Page 21

Amy

I don’t care that it’s even. I don’t care that it’s allegedly lucky in some cultures.

It can go straight to hell.

“Turn it off,” I groan into my pillow, slapping blindly at my nightstand. My fingers find the remote instead of the alarm, and next thing I know the TV blinks on, off, on, off, on, off, as if trying to Morse code WAKE UP, LOSER.

Hamish lurches out of bed like a warthog in a horror movie, hair everywhere, eyes wild, shouting, “I’ll protect ye, hen! No bastard touches ye—” and promptly folds up like a card table.

THUD

I bolt upright. “Oh, my God—Hamish?”

He’s face-down on the rug, completely naked, one leg braced and sticking out at a bizarre angle like a broken umbrella.

But oh, what a gorgeous ass.

From the floor, his voice grunts, “M’fine. Just didna expect ta fight an intruder before sunrise.”

“You weren’t fighting an intruder. You were fighting a Samsung.”

He gets to his feet slowly, clutching the remote in his hand like a sword. “Did I win?”

“Yes. You won. Now get up, you ridiculous Scottish giraffe.”

Somehow, we get dressed. I say “somehow” because I am still half asleep and entirely coffeeless, a condition that should be illegal, or at least covered by the Geneva Convention. Hamish promised me I could get coffee at the gym.

Which is more of a threat than a promise.

The sun hasn’t even stretched yet. The city is still snoring, and here we are, bleary-eyed and bouncing ( Hamish literally bounces, I just swear ) into a brick building that smells like the ghosts of a thousand protein shakes and every dude who ever wore body spray and later regretted it.

Andrew McCormick owns the gym now. Bought it from some guy named Old Jorg, which sounds like the name of a wizard who sells used cauldrons. Hamish loves the place, but this is my first time here.

There's a reason for that.

To be fair, from what I've been told, they’ve upgraded the place, with cardio machines from this century and fancy eucalyptus towels–but it still has the soul of a boxer’s sanctuary.

And the rank scent of one.

Heavy bags sway like they’re whispering old stories. The clank of weights mixes with the rhythmic slap of jump ropes. The air is fifty percent sweat, thirty percent determination, and twenty percent something that might be either creatine or despair.

And then there’s Vince Retigliano.

Six-foot-three (barely shorter than my fiancée), built like a tank that crossbred with a goddamn mountain, and wearing a black workout vest with ELECTRIC HUMMERS FEEL BETTER emblazoned across the chest.

That’s... not even the weirdest thing about him.

Vince owns his own gym, but Hamish can't walk that far so easily, and I also begged for a closer location so I could avoid waking before donut bakers. Andrew's my sister's brother-in-law, and Hamish's cousin, which means Andrew loves the publicity when his Scottish cuz comes in.

“Oh, good,” Vince says as we shuffle in, Hamish limping like a sexy zombie. “The sleepwalkers have arrived.”

“You promised me coffee,” I hiss at Hamish, clutching my hoodie around me like I’m an orphan in a Dickens novel.

Vince hands me a cup. He must have made it fresh the second we walked in, because it's quite hot to the touch. “Bulletproof. MCT oil. Grass-fed butter. Collagen peptides. Protein. Self-love.”

“It tastes like low self-esteem and regret,” I declare after one sip. I shudder. "And motor oil."

“Perfect. That means it’s working.”

Brandi, Hamish’s physical therapist, waves from the PT zone. “Ready to stretch that knee?”

“Aye. Been up since the telly tried ta murder me,” Hamish says cheerfully, walking over with a gait that’s somewhere between recovering athlete and drunken stork.

Vince eyes me. “You here to train, too?”

“I’m here to support him.”

“Same thing.”

He leads me toward a row of weight benches with all the warmth of a drill sergeant ordering a duck march into combat. His braid swings behind him like a whip. A box of kettlebells waits to bark orders at us.

“I need a nap,” I say as I pass them.

“They need a sacrifice,” Vince says without looking up. “You volunteering?”

Welcome to hell. It smells like Tiger Balm and testosterone.

And I haven’t even done a single squat yet.

I make the fatal mistake of sitting down on a padded bench next to a rack of dumbbells that look like they require a legal waiver to lift.

Vince sees this.

Of course he does. Vince sees everything , kind of like Santa Claus.

If Santa wore Lycra compression shorts, bench-pressed Volkswagens, and screamed at you to finish your Bulgarian split squats while drinking something that tastes like feet and licorice.

He points a single massive finger at me. “Don’t get comfy, PR princess. You’re working out, too.”

“What? No! I’m moral support. I brought a sports bra and a hand towel. That’s basically participation.”

He arches one judgmental eyebrow. Damn if he doesn't look like Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson caught me putting Splenda in my green smoothie.

“Move your ass, Amy. Or I’ll make you do mountain climbers until your soul begs for release.”

I whimper.

Meanwhile, Hamish is already being dragged into the boxing ring, literally limping up the steps with a look of resignation on his face.

“Ye want me ta box Vince? ” he asks, voice high and skeptical, like he’s just been told to wrestle a grizzly bear with a GoPro.

“You want to get back on the pitch?” Vince calls, cracking his neck. He looks like a villain in a Jason Statham movie. “Then you gotta train like it. No shortcuts.”

“I am trainin’! Ask Brandi!”

Brandi, who is already strapping on Hamish’s gloves with all the gentle mercy of a dominatrix, just says, “We’ve been progressing slowly. I’m not sure he’s ready for this kind of dynamic impact.”

“I am ,” Hamish insists, puffing his chest out. “I’ll show ye.”

“That’s my boy,” Vince grins.

Which should’ve been Hamish’s cue to run for his life.

When Vince steps into the ring, he doesn’t bother with a jab or a hook. He just moves with the casual grace of a man tying his shoe and sweeps Hamish’s leg out from under him. He could be Fred Astaire taking out a toddler.

Hamish drops. Hard.

Flat on his back, spread-eagled, arms flung wide.

“Oh, my God!” I shriek, running forward.

“Nope,” Brandi says, holding out a single hand, strongly resembling a bouncer outside an exclusive nightclub for sadists. “Let him get up.”

Hamish stares up at the ceiling, blinking.

“I’m no’ dead, if that’s what ye’re wonderin’,” he calls out.

“Good,” I reply. “I was mentally planning your funeral. There would have been whisky and haggis.”

From the ring, Vince just says, “Up. No hands.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Get up without using your hands.”

Hamish scowls. “I just got swept like a filthy rug and now ye want me ta do gymnastics?”

“Do you want to get back on the pitch or not?”

That’s all it takes.

Hamish grits his teeth, rolls sideways on his ass a bit, and uses his core and one planted leg to rise, slow and steady, without touching the mat.

I let out an involuntary, unladylike cheer/snort and clap like a caffeinated five-year-old at a Wiggles concert.

“That’s my man!” I shout.

“He’s gonna need a massage after this,” Brandi says. “With topical Vicodin.”

"They infuse oil with that?"

"They really should."

“You offering?” I tease.

“Not unless I want to lose my license. But if he cries, I’m allowed to video it.”

Vince throws Hamish a towel, then turns to me. “Back to you. Treadmill. Ten incline. Let’s go.”

I stare. “That’s not cardio. That’s punishment.”

“Exactly. Hamish says you're a strong runner. You’ve got the glutes for this.”

I sigh dramatically, tossing my bulletproof coffee into the nearest trash with a wince and a curse. “Fine. If I die, I want a bagpiper at my wake. And a goat in a kilt.”

“Done.”

"And neither of them can be Fiona."

And that’s how I find myself power-hiking next to my boxer boyfriend, who just did a ninja get-up in front of a man named Vince who drinks oil and calls people pussies.

True love really is a team sport.

But the treadmill is trying to kill me.

Hamish is going faster than me, that smug ginger gazelle, barely breaking a sweat as Vince paces between us, sipping something from a protein shaker that smells like lawn clippings and regret. You'd think the knee brace would slow him down.

Well, it has. Sure.

But not slower than me.

“You know,” Vince begins, launching into what I can only assume is a TED Talk nobody asked for, “the meaning of life isn’t complicated. Move your body. Move your mind. Eat clean. Lift heavy. Love hard. And don’t die with your potential still in your glutes.”

I try not to laugh at him. “Was that from the Tao Te Ching or a CrossFit bumper sticker?”

“Neither. It’s from me. I call it the Tao of Quads.”

“Sounds like a shite martial arts movie,” Hamish snorts.

“You wish you had my quads, laddie,” Vince replies, nodding toward Hamish’s legs. “But even with that knee, you’re a beast. You’ll be back on the pitch before your mother can guilt you into wearing a kilt made of hand knit disappointment.”

Hamish laughs, barely winded. “She’s already tryin’. She ordered tartan socks wi’ my baby face printed on them.”

“That’s… horrifying.”

I gasp. Not from the treadmill, though I’m currently set to “climb Everest while fleeing an avalanche.” No. It’s because I just saw something out of the corner of my eye.

Some one .

“God’s Gift,” I breathe.

Hamish immediately jerks his head toward me, eyebrows up. “Finally admit it, do ye? I’ve been sayin’ it for years.”

“No. Him.” I point, panting.

A man has just walked into the gym. Early-thirties. Muscular. Brown hair, beard, broad shoulders. Looks like he could lift a whole room over his head and not break a sweat.

“Ah,” Vince says, clapping the guy on the shoulder as he walks past. “This is Matt Draper. He's cheating on my gym."

"He's staying at his fiance’s and this place is closer," Matt points out with a pleasant casual tone.

Vince grunts. "He does weddings. You two are planning one, yeah?”