Page 8 of Ice Cold Chemistry
“Breathe into the stretch,” I say, adjusting someone’s hand placement. “Don’t force it.”
“I’d let her force me into anything,” someone mutters, just loud enough for me to hear.
My cheeks burn. I keep walking.
Then I get to Grayson.
He’s not even attempting the pose. He’s just kneeling on his mat, watching me with that smug expression I’m starting to hate. His eyes track my every movement like I’m entertainment.
“Need some help?” I ask, keeping my tone neutral.
“Depends.” He leans back on his heels, making a show of looking me up and down. “You gonna come over here and adjust me? Get those hands on my body?”
A few guys nearby snicker. Someone coughs to cover a laugh.
My face is on fire now. “If you’re not going to participate, you can leave.”
“Oh, I’m participating.” His eyes drift down my body with zero subtlety. “I’m very engaged. In fact, I’ve got some tight spots that could really use your attention.”
More laughter. My hands are trembling. I lace them in front of me and try to remain calm.
“Reed.” The voice comes from the back of the room.
Banks hasn’t moved from his spot against the wall. His arms are still crossed, his expression unreadable. But something in his tone—low, flat, dangerous—makes Grayson’s smirk falter.
“What?”
“Shut up.”
It’s not loud. It’s not aggressive. It’s just… final. Like a door closing.
Grayson holds Banks’s stare for a moment, some silent challenge passing between them. Then he rolls his eyes and turns back to his mat, suddenly very interested in attempting downward dog.
I take the opportunity to move to the other side of the room, putting as much distance between us as possible. My heart is hammering so hard I’m sure everyone can hear it.
The rest of the session is a blur.
I go through the motions—warrior one, warrior two, triangle pose—but my heart isn’t in it. Every time I demonstrate a stretch, I feel eyes on me. Every time I bend forward, I hear whispers. A few guys are legitimately trying to follow along, but they’re drowned out by the ones who treat every pose like a chance to stare.
“Fold forward from the hips,” I instruct, demonstrating. “Let your head hang heavy.”
“I’ll letsomethinghang heavy,” someone mutters, and there’s another ripple of laughter.
I don’t look up. Don’t react. Don’t give them the satisfaction.
By the time I dismiss the group, I’m barelyholding it together.
“Great session,” Logan says on his way out, seemingly oblivious to everything that just happened. “Same time tomorrow?”
“Sure.” My smile feels like plastic. Like it might crack if I hold it too long.
The room empties slowly. Too slowly. I busy myself collecting foam rollers.
When I finally look up, Banks is still there.
He’s by the door now, one hand on the frame, filling the doorway with his broad shoulders. He’s watching me with that same unreadable expression, and I can’t tell if he’s concerned, annoyed, or just waiting for something.
“You okay?” he asks.
