Page 20 of Craving the Edge

He dropped the last soiled strip of tape, then he lifted his head, his gaze finding mine across the empty gym. They burned hot with a silent challenge that rooted me to the spot. My fight or flight mode evaporated. He just stared, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm, the silence stretching between us.

I found my voice, a small version of it that was almost swallowed by the vast space. “Did you need something?”

He didn’t answer. His expression didn’t change. He just started walking. One bare foot after the other on the grey vinyl mats, a slow, deliberate advance. My brain screamed at me to move, to turn and walk away, but I was frozen.

His eyes never left my face, a consuming gaze that stripped away the concrete walls, the rack of kettlebells, and everything else in the room until it was just me and him.

He didn’t stop until he was right in front of me. he stood so close I could feel the heat rolling off his skin.

The air was so thick I could taste it. Metal, sweat, and him. My mouth went dry. My words, when they finally came, sounded brittle.

“I’m sorry about the other day. In the office, I⁠—”

“It’s okay.” His voice was low, cutting me off before I could finish.

The words died on my tongue. We stood in an unbreachable silence, my feet bolted to the floor. My gaze travelled up his chest, slick with a fine sheen of sweat, over the hard planes of his stomach, to the slight bump in the bridge of his nose. His green eyes were fixed on me, a heavy, searching look that made my heart beat a clumsy rhythm against my ribs.

He moved, and I flinched, but it was only to lift his hand. He reached towards my face. I held my breath as his fingers, rough and calloused from a lifetime of fighting, gently brushed against my cheek and tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. The brief touch of his skin against mine sent a shock humming through my nerves. I didn’t pull away. I couldn’t even breathe. We stood there, a hair’s breadth apart in the humid, still air of the empty gym.

But, a sharp, vibrating buzz cut through the quiet. His phone rang from the pocket of his shorts, shattering the moment.

A flicker of annoyance crossed his face before it was gone, replaced by his cool, professional mask. The ‘Declan Walsh’ persona snapped back into place, pouring proverbial ice water all over me. He took a step back, the wall between us sliding back into place as he pulled the phone from his pocket and answered it.

I took advantage of the moment and turned on my heel, stalking towards the storage room.

The heavy door thudded shut behind me, the reek of bleach and damp mould bringing me back to reality. I braced my hands on a metal shelf, the cold steel biting into my palms.

Stupid. So bloody stupid.

For a second there, I’d let him in. I’d let him get close enough to touch me and I hadn’t moved a muscle. I’d just stood there letting him, and for a stupid, insane second, I’d wanted him to kiss me again.

I squeezed my eyes shut. This was a liability I couldn’t afford. A month. That’s all he had. In four weeks he’d be gone, back to his real life, and this place, my life, would be a footnote in his story. He wouldn’t look back and I’d be left here, with the memory of his mouth on mine and the ache of knowing I was just a temporary distraction. An easy lay he couldn’t be arsed to follow up on.

Trash.

I grabbed the mop and a heavy-duty bucket, the plastic handles digging into my skin. This was real. This was my gritty, bullshit, bottom rung world. He didn’t belong in it.

I pushed the door open and returned to the gym floor, the bucket sloshing, the mop clutched in my fist like a weapon.

But he was gone.

His gym bag had vanished from the corner. The small pile of bloody gauze and tape he’d left on the floor was gone, too. He’d packed up and left without a word while I was having a crisis in the bloody cleaning cupboard.

It proved my point.

My heart gave a stupid, hopeful kick against my ribs when the side roller door rattled up. I froze, mop in hand. He’d come back…

But it wasn’t Declan that ducked under the half-raised door. It was Gary, clutching a lukewarm coffee, his favourite faded Fighters Edge cap pulled low over his eyes. I turned back to my mopping, my brief surge of adrenaline souring into rancid disappointment.

“Char,” he grunted by way of greeting. “Just a heads up, your pay might be a couple of days late this week.”

I stopped pushing the mop, the dirty water sloshing against the side of the bucket. “Why?”

“Ah, you know.” He waved a vague hand. “Bank error. Something with the direct debit. They’re sorting it.”

“Okay,” I said, and kept working.

I didn’t bother looking at him, but I could picture his face. The way his eyes would refuse to meet mine, shifting to some point on the wall just over my shoulder. The slight sheen of sweat on his upper lip, even on a cool day. Signs I’d learned to read over four long years.