Chapter 9 Slutty Gym Shorts
SCARLETT
It's Saturday, my favourite day of the week, because there's no alarm to wake me up early, or Lawrence Moore looming over my desk with that icy stare.
I wake up late, stretching happily and grinning at the ceiling before doing my usual routine—starting with a load of laundry, vacuuming while dancing badly to whatever's on my cleaning playlist, eating a bowl of cereal, then taking a long, hot bath.
Once I'm done, I pull on a pair of black high-waisted leggings, a tight sports bra that secures my boobies, and my trusty white kicks.
With my gym bag slung over my shoulder, airPods in, and Kate Bush's "Running Up That Hill" on repeat, I bounce out, heading for the subway.
Twenty minutes later, I'm downtown at Murphy's Fitness, claiming my usual spot in the Pilates corner and beginning my exercises.
After about forty-five minutes, I'm tired, sweating and in desperate need of water.
Wandering over to the fountain near the free-weights area, I lean against the wall to catch my breath when I spot a flash of familiar dark-brown hair.
Wait a minute …
I see broad shoulders pulling up on a pull-up bar across the room.
No. Freaking. Way.
Straightening slowly, I crane my neck to be sure.
It's Lawrence Moore. In the flesh. Doing pull-ups like it's nothing.
And he's not wearing a suit!
He's in a black sleeveless workout shirt and slutty gym shorts that end mid-thigh, revealing powerful thighs and calves flexing with each rep.
Holy fucking hell.
His arms are well defined in a way his tailored shirts have only ever hinted at. Veins stand out along his biceps as he pulls his chin smoothly over the bar again and again.
Damn, those suits hide a lot.
They have been committing crimes against humanity, and I'm considering a very strongly worded letter to his tailor.
Sinking onto a nearby bench, I pretend to stretch my hamstrings, but I'm staring at him. Luckily, and to my advantage, the gym is huge, so he hasn't noticed me yet.
Besides, I'm slightly hidden behind a row of kettlebells anyway.
Lawrence drops from the bar with ease, grabs a towel to wipe down his neck and face, then heads to a bench press setup.
He loads the barbell with heavy plates and lies back.
My eyes go wide as I watch him start deadlifting it.
The weight should be about 50kg, but he lifts it smoothly, his biceps bulging.
Damn, Mr Moore.
My initial thirst is forgotten.
How have I never seen him here before, since he moved to New York?
Well, the gym's huge with multiple floors and different peak times, so maybe he usually comes earlier or later.
I wonder if I should go say hi to him, but I dismiss the thought.
A man wanders over to where I'm seated, picking up a kettlebell and winking at me.
"Hey, pretty,"
"Hi."
He's obscuring my view of Lawrence, and I shift on my seat to continue peeping at him. I know it makes me look like a creep, but I can't help it.
He's done with the reps and is taking a drink of water.
The annoying guy with the kettlebell steps in front of me again, a flirtatious smile on his face. "What are you working out for? You look pretty nice to me," he drawls.
I force a smile and get to my feet. "Thank you."
He continues talking, "Mind if we hang out some other time?" I roll my eyes and brush past him.
For the love of…
When I look across for Lawrence, he coincidentally looks in my direction too, and our gazes clash.
A wave of surprise crosses his face.
We're still staring at each other when the bother of a man comes up behind me again.
I might've entertained him on some other day or even gone further to consider having a one-night stand with him, perhaps if Lawrence wasn't here.
I don't know, but seeing him around changes things. I'm not interested in the pest of a guy, but Lawrence himself.
His eyes narrow behind the frames when he sees that the man is bothering me, and he gets to his feet, coming in our direction slowly.
Oh no.
I panic. I look like a mess. I'm sweaty, my ponytail is tousled, and I'm in a sports bra.
There's no time for me to quickly escape into the ladies' room cause he's already here.
"Is he bothering you?" He asks, tipping his head at the guy behind me and pinning him with a deadly stare.
Oh my God. He has no idea how hot that gesture is. Plus, he looks wider than usual. The suits aren't hiding his shoulders.
I glance back at the guy to see his hands and shoulder raised in surrender, a smirk on his lips, before walking away.
"Miss Thorn," he says with a polite nod, as if we're in the boardroom and not a gym full of grunting strangers. "I didn't realise you were a member here."
I shrug, trying to play it cool even as my heart does a sprint on seeing him standing before me. "Same. Took me a second to recognise you." I wave a vague hand at his workout attire. "You're kinda hard to identify without the suit and all."
It's a blatant lie.
If Lawrence was wearing a hanbok—weird as that may be— in the midst of fifty men dressed in identical attire with their backs to me, I'd still fish him out.
He scoffs softly, the corner of his mouth twitching, the closest thing to amusement I've seen from him in public. "I could say the same. The ponytail's throwing me off."
My hand flies to the messy knot on my head, and I blush. "It's Saturday. Don't judge me." I mutter.
One dark eyebrow rises slowly. "I didn't say anything."
"You were thinking it."
"I was thinking," he says, his gaze travelling over me briefly, "that you look… fine."
Fine? Fine?! My face could fry an egg.
But I might as well take it. "Fine" from Lawrence Moore is practically poetry.
"Enjoy your workout, Miss Thorn," he says, then turns and walks back to his bench.
I stand there for a few seconds, staring at his back before snapping out of it.
Water. I need water.
I head to the fountain, and in my fumbling for it, miss the sensor twice.
After finally managing to choke down a mouthful that does nothing to cool the heat building up in my chest, I retreat to the bathroom.
Standing under the cold shower, I try not to
think about his calves or the way his thighs flexed in those slutty gym shorts.
Or how he looked at me through the glasses.
There's just something about him in them that preaches a sort of secret message that he's hiding a soft, vulnerable human side behind all that ice.
I lather some soap over my arms. "He's just a man," I mutter to myself.
A terrifying, beautiful man who bench-pressed almost your body weight like it was nothing, but still... Just a man.
It doesn't mean anything even if he rescued me from that creep.
"His forearms looked like Greek sculpture when he was holding the barbell." My mind whispers seductively.
"Yeah? So what?" I ask aloud, before pressing my forehead against the tile, and letting out a loud, hopeless sigh.
So I'm completely, utterly, catastrophically fucked, that's what.