Page 80 of Gym With Benefits

The beaters cut out with a definitive, mechanical click. David slowly lowered the bowl to the granite counter, turning his head with a precision that signaled every radar flag in his possession just went straight to red. He stared at me, his gaze scanning my face for signs of an alien abduction. Since the day we signed the lease, he consistently dressed me for every major event in my life, treating my wardrobe like a long-term reclamation project.

"Who are you and what did you do with my friend?" his voice dropped into an accusatory tone. "Since when do you just have something in mind without a minimum of three panic attacks and a full inventory review?"

A casual shrug served as my defense as my index finger slid into the side of the bowl, swiping a thick dollop of fudge batter. "It's just a black silk top and some tailored pants, Dave. Don't make a federal case out of it."

"It is a federal case," David muttered, his usual theatrical flare draining out of his posture, leaving a rare, quiet seriousness in its place. His eyes softened as he looked across the small kitchen gap. "I know I haven't said it out loud, Jess, but that doesn't mean I haven't noticed."

The finger with the chocolate batter froze inside my mouth. The cynical retort died on my tongue under the weight of his unblinking honesty. The joking tone lay discarded on the floorboards between us.

"You grew so much in this short time, Jess," David murmured, his voice gentle but firm. "The difference is staggering. In a good way. The best way. You walk into a room now like you own the square footage, not like you're looking for the nearest exit."

A defense mechanism flared up automatically, the smart mouth kicking into gear to block the threat of actual sentimentality. "Well, growth is inevitable when you have three hot guys lusting after you at the same time. It's excellent for posture."

David shook his head, a small, knowing smile touching his lips. He refused to buy into the deflection. "You think it's because of them, Jess. But don't sell yourself short here. Brock, Hunter, and Dane didn't build that confidence. They just gave you a sandbox to play in. You get to take the credit for this transformation."

Before the tear ducts could contemplate an escalation, his hand shot forward. His index finger, coated in a dark glob of brownie batter, booped me right on the tip of my nose.

"Hey!"

David laughed, the familiar, lighthearted humor snapping right back into the kitchen as he scooped the thick mix into a parchment-lined baking pan. The metal oven rack rattled as he popped the brownies inside, setting the timer with a sharp twist of the dial.

"The clock is ticking. Let's go see this mysterious outfit you claim to have under control."

The closet door scraped against the carpet as the hangers slid aside with a metallic rattle. The black silk pants and tailored top went right back onto their hooks, discarded in favor of a heavy garment bag tucked into the far corner. The teeth parted to reveal a stunning, forest green dress that fell against my shins in a cascade of rich, fluid jersey.

David leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest as his eyes cataloged the choice.

"Okay, so I lied about the pants," the admission slipped out as my fingers smoothed down the off-the-shoulder neckline. A small, self-deprecating smile touched my face as the strategic logic behind the fabric presented itself. "It's Brock's favorite color. Hunter loses his mind when I show a little shoulder, says it makes him want to bite. And the jersey fabric hugs my curves just enough to drive Dane crazy during dinner."

My eyes remained glued to the dress on the hanger, admiring the way the bedroom light caught the deep weave of the green dye. The fabric felt cool and heavy in my hands, a tangible piece of armor for the evening ahead.

The silence from the doorway lasted a beat too long.

My head turned, expecting a sharp critique or a witty breakdown of the accessory requirements. David stood perfectly still against the molding, his gaze locked square on my face, ignoring the green jersey. His expression held zero amusement,stripped of the usual gossipy energy that defined our mornings. He saw right through the tactical explanation, piercing straight to the center of the target.

David cleared his throat, saying the exact thing out loud that my own mind refused to formulate for weeks. "You're in love, aren't you?"

A hard swallow cleared the sudden tightness in my throat, a single beat skipping in my chest as the words hung in the space between us. The absolute truth of it stripped away the remaining layers of defense, leaving no room for a clever deflection or a cynical joke.

A stiff nod served as the answer. "With all of them."

34

Jess

Vault, a swanky city lounge hidden behind a vault door on 14th Street, contained the exact mix of high-end cocktail snobbery and kinetic energy required for a Saturday night. The forest green jersey dress moved like liquid against my thighs, a perfect choice that yielded immediate dividends the second we stepped inside.

Across the velvet VIP booth, David sat remarkably close to Seth. His date possessed a quiet, centered gravity, wearing a plain charcoal crewneck and a silver watch that lacked the flashy ostentation of David’s usual rotation. Seth worked in pediatric neurology, spoke in a calm, melodic cadence, and treated David like the center of the universe without breaking a sweat. He represented a total departure from the gym-bro narcissists and dramatic theater types that usually littered our apartment's emotional history.

A flash of platinum hair near the main bar caught my attention. Carter stood by the lounge seating, holding a dry martini and scanning the room with that familiar predatory look that used to send a spike of anxiety straight through my gut. A few months ago, his presence in a room guaranteed a rapid exit or a defensive spiral. Tonight, the sight elicited nothing more thana faint sense of amusement. The old baggage felt remarkably light, rendered entirely obsolete by the three pillars of muscle currently flanking my side of the booth.

"Another round of the Mezcal Sours?" Hunter’s voice cut through the lounge track, his fingers brushing the bare skin of my exposed shoulder. His thumb traced a slow circle over the clavicle, a possessive gesture that drew an immediate, satisfied hum from my throat.

"Make it a double," Dane added, leaning back against the leather cushion, his long legs stretched out to hook around my ankle under the table. His tailored suit jacket lay discarded on the seat, exposing the white linen shirt that strained against the width of his chest.

Brock stood up, his massive frame blocking out the glare of the strobe lights as he offered a hand to lift me from the velvet. "Let's dance before the crowd gets too thick."

The dance floor offered zero room for modesty, and frankly, the desire for it vanished weeks ago. We moved into the center of the floor, a tight cluster of heat and friction. Brock claimed the first song, holding onto my hips from behind, pulling my back flush against his chest. His chin rested near my ear, his breath hot against my neck as we moved to the deep house track. He kept his movements deliberate, guiding my body through the crowd with an easy protective instinct that made me feel entirely insulated from the rest of the room.