Page 7 of Gym With Benefits

“You’re the one who started talking to me!” I sputtered.

He put an oversized pair of headphones on. “Something I’m already regretting.”

“Asshole,” I muttered, but not before glancing at the membership badge sitting in the cupholder on his machine. His name was Dane.

He pointed at his headphones and mouthed, “Sorry, I can’t hear you.”

I tore my gaze away from Dane The Asshole and cursed under my breath. I wondered if Hunter would do something if I said that he was bothering me.

After a moment of consideration, I shook my head. I just wanted to do my workout in peace. I had enough willpower to block this guy out of my mind and focus on the elliptical, and the warmth building in my leg muscles as I worked harder.

Besides, maybe David was right. Sometimes it was good to have a nemesis.

4

Hunter

I was in love.

Deep, completely unhinged, hopeless love. It had hit me the exact second Jessica Seymore walked through the heavy glass doors of the lobby, looking like a beautiful, panicked deer trying to navigate a minefield of high-end chrome and screaming muscles.

"Hey, Maya," I said, leaning against the smooth, polished white quartz counter of the Nutrition Nook. I forced my voice into its most casual, breezy register, flashing her a look that I hoped screamedcharitable coworkerrather thanstalker with a target lock. "Why don’t you head into the breakroom? Take fifteen. Grab a coffee or scroll through TikTok. I’ve got the counter covered."

Maya paused, a half-empty tub of vanilla whey isolate clutched in her hand. She cut her gaze to the digital order screen, which was currently empty, then blinked up at me. A slow, deeply cynical eyebrow crept toward her hairline.

"Hunter, it’s 2:15 on a Saturday. The post-spin class rush doesn't hit for another twenty minutes. Why on earth are you volunteering to wipe down blenders?"

"Just trying to be a team player," I lied smoothly, already reaching across the barrier to snag the damp microfiber cloth from her fingers. "You’ve been on your feet since eight. Go. Rest. Treat yourself before I change my mind."

She didn't need to be told twice. With a knowing smirk that suggested she didn't buy my sudden burst of altruism for a single second, Maya dropped the protein tub and vanished down the hallway toward the staff lounge.

The instant the door hissed shut behind her, I threw the rag over my shoulder and shifted my weight. I gripped the edge of the bar, leaning forward just enough to gain a completely unobstructed diagonal view straight through the wide double doors of the Sweat Sanctuary.

And there she was.

Jess.

Stationed on an elliptical in the very back row, right where the green turf flooring met the rubberized cardio mats.

She’d tucked herself away in the furthest corner, clearly hoping the shadows of the gym would swallow her whole. From my vantage point, her positioning was practically a gift from the universe. I had a flawless, direct sightline right to her, perfectly framed between a row of stationary bikes and the glass-fronted refrigerators holding the pre-workout drinks.

She had her AirPods in, her head bobbing in a rhythmic cadence and if I had to guess by the look of her, it was probably some high-tempo pop track. Her baggy hoodie hid whatever shape lay beneath, but my imagination was more than happy to fill in the blanks. It was a total defensive shield she didn’t need. Most of the women who came here walked in wearing matching, pastel-colored compression sets that looked like they cost more than my monthly car payment, moving through the lobby witha chilly, calculated D.C. precision. But Jess looked like she’d crawled out of a cozy, dusty library and accidentally wandered onto a runway. She was delightfully, devastatingly gorgeous.

Her small hands gripped the moving handles of the machine a little too tightly, knuckles turning a pale, stressed white as she pumped her legs. She was already flushed, a few loose, dark curls escaping her messy bun and sticking to the damp skin of her temples. A ridiculous, completely involuntary tug right in the center of my chest happened out of nowhere. I wanted to walk over there, pull those headphones out of her ears, and tell her she didn't have to push herself so hard.

"If you stare any harder, you’re going to shatter the glass on the coolers."

Brock’s low, gravelly baritone vibrated right through the floorboards before I even heard the heavy tread of his sneakers. I didn't turn around. I’d known that specific, slow-moving avalanche of a stride since we were fifteen years old, back when we were surviving two-a-day football practices in the humid Virginia summers.

He was a walking block of tactical, military-grade muscle, his shoulders easily twice the width of mine, stretching the seams of his black staff tank top until the logo over his heart looked warped. He didn't look at me. Instead, he coolly crossed his thick arms over his chest and followed my exact line of sight straight into the Sweat Sanctuary.

"I'm not staring," I muttered, half-heartedly using the cloth to wipe down an already pristine chrome blender base. "I'm monitoring the floor. It's part of the front-desk supervisor's job description."

"Right. And I’m a competitive ballroom dancer," Brock said dryly. He reached over the counter, plucked a clean shaker cupfrom the rack, and tapped the plastic rim against his calloused knuckles. "Give me a double scoop of the high-stim pre-mix. Blue raspberry. I’ve got a back-to-back personal training block with a K Street lobbyist who thinks a barbell is a type of legal brief."

I reached for the plastic tub of pre-workout, twisting the cap off while keeping my eyes firmly glued to the back row of the cardio room. "I'm serious, Brock. I think—no, I know—I'm totally, completely in love with her."

He let out a rumbling chuckle that sounded like stones grinding together in a blender. “Another one?”