Page 35 of Cinnamon Roll Set Up

I turn to him. “Yeah?”

Georgia takes a single step farther away from me. I should be grateful things worked out how they did. I wouldn’t have wanted Arlo to interrupt…whatever might have happened between us otherwise.

For the record, I am not grateful.

“The receipts aren’t printing. I tried restarting the thing, but it’s not working.”

I shift to get off the barstool, but Georgia puts a hand on my shoulder and presses me back down. “I’ll take care of it. You rest for a bit.”

“Thanks.” I’m hardly injured in any way that requires rest or medical care, but Idoneed a minute to myself back here.

I take the ice pack she offers, and she disappears out front behind Arlo.

The ice won’t do any good for the parts of me that are truly bruised, but I give it a go anyway. I put the pack right over my foolish, hopeful heart.

Chapter 12

Miles

I can’t stand fighting. Arguments make me uncomfortable, and physical altercations are even worse. And yet, here I am, throwing punches at Owen like we do every week, pretending to fist fight as a means of exercise. I make no sense.

On so many levels.

As averse as I am to confrontation, I do try to keep an open mind, so I didn’t immediately shut him down when he first invited me to the gym. It seemed like a big concession at the time. I’ve never been very athletic, and most team sports are beyond my interests or abilities. But eventually, he got me in here, and it turns out I kind of like throwing punches. In a fake, completely controlled way.

I wouldn’t say I’m skilled at it, and I’d never want to have to translate this into an actual scuffle, but I enjoy our weekly training sessions. We’ve been doing this for over a year now, and I have enough muscle memory for the moves that most of my brain goes offline and my body reacts on instinct while we spar. It’s a nice antidote to overthinking.

Usually.

Tonight, not even the threat of one of Owen’s jabscan keep me focused. I’m stuck on my afternoon with Georgia a few days ago. How close we were. Her soft little touches. The mystery of whatever she stopped herself from asking me.

The tantalizing question of whether she’d ever allow me to touch her the same way.

A sharp smack to the shoulder brings me back into the present.

“You’re not paying attention,” Owen barks. “Do you want me to drop the mitts and find your focus?”

That’s the other thing that keeps our sparring enjoyable—the punches only fly in one direction.

I land a hit on his right mitt. “Your threats aren’t as motivating as you think.”

“You’re concentrating again. My methods work.”

We spar for a while longer, and I manage to keep my mind from zeroing back in on Georgia. More or less.

When we finish up, we take off our gear and sit on a bench along one wall of the gym. It’s a bright, clean space that’s found a mix of clientele. On any given night, you’re just as likely to find a burly, tattooed man decimating a punching bag—ahem, Owen—as a mother of three moving in sync with a trainer.

“Do I need to ask what’s distracting you tonight?” he asks. “Or should I say,who?”

I drain half my water bottle, breathing hard from the exertion. “You don’t need to ask.”

Owen nods. “What happened?”

A group class works through their moves in the center of the gym, but they’re far enough away I’m not concerned about being overheard.

“We had a…moment.”

He laughs. “That’s nice and vague.”

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