“Are you planning to work out down there?” he asks. “Or are you just going to say hi?”
“I don’t know. But I wanted to be prepared.” I slip a cropped zip-up hoodie over my workout top. “Are you?” I nod to his shorts and tee.
“Griff asked if I’d help him work on some moves.”
“Oh no. You two can’t get into it?—”
“Molly, we’ve worked together for years. Who do you think he was training with before he left?”
“Yeah, well. The last time you two stepped in a cage together?—”
“That was different.” He waves an impatient hand at me. “Let’s go.”
Eager to see Griff, I follow Remy into the hallway. The hotel is huge and has more than one gym. Of course, Griff’s is the farthest away.
We navigate the long hallways and elevators down to a lower floor and finally find the gym. Outside the door, we’re stopped by a security guy in a navy blue polo shirt with the hotel’s logo stitched on the front.
“We’re with Team Royal,” Remy says. “Coach Underhill knows we’re coming.”
The guard runs his slow gaze over each of us. When his gaze lingers on my chest for too long, I’m grateful Remy reminded me to put on the jacket. Remy steps in front of me, shielding me from the guard’s leering eyes. “Can we go in or not?”
“Yeah.” He opens the glass door and a rush of cool air washes over us. “Go ahead.”
Remy puts himself between the guard and me as we enter. The sleek, modern space sprawls in front of us, larger than I expected. A row of treadmills and ellipticals line the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Vegas Strip. Several fighters pound away on the treadmills, their expressions focused and intense. None of them are Griff, though.
At the leg press, one guy lifts a heavy stack. Men and a few women are using free weights and kettlebells. Except for the hum of the machines, occasional grunts and the clanging of metal, it’s quiet. The air is charged with focus and determination, not chatter.
Remy and I keep walking. To our right, there’s another room off the main gym. The rapid, rhythmic beat of someone using a speed bag reaches us. Remy and I stop in the doorway. Griff’s standing in front of the bag, his fists moving in small, precise circles. The movement’s so fast it looks like he’s barely making contact. That’s what’s creating the steady, hypnotic rhythm. Griff holds his shoulders and arms loose and relaxed, making it seem effortless.
As much as I want to run and hug Griff, to kiss him and have him hold me, I’m mesmerized by his skill and don’t want to do anything to break his concentration.
“If I tried that, I’d probably get bopped in the face, wouldn’t I?” I whisper to Remy.
His lips quirk, but he doesn’t confirm my suspicion.
“How long can he do that for?” I ask.
“A while.”
It’s hot, almost humid in this part of the gym. I unzip my jacket and shrug it off. I recognize one of Griff’s shirts draped over the bench next to us, so I drop my jacket there.
“Take ten,” Underhill shouts.
Griff’s shiny-headed coach nods to us.
The serious, focused expression on Griff’s face morphs into happiness as he turns away from the speed bag and spots us.
“Go on.” Remy nudges me forward. “Say hi first.”
I sprint the short distance and jump into Griff’s outstretched arms, not caring that he’s hot and sweaty. “I’m so happy you’re here,” he says against my hair. “I missed you, Muffin.”
“I missed you too.”
Behind us, Remy’s now talking to Underhill.
Griff still hasn’t set me down. “You look really hot,” I whisper into his ear. “Don’t wear yourself out too much. Because I’m going to fuck you so hard later.”
He pulls back, surprise sparkling in his eyes. “That a promise?”