Page 12 of Set on You

The chilling possibilities linger up until Squat Rack Thief slinks past me, snickering as I’m bent over like an idiot, peering into the dirt-filled crevices of the shoulder press.

I whip around, following him like a dog to a bone. “You hid it somewhere, didn’t you?”

He spins on his heel, walking backward past the treadmills at a snail’s pace. “Believe me, if I wanted to mess with you, I could think of much better ways to get under your skin.” The wicked way he saysget under your skin, so deep and velvety smooth, nearly knocks the wind out of my chest. But only momentarily.

I let out a literal growl as he ducks into the men’s changing room, out of sight.

A waft of Axe body spray assaults my senses when I come to an abrupt halt in the doorway. I take a quick scan around. There are no other men in the gym right now except for Squat Rack Thief. And Ineedmy phone. My client is waiting for me. I can’t be a no-show. I pride myself on being reliable, on time, and always there for my clients. My entire brand and reputation rest on this.

Screw it.

chapter five

ENTERING THE MEN’Schanging room is foreign. The layout is identical to the women’s changing room—rows of lockers in the front, showers and toilets in the back. But it’s like I’ve stepped into Narnia, or a beast’s lair. The simple fact that I’m not supposed to be in here sends a pang of nervous energy trickling down my spine as I creep past the first row of lockers.

On the brink of aborting this entire mission, I spot Squat Rack Thief in the second row. He’s rifling around in his locker, his bare back to me. I take a moment to admire the hard ridges of muscle over muscle that make up his torso. He has one of those tapered shapes. Broad shoulders and narrow waist.

I’m not supposed to see this. My palms aren’t supposed to get clammy. My ears aren’t supposed to burn. My body isn’t supposed to be tingly south of my belly button. I’ve officially become a Peeping Tom, a creeper, a voyeur. I squeeze my eyes shut. I really oughtto turn around and get out of Dodge. If I leave now, I can forget I ever saw this. But I can allow myself one more look, right? Just one.

I bet he’s one of those guys with the damn V. The outline that goes straight down to the...

Shit. He is. Life is cruel. What did I do to deserve this harsh fate?

He’s fully facing me now and I have no idea where to cast my eyes. His prominent six-pack? The dusting of light brown hair on his chest? His V? His hulking shoulder muscles? His gorgeous eyes, wide with surprise when he sees me standing there like the stalker I am? His body is a work of art. It belongs in a Parisian museum, protected by velvet rope and an armored guard.

He appraises me, lips curving into a half smile. He’s both amused and understandably confused. “Crystal. How can I be of assistance to you?”

I widen my stance, recalling the real reason I’m here, which doesnotinvolve hungrily admiring Squat Rack Thief’s body in any way, shape, or form. And I’m definitelynotgoing to fantasize about it later.

“I know you took my phone. Stop messing with me and give it back now.”

He lets out a half laugh, as if I’m certifiably insane. And maybe I am. But my entire life is on that phone. Photos. Pre-edited business content. Videos. My clients’ workout plans. The worst part: I ran out of iCloud storage months ago and was too lazy to buy more. If I lose this phone, I lose it all.

“You sure you’re not a little confused and exhausted from all those shoulder presses?” he asks, unable to squash his patronizing amusement.

“I don’t get exhausted. Ever. I appreciate the concern, though,” I add, voice sweeter than Grandma Flo’s sugar pie.

“Oh, I could exhaust you.” His eyes blaze, and I nearly choke at the innuendo (whether he intended it or not). “In fact, I think you’re already at the end of your rope with me right now.”

“Not even close.”

“It really doesn’t take much to get you all riled up.” His gravelly voice almost distracts me as he inches in front of his open locker.

My eyes dart behind him. It isn’t a coincidence that he shifted his body in front of his locker like a bodyguard stationed outside a nightclub. He’s holding my phone hostage in there. I’m convinced.

Like a panther focused on its prey, I storm toward him.

We’re face-to-face, chests heaving, connected in yet another face-off. But this time, his chest is bare, and I’m losing the battle to resist ogling him with each passing second.

To distract myself, I search his face far and wide for something to critique. Anything at all. And I come up empty. I hadn’t noticed until now that his pupils are surrounded by soft rings of gold.

The severity of his expression tempers with a slight brow raise. I take it as a sign of weakness. It’s my time to pounce.

I gaze left to fake him out before making a break for his locker. As I stick my hand in, he blocks me with his shoulder. I attempt to push him backward with my forearms, but his body is like a sturdy tree. One of those majestic three-thousand-year-old trees in Yosemite. He doesn’t even budge.

He watches me, mouth twisted in amusement as I step back in a huff. “You’re not getting in my locker,” he says, as if it’s just pure fact, as simple as one plus one equals two. He extends his arm tothe side, palm against the locker, blocking me from any future attempt. But I don’t give up that easily.

Fully aware of his strength, I make one last go of it.

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