Page 51

I pour fresh coffee and return to the Chicago report. Two minutes later, I check my phone. Over the next twenty minutes, I look at it three more times.

Nothing.

I’m not used to this side of the morning after. Women usually call me. They send a message or find some reason for us to meet again. I don’t sit alone in my kitchen staring at a silent phone and wondering whether I should try a second time.

I’m not calling again.

A moment later, I call again.

The line rings until her voicemail answers for the second time.

“Fuck.”

I shove the phone into my pocket, drag a hand through my hair, and grab my keys from the bowl beside the door. If I stay here much longer, I’ll call a third time, and I refuse to become that man.

My gym accepts members by invitation and charges an obscene amount each year. The fee buys privacy, spotless equipment, chilled towels, and enough space that no one ever has to wait for a machine. I haven’t been here in almost a month, which means I’m paying far too much for every visit.

It’s nearly empty this morning. Sunlight pours through the tall windows, and the only sounds are the low hum of the air-conditioning and weights striking the rubber floor across the room.

I take a bench near the windows and place my phone faceup beside my water. I tell myself I came to clear my head, but I check the screen after my first set.

Nothing.

I add another plate to each side of the bar, lie back, and try again. By the time I finish, my chest is burning and Rachel still hasn’t called.

A woman stops beside the bench while I’m sitting forward with my elbows on my knees. She’s tall, with dark hair pulled into a high ponytail.

“I’m Francesca.” Her eyes move over me before returning to my face. “Need a spot?”

“No, thank you.”

“That’s a shame. I was hoping you might return the favor.”

Two trainers are standing across the room, and she hasn’t looked at either of them. This isn’t about needing help.

“I’m sure one of the trainers can spot you.”

Her smile tightens. “Of course.”

Francesca turns away just as Daniel approaches. He catches her expression and watches her cross the gym while I check my phone again.

Nothing.

When Daniel reaches the bench, he looks down at me, already amused.

“Charming as ever,” he says.

“I am charming.”

He drops his gym bag beside the bench and glances at the plates. “One eighty-five? Are you injured?”

“What do you bench?”

“Two twenty-five.”

He probably does. Daniel spends more time at the gym than he does at home. He isn’t bulky, but he’s tall and lean, with the kind of muscle that shows when he moves instead of stretching every shirt he owns.

“Good. You can prove it after my set.”