Page 19 of Rebel Hawke

His eyebrows rise slowly as his eyes dip down over me, from the low-cut sports bra to my bare midriff and dropping to my leggings.

I would love to believe his perusal is sexual and approving, but I know what he can also see: all the scars covering the wholeleft side of my body—my torso, my arm, up along my neck, and onto my face.

I’ve never hidden them. I’ve never felt the need or desire to, until I set foot back here. All of a sudden, I’ve become self-conscious of the thing I’ve always used as a way to show people that they can move past what’s happened to them.

He reconnects his gaze with mine and gives me a little satisfied smile. “Good things come in small packages.”

Considering he’s a full foot taller than me, at least, the possibility that he mightactuallybe giving me a compliment and enjoying what he’s seeing makes heat blossom between my legs.

I squeeze my thighs together and approach him, stopping a foot away, where I can smell the light scent of his soap and see the stubble growing on his jaw. “Shouldn’t you be over in the gym?”

He smirks, raising his right arm to press it against the jamb, blocking me from passing. “Your grandfather isn’t here yet.”

My back stiffens, concern immediately overtaking that glimmer of hope I just held. “What? Are you sure?”

I glance at my watch.

6:25.

Gramps never comes to the gym later than 6:00.

Ever.

At least, he never did when I was still here.

“Is he usually this late?”

Atlas shakes his head, but he doesn’t appear to feel the same worry I do. “No, but he mentioned being really tired last night, so he probably slept in.”

He offers a slight shrug, then clenches his jaw, likely to try to hide the fact that the simple motion pained him.

“Should I be worried?”

His gaze softens. “No, Wren. I’m sure he’s fine. If he isn’t here by 7:00, I’ll go looking for him, okay?”

As much as I hate to admit it, Atlas knows Gramps better than I do these days. If he isn’t concerned, then I have to try not to be—until there’s something toactuallybe concerned about.

I release a heavy breath. “Okay…”

The corners of his lips curl the tiniest bit, but he doesn’t look inclined to move of his own accord so I can reenter the main studio. And this already small office is starting to get far too claustrophobic.

I reach out and press my hand against his chest, the heat of his body and a little spark radiating through his thin T-shirt and into my palm as I give him a little nudge. “Well, I have more cleaning to do before they start delivering my reformers.”

His hard body doesn’t move, doesn’t even shift back a millimeter with my push. A solid slab of muscle and unmovable man who seems determined to stand his ground.

He chuckles, grinning at me in a way that ensures me he enjoys my attempt, then drops his arm and steps back, sweeping it out for me. “All you had to do was ask for me to move, Little Bird.”

Little Bird.

Oh God…

I shouldn’t love it so much hearing that old nickname fall from his lips, but it sends those butterflies fluttering through my stomach again and makes my head fill with a fog of hope I could get lost in.

Padding out into the studio on bare feet, I glance back at him, still near the office in his shoes. “No shoes in the studio from now on.”

He holds up his hands defensively as he wanders slowly over toward the door to the gym. “My apologies. It won’t happen again,ma’am.”

“Oh, God…” I laugh. “Please don’t call me ‘ma’am’ again. That makes me feel so damn old.”

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