Page 18 of Boarded Hearts

“Like what you see, Ms. Thompson?”

I don’t ask how he found out my last name. I certainly didn’t tell him on Friday, but I assume it wasn’t hard for him to work out since a quick search on my workplace’s website would reveal all.

“Just admiring your sweatpants,” I reply with a surprisingly steady tone.

Wait, admiring his sweatpants? Just tell him you were staring at his crotch next time.

Jon pushes off the wall and moves in my direction. I take a step back and bump into a side table I only just realized was behind me.

Holding my gaze as he towers over me, he whispers, “I’ve missed you.”

He’s missed me? I’m taken aback by his candidness, but I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t missed him too.

Before I can muster up my usual sassy response, he juts his head down the hall. “My gym is this way. Do you need a drink?”

Yes, about three bottles of wine and half a dozen shots.

“No, I’m fine thanks. I’ve got everything I need.” I lift the strap on my bag, indicating I came prepared.

Jon slips on his socks and white Nike trainers, and I follow him through his apartment in silence, the tension between us palpable. I can almost hear the crackles of electricity bouncing off us. We walk through his kitchen first, and it's beautiful with a butcher’s-block countertop teamed with stylish light-gray cabinets. Leaving the kitchen, he leads me down another hallway decorated in a similar style to his foyer. There are several doors leading off it, and I wonder if his bedroom lies behind one of them.

“My bedroom is the first on the left,” Jon smirks over his shoulder as if reading my mind.

Am I that transparent?

We come to a stop before a thick, wooden door. The room must be soundproofed because as soon as he pushes it open, I’m met with blaring music. “Is that the Spice Girls?”

“I thought it would make you feel more at home.”

Joker.

“Well, it’s a kind thought, but I’m more of a Marilyn Manson girl myself.”

His eyes widen in surprise. “Really?”

Dumping my bag down, I root through the front pocket for my air pods. Popping the lid on the case, I begin putting them in my ears. “Yep, he’s my go-to for workouts. “Personal Jesus” is probably my favorite.”

Jon props his hands on his hips, shaking his head as he looks down. “I don’t think we can be friends anymore.”

I mirror his stance. “Why? Don’t you like a bit of heavy rock, petal?”

With that, he picks up his phone and swipes the screen a couple of times before Miley Cyrus’s “Party in the USA” begins playing through the surround sound.

I can’t help but laugh. “Now you’re joking, Mr. Morgan.”

Jon’s already on his way to the exercise bikes and shaking his head. “One thing to note about me, Angel. I never joke about Miley.”

CHAPTER NINE

JON

Weightlifting is dangerous.

It’s especially dangerous when you pay absolutely no attention to what you’re doing. I’m benching one hundred and seventy pounds while staring at the finest ass I’ve ever seen.

We finished our spinning session, and Felicity was seriously impressive, her stamina noted. Afterward, she moved to the treadmill where she’s remained ever since, breaking into a light jog. I don’t know whether to hate or thank myself right now because the mirrors I installed along the length of the wall give me a perfect view of her bouncing tits while I sit behind, eyes laser-focused on her tight ass, fighting an ever-developing hard-on. If I don’t stop gawking soon, there’s a high probability that one of these weights is going to end up on my face.

Placing the bar back on the rack, I sit up and wipe my hands on my thighs. “Want to come show me what you can lift?” I thumb over my shoulder to the bar.

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