I blink, my brain short-circuiting for a second. “Uh… Teddy. Hi.”
The words come out stumbling and breathy. Heat floods my cheeks instantly.
What is wrong with me?
Sure, he is hot—older, built like a Greek god who lifts actual boulders, with those piercing eyes that seem to see straight through casual small talk. But this feels like more than simple attraction. My skin tingles, and a strange mix of nervousness and something warmer pools low in my belly.
I shift on the seat, suddenly hyper-aware of how my yellow top clings to my skin from the light sweat.
Kirill doesn’t smile, but his gaze lingers on me for a beat longer than polite.
“I saw you training someone yesterday,” Kirill says. You’re good with form. Patient too.”
Oh no. Here it comes. The part where the hot gym guy asks me to train him personally and I have to politely decline becauseprofessional boundaries.
I brace myself, already forming the gentle rejection in my head.
Instead, he continues without waiting for my reply, his tone matter-of-fact and brooking no argument.
“You will train my nephew. Bobby. He needs discipline and strength,” Kirill commands. “The pay will be at your usual rate, multiplied by two. You start tomorrow.”
I stare at him, mouth slightly open. “Wait…what?”
It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even really a request. It was a declaration. Like Kirill had already decided and the conversation was just a formality.
My mind races…
Train his nephew?
No real discussion of schedule, goals, or even his age and fitness level?
And why did the word “discipline” coming from his lips send such a confusing spark through me?
Before I can gather my scattered thoughts or form a coherent response—I have clients, auditions, a life—a man in dark clothing approaches from the side. He moves with quiet purpose, leaning in to whisper something in Kirill’s ear.
Kirill’s expression doesn’t change much, but I catch the subtle tightening of his jaw. He gives a short nod, then stands. His eyes flick back to me once.
“Tomorrow,” Kirill says. “I’ll have details sent to you.”
And just like that, he walks away with the other man, leaving me sitting there dumbfounded on the shoulder press machine.
No goodbye.
No number exchange.
No chance for me to sayyes, no, or what the actual heck?
I blink at the empty space where he’d been. The gym feels oddly quieter without his presence, even though only a handful of people are scattered around. My pulse is still racing though, that’s for sure.
“What just happened?” I whisper to myself.
Shaking my head, I load up for another set, but my focus is shot. Every press brings back the memory of his deep voice, the way he looked at me like the decision was already made, and that dark, commanding energy that seemed to wrap around me even after he left.
By the time I finish my workout—legs, core, a quick cardio finisher—my body is pleasantly exhausted, but my mind is a whirlwind.
Who is Kirill?
And why did a five-minute interaction with a near-stranger leave me feeling so… off-balance?
