“I’ll spot,” he says.
I lift my head just enough to glare at him. “I don’t need one.”
He folds his arms across his chest and shrugs. “Well, I’m here now. No point moving.”
I snort under my breath and start my set.
The weight lifts smoothly on the first rep. Bronx doesn’t touch the bar, but I can feel the focus of his gaze on every movement.
“Not bad for a princess,” he says, and I can hear the taunt in his tone.
“I could bench you,” I shoot back, pushing the bar up again.
“You’d struggle to drag me across the floor.”
“I’ve dragged plenty ofdead bodies.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, the sound low in his chest.
The bar lowers toward my sternum again, and I push it up harder this time, finishing the set with a final controlled rep before guiding it into the clips.
Bronx’s hands close around the bar just long enough to steady it as it settles into place.
His fingers brush my wrist. A small, accidental contact that sends a quick flare of heat through me.
I sit up and swipe the back of my hand across my forehead.
Bronx is standing between my knees now, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body. Sweat darkens the collar of his T-shirt, and his eyes pin me in place.
My pulse trips.
“You’re slowing down,” he says.
“That was just a warm-up.” I roll my eyes and grab my water bottle. “If you’d lifted anything impressive, I would’ve noticed.”
His gaze drags over my face before he smirks.
“Wow, princess,” he murmurs. “Are you flirting?”
After a long drink, I get up. “I didn’t think wives needed to flirt once the ring settled on their finger.”
He steps back from the bench and gestures toward the pull-up bar.
“Come on, then,” he says. “Let’s see if that attitude holds up when you’re hanging.”
I grab my towel and follow him across the mat, refusing to let him see the faint smile tugging at my mouth.
Floor-to-ceiling mirrors line the entire wall behind me, throwing back every angle of us—his broad shoulders, mypink cheeks, the way my sports bra pushes up my cleavage and his T-shirt hangs loose.
Bronx jumps first, gripping the bar with an easy stretch of his arms and pulling himself up in one smooth motion before dropping back down again.
The repetitive movement is effortless; the muscles in his back tightening under the thin fabric of his shirt.
Show-off.
I plant my hands on the bar and haul myself up beside him.
“Try to keep up,” I mutter.
