Page 6 of Set on You

“Is it life or death?”

Surprisingly, he actually says “Yes” with little effort. Now I’m dying to know what he does. But I’ll never ask.

“Prove it.”

“How?”

“Stop stealing things from me. Workout machines, floor space, my place in line at the water fountain.” I wave a vague hand around the gym.

He scoffs. “Has it ever occurred to you that I might need the equipment or the space too? This isn’tyourgym.” We hold mutual stares for a couple breaths before he finally relents. “Okay, I’ll give your phone back.Ifyou give me mine. At the same time.”

I nod, standing to unearth his device from the shelf a couple feet away. “For the record, I was going to give it back before you left.”

His eyes widen upon seeing his phone. I suppose he’s just thankful I haven’t flushed it down the toilet, which, to be fair, crossed my mind.

I dangle his phone at chest level, snapping it back before he has a chance to swipe it from my death grip. “On the count of three?”

He dips his chin.

One.

Two.

Three.

He swiftly reclaims his phone from my fingers while simultaneously holding mine out of reach.

Traitor. He would be the type to break the sanctity of a pact. The man has zero morals.

I growl. “Seriously? We had a deal.”

His lips curl into a closed-mouth grin. “Tell me your name.”

“I don’t reveal my true name to strangers at the gym.”

When he steps forward, closing the gap between us, my ears pound as the blood rushes to my head.

He holds my phone low, graciously permitting me a quick visual of the screen. It’s still on the record video setting, which is interrupted by a flurry of Instagram notifications. He grins like a Cheshire cat when my username pops up. “Crystal.”

When he says my name in that deep, smooth, sultry voice, my knees weaken. I nearly dissolve into the floor.

Despite being five foot eight, inches above being considered short, any frantic attempt I make at reclaiming my phone is a complete failure. With his arm outstretched, he holds it many feet out of reach.

I groan. “Okay, you know my name is Crystal. Happy? Now give it back.” I can see the screen enough to recognize that a Tinder message has just popped up.

His eyes light up as he reads it aloud. “Zayn wants to know if you’re up for Netflix and chill...” He pauses, squinting at the screen, as if confirming the words. “Chillaxing.”

“Do not respond!” I lunge for my phone again, but he snaps it farther back.

I’m desperate to preserve what little dignity and control I have left. It’s not like I know Zayn. He’s a random Tinder match whom I swiped right on for the sole reason that he resembled Dev Patel in his photos (swoon). But given his use of the wordchillaxing, he’s probably an automaticNo.

Squat Rack Thief looks like a Marvel villain on the brink of annihilating Earth and all its inhabitants. “I’m gonna ask him to define ‘Netflix and chill-axing.’ ”

It occurs to me that he revels in my desperation, like the sicko he is. In fact, it probably encourages him, gives him some sort of high. So I switch my tactic. “Go right ahead. I dare you.” My tone is unwavering. It channels confidence, even though the absolute last thing I want is a vengeful stranger sending embarrassing messages on my behalf.

Unfortunately, my challenge backfires. He types the messageand triumphantly hitsSend, tilting my phone to prove he sent the message.

“I assume you’re pretty familiar with the Netflix-and-chill routine?” I say.

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