His mouth twitched. “You think I’m emotionally unstable?”
“I think you body-check people for recreational development.”
“That’s character building.”
“That’s what violent men call hobbies.”
“Careful, Pip.”
There it was again.
That warning wrapped around my nickname like velvet over steel.
My stomach flipped so hard I nearly forgot I had legs.
I followed him onto the mat anyway, every step feeling too loud in the warm gym air. Cade stood behind me, close enough that I could feel the heat of him before he touched me, his shadow stretching across the mirror in front of us. I caught sight of us there and immediately wished I hadn’t.
Me in tiny workout shorts and a sports bra, cheeks flushed, hair escaping my ponytail in soft, messy pieces around my face.
Cade behind me shirtless, broad and golden and built like every bad idea my body had ever tried to make for me.
His eyes met mine in the mirror, and the look on his face was calm enough to terrify me.
“Squats first,” he said.
I blinked. “That’s it?”
“You sound disappointed.”
“I sound suspicious.”
“You should be. Your form is terrible.”
I gasped, offended enough to forget for half a second that my heart was actively trying to leave my body. “My form is not terrible.”
“You almost died walking backward off a treadmill ten minutes ago because you were staring at my chest.”
“I was not staring.”
His mouth curved in the mirror. “Pip.”
“Fine. I glanced.”
“You studied.”
“I’m doing a human-interest project.”
“On my pecs?”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Then don’t stare at me.”
I rolled my eyes, but the smile betrayed me before I could stop it.
Cade stepped closer.
Not touching yet.
