Page 62 of Gym With Benefits

Dane reached down and gripped the knurled steel of the barbell, lifting it onto the iron racks with a dull clang that echoed in Brock’s absence. His chest expanded as he let out a long breath, a smug, unbothered grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You know,” I muttered, leaning against the nearby squat rack and crossing my arms over my chest, “if your goal yesterday was to keep our little rendezvous a secret, you just failed miserably.”

He grabbed a gym towel from the top of the rack and wiped the sweat from the back of his neck, unfazed by the accusation. His eyes locked onto mine, brimming with something I couldn’t name. Something that had nothing to do with the pre-workout smoothie. “Brock's smart. He figured it out all on his own.”

“After you basically rolled out a red carpet and gave him a guided tour,” I said with a soft laugh. “What happened to 'I just don't want you telling them'?"

“That was before.” He tossed the towel onto a nearby bench, his grin widening.

“Before what?”

“I went home and sat at my desk,” he said, dropping onto the bench with his hands on his knees. “My brain was wired. All that oxygen or whatever the hell we did must’ve sparked something. This client who’s been giving me a hard time… I suddenly got hit by a brainwave of how to deal with him.”

I couldn’t help smiling as I watched him beam up at me. “So what, my body's a catalyst for mental breakthroughs now? I should charge a consulting fee.”

“I'm serious, Jess,” he said, his voice low enough to make my stomach do a slow flip. He gripped the steel beam above my head, boxing me into the space with his broad chest. “I don't care who knows about us, because the truth is, I owe you big time.”

The admission was a golden opportunity dropping right into my lap.

“It's interesting you should mention that,” I murmured, my fingers tracing the cold iron of the barbell beside me, “because I’d like to call in that debt.”

23

Jess

The tires of Brock’s Jeep Wrangler crunched against the pristine gravel of a tree-lined street in Georgetown. The leather seats still had that new-car stiffness, a distinct contrast to the worn-in utility of Dane’s Bronco. Brock gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles tightening slightly as he listened to the detailed summary of my evening with Hunter.

“The man actually dipped me,” I said, leaning back against the headrest and watching the brick storefronts flash past the passenger window. “Right in front of David's chief compliance officer. He pulled out every classic ballroom move. Then, because the mixer only served these microscopic, cold vegan hors d'oeuvres that tasted like lawn clippings, he stopped at a greasy diner for late-night burgers on the way home. I didn’t even ask.”

Brock’s jaw set into a firm, rigid line. “The guy's always doing too much. A dip on a corporate dance floor is an amateur move, Jess. This whole trial setup is ridiculous anyway. There shouldn't even be a test. I'm the obvious choice for this wedding, and you're wasting valuable time pretending otherwise.”

“The trial ensures quality control,” I said, secretly enjoying the way my words poked at his competitive streak. The knowledgethat I held the reins of this multi-date experiment was a shot of adrenaline. “Hunter raised the stakes, now you have to earn your spot.”

The Jeep slowed to a crawl, pulling up to the curb in front of a sleek, limestone building with a minimalist black awning and no visible merchandise in the windows. A polished brass plaque beside the door readMaison Vieu.

The map on my phone indicated the mega-mall downtown, not a high-end designer sanctuary that looked like it required a blood sacrifice to enter. “What’s this? I thought we were going to Nordstrom’s.”

Brock cut the ignition, the engine dying with a smooth purr. “And I thought you deserve something better than off-the-rack separates from a department store mall. I made a phone call to the owner this morning. He was more than happy to accommodate the man responsible for his wife’s perfect body.”

Excitement bubbled up in my chest, a bright sensation that made my fingers twitch against the door handle. I unbuckled the seatbelt, ready to plant my flats onto the sidewalk, when Brock’s voice stopped me cold.

“Wait,” he said.

My hand froze on the latch, and I turned to look at him, expecting a lecture on boutique etiquette. He shifted his weight in the driver's seat, a tiny flicker of caution in his eyes betraying his casual tone.

“Is Dane part of this trial?” he asked, trying to sound relaxed about the layout of my social calendar.

It was an adorable attempt at being the chill guy while secretly fishing for information about the current status of my relationship with the gym’s resident alpha.

“How would you feel if I said yes?” I asked, tilting my head to study his profile.

Brock paused for a moment, his fingers tapping a quiet rhythm against the steering wheel as he processed the options. He looked back at me, his eyes steady and unmasked. “I'm fine with it if you're fine with it.”

“I'm more than fine with it,” I replied without hesitation.

We held each other's gaze across the console, a silent agreement settling into place between the leather seats. Then he smiled at me, a silent confirmation that he accepted the terms of the arrangement. An internal rush of relief washed over me, though I kept my facial expression composed.

The heavy glass door of Maison Vieu closed behind us, cutting off the distant rumble of M Street traffic and plunging us into an environment of hushed, minimalist opulence. White marble floors stretched toward plush velvet seating pods, and a single, architectural rail of silk and satin garments occupied the back wall. Two consultants in identical black tailored suits offered synchronized, deferential nods. Within minutes, the store belonged exclusively to us, the front doors locked to the public while a crystal flute of vintage champagne materialized in my hand.