What am I doing here? I should be home, trying to get answers out of my brother.
Only my back hurts, and I need it in working order if I wanna keep my job.
Before the trainer walks away, on a moment’s whim, I ask, “Do you know Ryan Dawson?”
A shot in the dark. Hundreds of people walk in and out of a place like this every day.
So I’m kinda shocked when he nods. “Yeah. Friend of yours?”
I swallow. “Uh, yeah.”
“He’s been coming here for years. A regular. Never misses a session. In fact,” he turns and points to the back of the gym, “that’s him over there.”
My brows lift. “Um. Thanks. I’ll head over in a bit. Say hi.”
The trainer gives me a long look, and I shoot him a toothy grin. Lying ain’t my forte.
“You do that,” he says, and ambles off.
&n
bsp; Okay then… Ryan the Prince is here. Do I really walk over and say hi?
“Hi,” I mutter as I start on the treadmill and swing my arms, trying to ease the pain in my back. “I’m Riddick. You can call me Rid. I’m the guy Brylee doesn’t want.” I hiss when a movement pulls at something inside my right leg and I slow down. “I’m the guy Brylee rejected over you. But you don’t want her, do you, buddy? You probably can’t make up your mind with all the chicks flocking to you. So let me make it easy for you, let me…”
What? Blackmail him into dating Brylee? Why would I want that?
I just wanna see what’s so special about him.
Changing to the lat bar, I take my time, pulling and releasing, feeling muscles draw taut over my ribs. I glance his way once in a while, making sure he’s still there. An indistinct figure, lost inside the lines of the machine. He’s lying on his back, working with weights.
Yeah, what the fuck would I say to him if we came face to face? Why am I worrying at this, like a dog with a bone? I should leave it be.
Half an hour later, my back is feeling better, and I’m wiping sweat off my face, when he makes his way toward me.
I get up, my stomach churning from nerves. What is he doing? He doesn’t know me, doesn’t know about me—as if there’s anything to know. So why is he coming this way, what is he…?
He turns away, between machines, heading toward the locker room, and I have an impression of broad shoulders, a tight ass, and short hair.
“Hey!” I call out, before the rational part of my brain engages. “Ryan.”
He stops and turns. Stares. “Yeah?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out, and I just gape at him.
This is Ryan Dawson? I’d expected some middle-aged CEO, dry and desiccated, a tall, dark and mysterious guy with a stern look and a five-o-clock shadow.
Don’t ask me why. That’s how I imagine CEOs. Haven’t met many in my life.
Come to think of it, nobody said he was a CEO. I made that part up.
The thing is… Ryan is nothing like that. He’s young, with bright eyes and golden hair and his mouth looks soft. Inviting.
Whoa. I’m getting a boner over Ryan the Asshole.
Back up, Rid. Literally.
I take a step back, bumping into the machine I just vacated. “Sorry,” I mutter. “I thought you were someone else.”