FRIDAY MORNING, LATER
If you’re wondering what Andrew Mulroney looks like while he’s in workout mode, picture this: Thor and Captain America somehow defeat biology and have a love child together. And call him Andrew.
You’re welcome for the visual.
Anyway, my idea of the gym is something like this: trot on the treadmill or the elliptical at a pace just vigorous enough to make your boobs and ponytail look good, but without actually breaking a sweat. Twenty minutes, max.
But twenty minutes pass, and out of the corner of my eye I see that Andrew’s at the same machine he started with and doesn’t look like he’s even remotely close to finished with his workout.
While I talked at him (yes, at him) on the way here, I asked why he came to this gym instead of the fancy one in our building.
He muttered something about a particular machine that he liked.
To which I replied that he was a machine.
And then he quit talking altogether.
I trot for another ten minutes or so, then decide that I should probably hit the shower if I’m going to have enough time to make myself pretty before I follow him to the office.
Because yup, I’m totally taking him up on his offer to see what the hell it is he does all day and prove that I can keep up. If he thinks sitting behind a desk and talking legalese is hard, he’s never been down Fifth Avenue in December. I make a mental note to force him to do that with me in a few weeks.
I trot over to where he’s loading weights onto the end of a metal rod. “What?” he asks, not looking at me.
I drape myself over the metal. “How much longer?”
He pauses in the process of hoisting the weight, his biceps flexing with the strain, then sets it back down again with an expression that’s half exasperated, half triumphant.
“That’s it?” he asks. “That’s all you’ve got? Thirty minutes in my shoes?”
I lift a finger and gesture at his feet. “I’m confident I would have made it much longer if you’d worn Dorothy’s slippers. Those black ones you’re wearing are boring.”
“They’re practical.”
“Boring,” I correct. “So what’s next?”
“Well, considering I’ve barely started on my workout—”
“Okay, fast-forward,” I say, spinning my finger. “Lucky for you, my usual hairstyle doesn’t do itself, so I’ll be able to keep myself busy while you finish your aspiring-bodybuilder routine. I mean, what happens after?”
Instead of answering, he lets his gaze roam over me, almost reluctantly. I regret that I opted to drape myself over the bar instead of standing up straight so I could pretend to stretch my lower back in a way that pushes out my boobs.
Wait. What?
I don’t want him thinking of me like that. Because I don’t think of him like that.
Do I? Oh, dear. I’m not sure, not when he’s looking at me with…
Oh. It’s disdain. Never mind, then.
“What exactly did you do for exercise, Georgiana?” he says, giving me a skeptical look. “Twirl your hair?”
“If I do it vigorously, it counts as cardio.”
He gives the slightest of eye rolls. “Fine. Go shower. I’ll walk you home when I’m done.”
“Wait, no,” I say, feeling a little surge of disappointment and panic. “I’m going with you to work.”
Andrew rubs at his forehead. “Look, when I agreed to this the other night I was…I don’t know. Tired. Frustrated. If you’re bored here in the gym, you’ll be beyond bored with the rest of my day. The rest of my life.”