“Put your info on here. I’ve got a fancy program that bills you so I don’t have to handle cash. Something about taxes or some shit.” He laughs, a little sinister, as if he’s maybe gotten away with skipping taxes a few times in the past.
“Sure,” I say, glancing up at him while pulling the paperwork and pen close to my body. I fill in my name and tap it with the ball point of the pen until he looks at it.
“Something wrong?” he asks.
“No, just want to make sure you take a good look at my name so you can commit it to memory and quit calling me sweetheart.” I raise a brow and leave my mouth flat and serious. A short laugh punches out of his chest, but he nods.
“I’ll do my best,” he says, eyeing the six-foot-plus guy standing next to me whom I have yet to completely acknowledge. I have mixed feelings after Friday. Cannon left our hitting session because Zack told him to, his mood suddenly changing to fit his cousin’s stereotypical grudge. Then, when Zack turned our basketball game into a blatant and very public example of sexual harassment, Cannon just stood there. I don’t expect knights on white horses; I’m not naïve. I do expect guys of my generation to be a little more enlightened. I remind myself, though, that Cannon hasn’t walked in my shoes.
I fill the paper out and spin the clipboard around for Pete to take, but before he carries it off to head back to his chair—and the Packers—I stop him.
“Who’s GF?” I gesture the pen I’m still holding toward his right hand. He turns his palm over and looks at his finger, his eyes getting lost for a breath before a tepid smile sinks into his mouth, rounding his cheeks.
“Gini Forenzi. Best damn cook this side of the Mississippi.” He leaves his gaze on the fading initials then curls his hand into a fist, almost as if to hold on to them and keep them around a little longer. He knocks on the countertop with the same hand, and I can tell that’s the end of that conversation.
My hope that Cannon has moved back to the weights is extinguished the moment I turn around. Hands in the pockets of his black shorts, his white T-shirt soaked with sweat, he jerks his head to the side to flip his curling hair from his eyes.
“Aren’t you freezing in here?” It’s the only question I feel like asking.
“Give it an hour, you’ll be peeling layers off too.” His voice carries over the volume on the TV and he looks toward the back of Pete’s head. The old man promptly grips a remote and raises the sound a few more notches.
“My place, my thermostat. You don’t like it, get your own gym,” he grumbles.
My eyes widen and I can’t help but laugh as I look back to Cannon. He shrugs at the response.
“Pete lives upstairs, and he keeps things . . . warm.”
Warm. Yes, that’s the word for what I’m feeling right now. It has nothing to do with Pete and his thermostat, though. My stomach feels the same way it does when I take sips of my father’s whiskey on holidays. I’m on shaky ground, and I’m not sure why. I think it’s because I want to let Cannon off the hook, but after spending the last forty-eight hours renewing my bad impression of him, it’s hard to flip back again.
“You wanna spot me?” He backs away toward the bench he has set up, and at a quick assessment, it looks as though he’s lifting about two-twenty-five.
“Sure.” I shrug, that line I drew over the weekend blurring with my first step toward him.
He straddles the bench, pulling up the legs of his shorts as he sits, and it’s impossible not to gawk at his thick, defined quads. He might be right about the heat in here. I already regret the long-sleeved tee. I push the sleeves up and move into position at the bar while he leans back, resting his head in front of my knees. His hair flops back and if I were in shorts, it would tickle me.
I left without a hair band, so I stuff my hair into the neck of my shirt to keep it out of my face. When I look down and meet Cannon’s waiting gaze, I notice the amusement threatening to break his lips into a chuckle.
“What?” My New York accent is thick tonight.
“You are always tying your hair in literal knots. Why do you even have it long?”
I blow at a stray lock that’s already fallen over my face, and it’s enough to pull out the laugh he’s been holding on to.
“You make a good point, Jennings,” I say, pushing the rogue hairs back into my collar, then tugging the neck of my shirt forward to keep them locked behind me for a few extra seconds. I hope.
I wrap my hands around the center of the bar while he places his on the outsides, making eye contact with me when he’s comfortable. He nods and blows out, and suddenly I notice his lips. Full, a maroon red brought out by the blend of the cold air outside and the oven Pete’s made inside. His cheeks are rosy, and there’s a faint trace of stubble along his jawline. I don’t think he could quite grow a beard, but for some reason, I imagine a version of him ten years from now that has one.
With a hard upward thrust, Cannon brings me back to the present, pushing the bar from his chest with a grunt. My fingers remain loose but poised, ready to help. Nobody at Xavier ever lifted this much weight. My dad lifts this much. Sometimes.
His pace is unflinching, the bar lowering with ease, rising with an equal push every time. He doesn’t struggle until the end of his fifth rep, and even then, he only needs a little verbal encouragement
