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4
QUINN
It’s a quiet breakfast—not because of last night’s tension but because Killian and Natasha are most likely making up for their squabble by staying in bed together later this morning.
Which means I ate my meal of fresh-cut fruit and scrambled eggs alone.
Not that I mind.
I brought a textbook for company.
And as I head back toward my wing of the house, anatomy facts chase each other in circles around my brain.
I’m so immersed in locking the information down, I almost didn’t notice that the door to the home gym is open. But the labored grunts are unmistakable. And while I know I shouldn’t, I can’t help but take a peek. Because I know the sounds Lance makes when he works out.
And after the number of stitches I put in him yesterday, he shouldn’t be straining himself.
Not that I believed for a second he would take it easy.
That’s just not his way.
Careful to stay hidden, I peer around the corner of the door until I find him at the pull-up bar. He has his ankles crossed, hisstrong fingers wrapped around the bar as he does one chin-up, two, then three in a matter of seconds.
Mesmerized by the fluid motion, I can’t bring myself to look away.
He makes it look effortless—like an everyday person might treat the act of standing from a seat. From this angle, I can see the sweat glistening on his bare torso. The ripple of his abs every time his arms flex. His shoulders bulge, his biceps forming mountainous muscles laced with prominent veins.
His breaths escape in rushed huffs, matching the impressive rhythm of his workout. And the dark chestnut color of his hair is almost black as sweat makes it cling to his forehead. It’s been a long time since I’ve watched Lance work out. Not since he moved out of my parents’ Brooklyn estate.
It’s no surprise that his routine has grown more impressive. But the sight of him in nothing but gym shorts and running shoes, glistening from exertion makes me forget momentarily about why I stopped to look in.
I just can’t help myself.
Seeing Lance in his full godlike glory makes my stomach flip and my mouth go dry. The temperature of my body must increase ten degrees in a matter of moments as I think about what it would be like to touch that perfection. To run my hands over his washboard abs.
Swallowing hard, I force my gaze to the square patch of white gauze covering his right pec muscle. Because Iactuallystopped to make sure he wasn’t pushing himself hard enough to blow his stitches. No red is seeping through the bandage, which is good. But he better change it at the very least when he’s done.
I contemplate whether I ought to barge in and mother him by telling him to do so. But I’m not sure I could do that without blushing. In fact, my face is hot just watching from this side of the door. So, rather than try to scold him into taking care ofhimself, I take a deep, steadying breath and close my eyes in order to break the spell he puts me under every time I look his way.
It’s a lot easier to think straight when I’m not watching his impressive workout routine. And I know now that it was the right choice to leave him be. But as I take a step back, ready to slip away, the floorboard gives a terrible creaking groan.
I freeze, my eyes flying open as I pray that Lance didn’t hear me.
But he must have because his head snaps in my direction.
Holding my breath, I spin away from the door, praying he didn’t see me. Then, as quietly as I can, I make a run for it, sprinting back to my room before he can catch me watching him.
Dear God, the only thing more embarrassing than blushing as I try to mother a man over a decade my senior would be if he caught me ogling him.
I shouldn’t have indulged in watching Lance—even if I did it to ensure he doesn’t push his workout too far and bust his sutures.
At least that’s what I keep telling myself to feel better about it.
Deep down, I know the truth.
I shouldn’t have a crush on him like I do. I just can’t seem to help it. Try as I might to overcome my feelings for Lance, it’s proven a harder obstacle than I ever would have imagined. And believe me, I’ve tried.
For years, I’ve worked on banishing him from my fantasies. And still, every time he turns up unexpectedly to join us for dinner or to pick Killian up, my heart does one of those crazy somersaults. My stomach fills with butterflies. And my pulse breaks into a full-on sprint.