“Princess, I’ve been keeping up with you since the day we met.”
I pull myself up once, twice, the burn already starting in my shoulders. Bronx matches my rhythm; the two of us rising and lowering in unison.
Three reps.
Four.
Five.
“Struggling already?” he says between breaths.
“Not even close.”
He glances sideways at me, a slow grin spreading across his face as we drop back down again.
“Your form’s slipping.”
“My form is perfect.”
“Your legs are swinging.”
“That’s momentum.”
“That’s cheating.”
I drop from the bar and shove hisshoulder as he lands beside me.
“You’re just bitter because I’m stronger than you,” I say.
Bronx actually laughs at that. Not the calculating smile he gives when he’s on a call, or the smug grin he throws at me when he wins an argument. This is different. Careless. Hotter.
Dangerous in a whole new way.
For a second, I just stare at him. His head tips back a little, his eyes creasing at the corners, and two deep dimples appear in his cheeks.
I’ve never seen this man look… so relaxed.
Jesus fuck.
He’s gorgeous when he laughs.
The thought turns my blood red-hot so suddenly that I have to look away before he can see the flush creep up my neck.
“Something wrong, princess?”
I blink, realizing I’ve been staring at him like an idiot. So I grab a ball from the rack and toss it at him. “You look ridiculous.”
He catches it. “Ridiculous?”
“Those dimples,” I say, nodding toward his face. “They ruin the whole terrifying mafia enforcer image.”
He arches a brow. “Do they?”
“Completely.”
He sets the ball down and steps closer, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist.
“That’s disappointing,” he says.
