Chapter 164
Nora's POV
The alarm pierced through my sleep at 5:30 AM. I fumbled for my phone, squinting against the screen's brightness, and slapped it silent.
The bed beside me was empty, but the sheets still held Julian's warmth. I pressed my palm against the spot where he'd been lying, feeling the residual heat seep into my skin.
He actually left without waking me.
Last night, he'd mentioned something about "five AM, gym" and promised to "personally train you."
I sat up slowly, my body protesting. My body felt pleasantly sore in places I was still getting used to acknowledging. The man was relentless in everything he did, apparently.
So the control freak has a soft side after all. Who knew he'd let me sleep in?
I stretched, rolled out of bed, and padded barefoot to the bathroom. A quick splash of cold water on my face, no makeup, just me in a T-shirt and running shorts. If Julian wanted me up at dawn, he could deal with the natural version.
---
The gym door was half-open when I reached it, spilling early morning light across the hallway floor. I leaned against the doorframe and peered inside.
Julian was in the middle of a set, his back to me. He wore a black compression tank that clung to every line of muscle, the fabric soaked through with sweat. His shoulders shifted as he lifted the weights, biceps tensing and releasing in a rhythm that was almost hypnotic.
I stood there like an idiot, just watching. The man looked like he'd been carved out of marble and then dipped in sweat for good measure.
Damn. Federal inspectors shouldn't be allowed to look like that.
He caught my reflection in the mirrored wall and turned, lowering the weights with an easy grace. A slow smile curved his mouth. "See something you like?"
Heat flooded my cheeks. "I was just—"
"Drooling?" He grabbed a towel and wiped his face, his grin widening. "Careful, baby. Your mouth's hanging open."
I snapped my jaw shut and crossed my arms. "I was not drooling."
"Sure you weren't." He tossed the towel aside and crossed to me, all predatory confidence. "Come here."
I didn't move. "You didn't wake me."
"You looked tired." He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, his touch gentle despite the heat still radiating from his skin. "Figured you could use the extra sleep."
"You said five AM."
"I did. But I also said I'd train you, not torture you." His thumb brushed along my jawline. "There's a difference."
God, why does he have to be so reasonable when I'm trying to be annoyed with him?
"I'm here now," I said, stepping past him into the gym. "So let's get started."
---
The space was larger than I'd expected—floor-to-ceiling windows on one side overlooking the back garden, a full rack of equipment on the other. Treadmills, free weights, resistance machines, yoga mats rolled neatly in the corner. It looked like something out of a luxury fitness magazine.
I wandered through it, trailing my fingers over the equipment. "You use all this?"
"Most of it." He moved to the treadmill and adjusted the settings, bringing it down to a walking pace. "Start here. Four miles per hour. Just a warm-up."
I eyed the machine skeptically. "I thought you said you weren't going to torture me."
"Walking isn't torture, Nora."
"It is when I haven't had coffee yet."
His mouth twitched. "I'll make you coffee after. Now get on."
I climbed onto the treadmill, gripping the handles as it started moving beneath my feet. The pace was manageable, but I could already feel my calves protesting.
Julian stood beside me, arms crossed, watching. "How does it feel?"
"Like I'm walking."
"Smart-ass."
I shot him a look. "You're the one asking obvious questions."
He leaned against the machine, close enough that I could smell the faint musk of sweat and something distinctly him—clean and sharp, like winter air. "I'm trying to be supportive."
"You're hovering."
"I'm supervising." He reached over and nudged the speed up slightly. "Faster."
"Julian—"
"Faster, Nora."
I muttered something unflattering under my breath. He heard it, judging by the low chuckle that rumbled through his chest.
"What was that?" he asked, leaning closer.
"I said you're a tyrant."
"Mm. And you love it." His hand came to rest on the small of my back, steadying me as I adjusted to the new pace. "Don't slouch. Shoulders back."
I straightened automatically, hating how quickly my body responded to his commands. "Yes, sir."
The word came out sharper than I'd intended, laced with sarcasm. But something shifted in his expression—his eyes darkened, and his hand pressed a fraction harder against my spine.
"Careful," he said softly. "Keep talking like that and we won't finish this workout."
Heat coiled low in my stomach. I focused on the treadmill, on the rhythmic thud of my feet against the belt, on anything other than the way his voice had dropped into that dangerously quiet register.
"How long do I have to do this?" I asked, desperate to change the subject.
"Thirty minutes."
"Thirty—Julian, that's insane."
"It's a warm-up." He straightened, moving to stand in front of the treadmill where I could see him clearly. "You'll be fine."
"I hate you."
"No, you don't."
No, I don't.
---
Twenty minutes in, I was regretting every life choice that had led me to this moment. My lungs burned, my legs felt like lead, and I was pretty sure my heart was trying to claw its way out of my chest.
"I can't—" I gasped, clutching the handlebars. "I can't do this."
Julian was beside me in an instant, his hand covering mine. "Yes, you can. Deep breaths. In through your nose, out through your mouth."
I tried to follow his instructions, but my chest was too tight, my breathing too shallow. Panic flickered at the edges of my vision.
"Baby." His other hand came up to cup my face, forcing me to look at him. "You're okay. I've got you."
The treadmill slowed beneath me, the belt grinding to a stop. Julian's hands stayed on me, steady and warm, grounding me in the moment.
I sagged forward, and he caught me, his arms wrapping around my waist as I pressed my forehead against his chest. "I hate cardio," I mumbled into his shirt.
"I know." His hand stroked down my back, slow and soothing. "But you did good."
"I barely made it twenty minutes."
"Twenty minutes is twenty minutes." He pulled back slightly, tilting my chin up so I had to meet his eyes. "You showed up. That's what matters."
I wanted to argue, to point out that I'd failed spectacularly at his stupid warm-up. But the look on his face stopped me—soft and proud and so damn affectionate that my throat tightened.
How does he do that? How does he make me feel like I've won something when I can barely stand?
"Come on," he said, guiding me off the treadmill. "Let's cool down."
He sat me on one of the weight benches and handed me a water bottle. I drank greedily, the cool liquid soothing the raw burn in my throat.
Julian crouched in front of me, his hands gently massaging my aching calves. "Better?"
I nodded, still catching my breath.
He stood, pulling me up with him. "You did good today."
"I barely survived."
"Next time, you'll do even better."
"Next time?" I groaned. "There's a next time?"
"Every morning, if I have my way."
Of course there is.
But looking up at him—at the rare, unguarded smile on his face—I found I didn't mind as much as I pretended to.
"Fine," I said, tugging him closer. "But you're making me coffee first."
"Deal."