“Maybe he wanted to feel close to you,” Mary suggests with a dreamy sigh.
“I thought he was here to bother you,” Etta says. “You two are more reconciled than I knew, though, so maybe Mary is right.”
“Maybe,” I agree. “If you’re sure it’s him?”
“It’s definitely him,” Mary replies. “And he brought another guy—bigger, a little, and kind of intimidating. Not that your husband isn’t intimidating himself, but the other guy was…” She trails off and waves her hands in the air.
Etta grunts. “The other guy looked like he’d let you stab him and enjoy it,” she says succinctly.
Ah. Malcolm.
“That’s his brother,” I tell them. I hum and press the blunt end of my paintbrush into my lower lip. “I wonder if he’s making any progress.”
Mary blushes. “When I checked on them, they definitely looked like they’d been making some progress.”
I raise my brows. “Mary, Mary,” I scold without heat. “How daring!”
She hides her face behind her hands. “I’m sorry!” she cries. “I was just walking past and they were the only ones in there and they’re so attractive.” Her hands drop, and she stares at me, mortified. “Not that I was checking out your husband! I would never do that to you. I swear. They’re just– They’re so–”
I laugh, cutting her off. “I know what they are,” I say. “I have eyes as well.”
She hides again.
I snort and drop my paintbrush into a glass of water, then wrap an arm around her shoulder. Steering us to the counter, I exchange entertained looks with Etta. “Here,” I say. “Go back to work, and we can all pretend you weren’t ogling my hot husband behind my back.”
She gives a properly horrified gasp. “I wasn’t! I swear I wasn’t!”
I press my lips together, beyond amused. “I’m teasing you, Mary. Don’t worry about it. Ivy and Malcolm are hard to ignore on their own. Together? You didn’t stand a fighting chance.”
Etta shakes her head. “Go back to your painting. I’ll take care of Mary.”
Mary whimpers at the thought.
Etta’s shining brown eyes catch mine, and she winks.
I smile. “I’m going to go check on Ivy,” I decide. “The painting can wait. Do you two mind keeping it safe for me?”
Mary bobs her head pitifully while Etta graciously tips hers. “Of course,” the younger woman crows. “We won’t let anything happen to it!”
I grin, then get directions to the gym and head that way. It’s easy enough to find, which is to be expected, but what’snotexpected is the floor to ceiling wall of windows displaying every inch of gym floor once I’m in the correct hallway.
The gym itself isn’t massive, though it is larger than I would have thought for a hotel. Three treadmills line a back wall, joined by an elliptical and a stairstepper. The opposite wall boasts an array of weights and mats, and the center of the room is taken up by two weight benches and what I think might be a squat rack.
What really catches my attention isn’t the equipment, but the men making use of it—one man in particular.
On the middle treadmill, Iverson jogs shirtless and dripping sweat. As I watch, he jumps, feet landing on either side of the treadmill’s moving belt to give him a break. He hunches, back muscles stretching taut as he strains for breath.
Beside him, Malcolm keeps a moderate pace, his shirt flowing and dry. He glances at his brother, mouth moving. Iverson replies, lifting a hand in a rude gesture.
My eyes stray to his back.
My breath catches.
He’s trying so hard. So, so hard.
Hard.
Muscle.
