I grab my jacket.
“Text me later,” I say lightly.
She bites her lip.
“Yeah. Okay.”
I lean down and kiss her. It’s a soft one, a lingering one, and it takes everything in me not to stay.
When I pull back, her eyes flick over my face like she wants to ask something.
But she doesn’t.
And I don’t give her the chance.
I head for the door, trying to breathe and just act normal.
Trying not to think about how she’ll walk into that bar later, looking incredible, as I’m walking home alone.
And trying not to think about how much it bothers me.
I’m trying to be normal.
Trying to be professional.
Trying to be the version of myself that doesn’t kiss her senseless in her office, or lift her onto her kitchen counter, orstand under her shower with my hands on her hips as she gasps against my neck.
But today?
I’m nailing exactly none of that.
We wrap up her last set of Romanian deadlifts.
No touching.
No leaning in.
No “accidentally” brushing her arm.
Just… admiration.
Pure, wide-eyed, stunned admiration.
She stands there, breathing hard, sweat glistening across her collarbone, her leggings hugging her like a second skin.
I hand her a towel.
“Damn,” I murmur before I can stop myself.
She tilts her head. “What?”
“You were hot when you started training with me.”
I gesture at her, unable to hold back the grin.
“But now? Now you’re strong. Stronger than half the dudes I train. And your form is perfect. You’re… just—damn.”
Her grin spreads slow and wicked.
