Finally, she sets her tools down and looks at us. “I’d say we’re dealing with a little fatigue. Nothing serious, but you need to get plenty of sleep over the next few days and not overdo things. Think you can manage that?”
I snort. Because Gabe, not overdo things? She’s asking for the impossible.
But he simply nods and says, “Yeah, sure. Thanks, doc.”
“I’ll write you up for a blood test just to make sure.” She scrawls something on a piece of paper, tears it off a pad, and passes it to him. “Take this next door. They’ll get back to you within a few days, but I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”
He gives me a look as if to say, “See?”
I ignore him. “Thanks for your time.” I stand, and he does, too. “Have a nice day.”
As we leave, he reaches for my hand and tucks it inside his. Tingles shoot up my arm. “You worry too much, Syd. I just need a good sleep.”
“At least now we know.” Although if I’m being honest, I can’t help the unsettling feeling that it’s not that simple.
On Sunday,after a sleep in for both of us, I linger in the doorway of Gabe’s home gym, ogling him from behind while he does squats at a weight rack.
Damn boy, he looks fine.
I could happily incorporate this vision into my daily life. He squats down, his muscular butt sticking out, and I lick my lips. As he straightens, his powerful thighs bunch, and God, there is a whole lot to admire when it comes to Gabe Mendoza’s body. From the swirling ink peeking out above his sneakers to the wall of muscle that is his chest, to his unwaveringly intense black gaze set in a brutally beautiful face. I’ve been watching him for signs of strain, or that he’s not feeling recovered, but from all appearances, he’s fine.
My phone rings, and his eyes dart to mine in the mirror, but he doesn’t flinch, which suggests he knows I’ve been watching him all along. He doesn’t smirk or play the peacock, as his friends might. He just keeps working, letting me look my fill. A shiver courses through me. I wonder if he’ll want to check me out the same way later.
The phone rings again, and I glance at the caller ID. It’s Mom. Turning away to answer, I walk out of hearing distance. I haven’t told her about the recent twist in our relationship yet. But then, she’s not the type to care much one way or the other except for the potential bragging rights.
“Hi, Mom.” Pacing down the hall, I make my way to the living room, where I sit on a massive sofa and tuck my feet beneath me. I’m wearing one of Gabe’s oversized tees and nothing else. I feel way underdressed for the conversation that’s sure to come. My cousin Christina’s wedding is next weekend, and I RSVP’d with a plus one that I didn’t have. I’d planned to find someone, or drag a friend along with me, and for once, my optimism has actually paid off.
“Hello, Sydney,” she says, her voice buttery smooth. Mom is a singer. The classy type who specializes in jazz and theater, and she’s always been disappointed I don’t share her passion. Unfortunately, I’m completely tone-deaf—a constant letdown. “I hope you’ve remembered Christina’s wedding. I trust I’ll see you there.”
“Yes, you will.”
“With a date?” Her arch tone suggests I’d better not embarrass her by turning up stag to another family event. There’s nothing that the Colemans enjoy more than gossiping, and as the spinster who ranks her career higher than marrying well, I’m an easy target. Most of my cousins are dancers. Beautiful, vivacious, and used to being the center of attention. When they get together, it’s like a reunion of the cast of Mean Girls. And I’m the butt of their jokes. Mom doesn’t discourage them, and after a lot of reflection, I’ve decided it’s because she hopes they’ll bully me into fixing what she perceives to be my flaws.
“Yes, mother, with a date.” A smug smile curves my lips. Technically, I haven’t asked Gabe to join me, but I’m sure he will. I know for a fact he has no plans next Saturday, and he’s never made a secret of his poor opinion of my family so I’m sure he’ll be happy to support me and counteract their disdain. Assuming he’s feeling okay, of course. I’ll be keeping an eye on him to make sure.
“Who?” For once in my life, she actually sounds interested.
“Gabe.”
“Oh.” Her tone is dismissive and I can sense her mood deflating down the line. “When you said a date, I thought you meant you’re finally seeing someone.”
With a shake of my head, I remind myself to be patient. She doesn’t intend any ill will. We’re simply different people. A little too different, perhaps.
“I am. Gabe and I are dating.”
“Really?” Her excitement returns, and it frustrates me. I’ve always wanted to do something—anything—to please this woman, but at the end of the day, it isn’t me who impresses her, it’s the thought that I might have hooked a wealthy and famous athlete. “Has he finished sowing his wild oats and decided it’s time to settle down?”
This makes me laugh despite myself. The thought that Gabe might have been sowing wild oats for the past few years is ridiculous. He’s been too busy working his ass off in the gym.
“Sure, that’s exactly it.”
“Good. I’ll see you both there. Don’t forget to wear—”
“I’m not wearing black to a wedding,” I interrupt. “But never fear, I’ll make sure I’m appropriately attired.” I may also slip a flask of tequila into my purse. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve needed one to get through a family event. “Say hi to Dad for me. Bye.”
Ending the call, I head back to Gabe’s home gym and almost walk into him coming the other way. Stopping abruptly a safe distance from his chest, I try not to stare. But really, he’s too gorgeous, and it wouldn’t be right not to appreciate the work he puts in.
“Who was that?” he asks, and brushes a kiss over my cheek.
