Holy shit.
I just remembered I’m in Cole Devaney’s house.
Ahh!
I shake myself out of the hysteria, searching for Gus. I find him on one of those weird-looking torture devices with wires and strange apparatus hanging out of it in several directions.
He’s wearing a pair of bulky headphones, courtesy of Cole, I assume, so he doesn’t hear me stroll in. I keep to the far wall, just out of his sight, watching him lift a large weight repeatedly, his face focused, reddening. He’s in a very loose fitted black vest, his toned arms out on full show. His curls are dampened and combed back so that they don’t fall into his eyes, and I have to admit there’s something kind of… I blow out a steadying breath.
Yeah, I have a problem.
And to add to it, now his hair is out of his eyes his facial features are on full show. He’s not devastatingly handsome in the rugged sense like Cole, but he’s handsome and muscular in a way that makes my heart race a little quicker.
Plus, he’s funny. And funny men have (historically speaking) a way of making my knickers accidently slip a little.
He drops the weight after a round (a set? a lap? a testosterone?), and I almost walk towards him when he starts to sing along to whatever he’s listening to, his voice crisp and sharp.
Because,of course, he can sing. What did I expect?
And now the fact that I’m hovering back here is awkward.
So awkward. Sara, you are being weird.
He stops singing to focus on adding round things (I think weights?) to a long metal stick. He throws his headphones on the ground and pulls his socks up before lying back on the bench and pressing the bar above his head.
“Sara, stop loitering and come spot me.”
Busted!
“Loitering? I’m not loitering!” I could actually perish from embarrassment right here, right now. “Also, I don’t know what that means, to spot you, or whatever.”
“Stand here,” Gus says, pointing to the area behind his head. I do as he says, confused the entire time. “Closer,” he adds. “If I can’t lift the bar, you just have to slide it back over these hooks here. You never been in a gym before? You look lost.”
“Yeah. No. If I’m doing exercise, it’s civilised. You know, walking, Pilates, yoga.”
“A little closer.”
“I mean…” I sigh. His face is going to be indecently close to my thighs. But whatever. I clear my throat, step into place and change the subject. “You have a lovely voice, by the way.”
He grunts as he counts in ten reps. He doesn’t need me here. He’s making very light work of the bar. So, this was a ploy. I am a fool. Once he’s done, he sits up, turning towards me with a smile.
“It’s almost like I’m a professional singer, huh?”
“Wait, you’re asinger?” I deadpan.
“You do realise that whole wall there is a mirror, right? I saw you the second you walked in.”
“Oh, so thatwasa performance?”
“What? No! I was just enjoying the song.”
“Right,” I smirk. “So, you just randomly burst into song?”
He snorts like that would be obvious. “Yes. I’m a fucking popstar, remember?”
I shake my head. “You’re weird.” But really, I’m only teasing him. Which works because he’s instantly on the defence.
“Oh. So you’re telling me you never sing in the shower?”
