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Page 38 of Gym Bros (Bay Area Bros #2)

CALYX

I ’m not sure which I want to talk about less. The fact that Samuel could have gone back to fighting as early as today or the fact that Marcus is bringing me up in conversation with him. I think I might like to circle back to the leering sommelier.

I take a moment to pick up my dropped fork and set it to the side. Where is the fucking wine, though?

“Did you tell him anything?” I ask, trying not to sound as horrified as I feel.

“About us? No. He was the one who brought you up.”

That decides it. I want to talk about sparring. “Did you fight anyone today?” I ask.

“Yeah, but just striking. Nothing on the ground,” he says.

“Was that how you were injured? On the ground?”

He nods. “I know we’ve only been doing yoga for a few weeks, but it’s like my body suddenly remembered how to be flexible, and I think it’s gonna make a huge difference in terms of my resilience.”

“How often do you get hurt, though?”

“This was my first major injury,” he tells me.

I shake my head. That’s not what I asked. “I’m not just talking about major injuries. I’m talking about any injuries. Bruises, cuts, concussions.”

“I’ve only had one concussion, and don’t worry about the bruises. It’s just part of it.”

“Meaning you have one now?”

“Not right now , but I might have a few tomorrow.”

I wilt in my seat. I don’t like this. I stare at him, chewing the inside of my lip, desperate for the wine.

I’m loathe to admit that half of my issue is the fact that someone else is touching him and getting a physical reaction out of him.

But the other part definitely has to do with him being in pain.

He was so miserable when we met—when he was hurt, and his lower back was all stuck together. I don’t like the idea of grabbing him somewhere he’s bruised and having him wince away. And I especially hate the idea of anything potentially happening to his face.

“Are you gonna get those cauliflower ears?” I ask.

“Eh…maybe. Those take time, though.”

“You’ll have to grow out your hair.”

“Can’t,” he says. “Don’t want anyone pulling it.”

“Okay, Samuel.” I sit forward, banging my hand on the table and nearly sending another piece of silverware flying. “Is this really the only thing in the world you want to accomplish with your life? Like there’s really nothing else you can think of that could possibly fulfill you?”

He gives me a gentle, patient look, but before he can say anything, the sommelier returns, and I go through the ritual of tasting and approving the wine while he undresses me with his eyes and Samuel glares at him so hard it’s a miracle the side of his face doesn’t burst into flames.

I give him a polite, dismissive nod and he tells us the waitress will arrive shortly to talk to us about the menu .

I drink my wine and return my gaze to Samuel, waiting for my answer.

He says, “At this point in my life, this is what I want to do. It’s what I’m good at, and I’m passionate about it.”

“But it’s not like you’re stupid. It’s not like you can’t put your brain and your body to work doing something else.”

He sighs, his expression going grim. “What bothers you about it?”

“ Everything ,” I tell him.

“Everything like what?”

“Like funky ears and concussions, and what if you lose a tooth?”

“I wear a mouth guard.”

“You’re telling me you can’t lose a tooth with a mouth guard?”

“I’m telling you there are such a thing as dental implants. What? Are you afraid I won’t look good enough for you anymore?”

I glare at him. “I do like how you look, but no—that’s not it.”

“What’s the problem, then?”

The problem is I like him . Despite the fact that he wants to knock other men out for a living, I like the way his brain works, and what if he gets one too many bad concussions, and it stops working how it’s supposed to?

And what if one good hit to the head knocks loose whatever part of him is attracted to me?

What if he gets amnesia, and he forgets about me?

What if he gets hit so hard he winds up in a coma? Or worse?

What if I lose him?

Because I don’t want to. I’m not ready to say for sure what Samuel means to me, but he means something .

But I can’t say that, can I? I can’t say that to someone I’ve been sort of casually fucking for a few weeks even if he is taking me out to a very nice dinner and indulging my moody line of questioning while having murderous thoughts about any other man who looks at me.

“I just don’t get it,” I say weakly.

“If it helps, I don’t expect you to. I’m used to people not getting it.”

“Well, what’s that like?” I ask.

He frowns like he needs more information before he can answer.

“I mean do you not feel supported?”

He grimaces. “I’m fine. I’m not asking anyone to come and cheer me on if it’s not something they’re interested in.”

I genuinely can’t imagine standing in a crowd of cheering assholes watching Samuel—this perfect fucking person—get attacked by another man with his bare hands. But it’s just as hard to imagine no one being there for him.

“Sorry,” I say quietly.

“For what?”

“You should have someone there for you.”

I look over at him in time to see him work through a rough swallow. His voice is raspy when he says. “It’s okay.”

We lapse into silence, and I finally look down at the menu. The waitress comes by, and I order a lot of oysters, though I’m not sure I’ll be in the mood to eat them when they arrive if I can’t turn this conversation around. Samuel orders clam chowder and sea bass.

“I didn’t mean to give you a hard time about it,” I say.

“Is there a particular reason why you’re so concerned?”

At least seventy-five percent of the things he says to me make me blush, and this one is no exception. I decide to take a page from his book. “Guess.”

“You like me a lot, and you don’t want to see me get hurt.”

I shrug, staring back at him .

“I can’t promise not to get hurt, but I can promise to be as careful as I possibly can be.”

“You don’t have to make promises to me,” I say with an obnoxious note of petulance I don’t intend.

“Is this a dealbreaker?” he asks.

My eyes go wide. “What? No .”

He lets out a held breath. “Oh. Okay. It was starting to sound like it was.”

“Samuel, no—I…” It’s my turn to remember how to swallow.

“You…?”

Fuck him for this. He knows how I feel about him. He has to. I bought him a six-thousand dollar suit for one date for fuck’s sake. “ You suck, and I hate you.”

He grins. “ You’re beautiful, and I can’t get enough of you.”

I blink in shock.

“That’s what I think you meant to say,” he says like a true jackass.

I drain my glass in one gulp. “I can’t believe I did my hair for this.”

He smiles at me. “Should we have the talk?”

“What talk?” I snap.

“The one where we say what we want out of this…”

“This what?” I challenge him without giving him a chance to finish.

“Relationship,” he says pointedly.

My stomach fucking drops to the floor. “Oh, is that what this is?” I ask, trying not to telegraph my complete and total shock.

“You tell me.”

“No, Samuel. You tell me. You wanna keep it casual? You wanna take it up a notch? Be exclusive?”

“Are we not exclusive?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” I say, but this time my voice has a slight tremble in it. “Are we? ”

“ I am.”

“Great,” I say.

“Aren’t you?” he presses.

“I’m not sure where I would have found the time to see someone else since goat yoga.”

“Well, you do have a lot of unscheduled hours in the day…”

I sigh. “Obviously I’m not seeing anyone else.”

“Was that so difficult?” he asks with a smirk.

I don’t know whether to kill him or kiss him. “You make everything feel significantly harder than it needs to be.”

“Yeah?” he lifts a brow. “How hard?”

“Stop it,” I say.

He lets out a soft laugh. “So, do you want to stay exclusive? I do if that helps you think up an answer.”

He does ? How did I not see this coming? Did I miss something? Granted, this restaurant is kind of romantic, but our “love life” consists of dirty talk, lingerie, and cum. And eggs. Maybe it was the eggs?

It’s hard to feign an annoyed facade when he’s admitting something—however small—to me. But I do my best even though I feel like this might be one of the most important conversations I’ll ever have. “That’s fine,” I say. “I’m not opposed to it.”

“Are you opposed to calling it something?”

“Like what?”

“Boyfriends?”

My eyes widen at the foreign-sounding word. “You want to be my boyfriend?”

“I mean—I’d rather be that than some ‘man you’re seeing,’” he says with air quotes.

I guess that does tend to be what I call the guys I’ve slept with for any length of time in the past. I wasn’t aware I’d said it enough to where he’d be able to imitate my voice when I say it, though.

Come to think of it—have I ever been with anyone I considered a boyfriend?

They’ve all been so much older. So much less available.

While it sounds like a juvenile label, what else would I call the guy I watch Avengers movies with while plotting how to get into his pants?

The guy who makes me laugh hysterically when he wrestles me to a mat and lets me double plank him?

The dude whose hoodie I stole and wear while I lie around my house waiting for him to be done training at his gym.

“Okay,” I say, realizing I haven’t missed a thing.

We’re in a relationship, and he’s not denying it. “Fine.”

“You sure?”

“Are you sure you want a boyfriend?” I counter.

“I want you , so, yeah.”

I wish this glass of wine were big enough to hide behind, but it’s impossible to play it completely cool when he’s making me feel like I’m special.

Maybe it’s still all about looks for him, but for the moment, it feels like he’s looking a little deeper than that.

Or maybe I just want him to. “All right,” I say.

He nods. “Then that makes it official.” He holds his hand out like he wants me to shake it. I do, warily.

He adds, “Now if you fuck someone else—especially the wine guy—you’ll officially be cheating on me.”

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