Page 59 of Gym With Benefits

“You make it look good,” he said, brushing my bare shoulder for a brief second before he dropped his hand, mindful of the corporate eyes around us. He adjusted his bow tie with a self-conscious tug. “Honestly, this is the fanciest place I've seen since my senior prom.”

I laughed softly, but the humor died a quick death as an unwelcome memory intruded. Dane's face filled my mind. The leather seat of the Bronco, his pocket stuffed with my underwear, voice flat as he warned me not to tell Hunter or Brock about what happened. A cold splash of guilt hit my stomach, threatening to ruin the evening before it had even started.

I shook the feeling off, forcing my attention back to the present. “Let's get a drink. My glass has been empty for two whole minutes.”

“Now you’re talking.”

We walked together to the middle of the bar and I waved the bartender over. “Two glass-rinse Sazeracs. Rye whiskey, Peychaud’s bitters, a splash of absinthe, and a lemon twist, please.”

The bartender nodded, instantly impressed by the specific order. Hunter raised his eyebrows, a grin breaking across his handsome face as he watched the glasses get prepared.

“Look at you, shaking down a corporate bar,” he teased, leaning his forearm against the polished wood. “I'm usually the one mixing your pre-workout drinks into a plastic shaker. This feels like a major demotion.”

“Consider it my way of showing you I possess actual life skills outside of lifting weights,” I said, accepting the drinks and handing him one.

We turned around to face the crowded room, our shoulders brushing as we took a sip. Across the glass terrarium, David stood next to a group of executives. He caught my eye, pausing mid-sentence to offer an emphatic thumbs-up right by his chest.

I rolled my eyes, shifting my focus back to Hunter before my roommate could embarrass me any further.

“So what's the protocol here?” he said, his eyes tracking a senior partner downing a tiny quiche. “Do we network? Do we dance? Do I talk to people about interest rates?”

“We definitely dance,” I said, guiding him to the section of the floor where a dozen couples already swayed and drifted to the music.

Hunter's hand settled on the small of my back, his warmth penetrating the thin blue fabric within seconds. He pulled me close, closing the gap until we were pressed together. Our eyes locked, a shared wave of bashful realization washing over us before we both looked away, laughing softly at the awkwardness of our current states.

“You really are beautiful,” he said. The sincerity in his eyes struck me right where the old college scars kept guard, dissolving a layer of defense I didn't know I still held.

"Don't get too comfortable," I whispered, deciding the honesty felt right. “I should probably admit this isn't just a standard date. It's actually a test.”

His step faltered. “A test? What do you mean?”

“It’s nothing bad,” I assured him quickly. “I need a plus-one for Amberleigh’s wedding, and I need to decide between you and Brock.”

“Pick me. I wanna go.” His face lit up with a grin.

“Let me finish,” I said with a laugh. “This is a trial run. I'm testing the waters to see who fits best in the wild.”

“Oh, I'm gonna win,” he said, a streak of athletic rivalry glinting in his eyes. Without a word of warning, he spun me out in a smooth circle, and swept me back into a deep, dramatic dip.

A fluttering laugh caught in my throat as the glass ceiling tilted wildly above us. Hunter hovered over me, his face inches from mine, and pressed a brief, firm kiss to my lips before pulling me back up with effortless strength.

“Consider the bar raised,” he winked.

Brock definitely seemed like the obvious frontrunner for a high-society event given his polished look, but Hunter possessed a dark-horse charm when his competitive nature took over. The night took on a sweet, fluid rhythm from there. We drifted between the bar and the balcony, trading stories about who we were before Capitol Fitness over a second and third round of Sazeracs. Hearing him talk about his childhood sports injuries made him feel real, a stark contrast to the sterile corporate environment surrounding us.

An hour later, the firm’s founder took the small stage for the mandatory executive speeches. The drone of financial projections and market expansions washed over the room, prompting Hunter to lean down and whisper highly inaccurate translations of financial jargon into my ear until I had to bite my lip to keep from disrupting everything.

David materialized beside us just as the applause signaled the end of the presentation. “Hunter, right? Phenomenal tuxedo choice.”

Hunter smiled back and extended his hand. To my utter dismay, David didn’t shake his hand. Instead, he reached up and firmly squeezed Hunter’s left pectoral muscle through his shirt.

My cheeks burned from second-hand embarrassment. Hunter’s hand was still extended in mid-air, his expression a mix of profound confusion and mild alarm.

“Don't mind me,” David said smoothly, dropping his hand back to his side without a hint of shame. “This is a native greeting in my culture.”

“You're from Fresno,” I said flatly.

“A very tribal region,” David shot back. “And you call yourself a history buff.”