close.
Her smile fades. Not into something sad—into something honest. The kind of expression she used to get right before she said something that would wreck me.
“Levi,” she says, barely above a whisper.
“Yeah.”
“This is a terrible idea.”
“I know.”
