Page 5 of Set on You

I FULLY INTENDEDto be a mature adult. I really did.

But after mulling over the aisle thievery in the five minutes since Mel left the gym, all I could picture was Squat Rack Thief’s smart-ass expression. The same one he’d worn as he cut in front of me at the water fountain, and when he brandished the paper towel in my face.

I’ve been a pushover a lot of my life. Back in grade school, I let the other kids get first pick of my own Barbies (I ended up with Ken doll ninety-five percent of the time). I was relegated to the least favorite Spice Girl (Posh Spice) for themed birthday parties. I always let the procrastinators copy my homework two seconds before class in high school. And worse, I lacked the agency to speak up or demand otherwise.

When I discovered the gym and the fitness community in college, I vowed that would change. Here in the gym, I’m not a doormat. I’m strong and capable. I refuse to let people walk all over me, especially this infuriating, far-too-sexy stranger.

So when Squat Rack Thief forgets his phone on the mat when he moves on to the bench press, I feel little moral obligation to return it immediately. There’s a high chance I’ll stew into the latehours, besieged with guilt and regret over this. But then I remind myself: He was asking for it. It was only a matter of time before I snapped. He deserves to sweat a little.

I imagine myself running off with his phone into the sunset in a baller getaway car, laughing manically as I floor the gas. But then I remember I’m not a petty criminal. I have morals. Which is exactly why I temporarily stash his phone among the shelf overflowing with jump ropes, random accessories, and cable attachments, purely to ensure it’s safe from being crushed under someone’s running shoe.

Pleased with my good deed, I fasten my own phone onto my tripod and begin to film my latest lower abdominal routine, which involves sitting twists, flutter kicks, and enough leg raises to put Jillian Michaels out of commission.

I’m halfway through the workout when a large figure appears over me.

It’s him.

He kneels on the mat, lips tight, vibrant green eyes firing laser beams at me. From this angle, I have a close-up view of the thick swoop of his eyelashes. They’re unfairly long and lush for the male species.

He’s so close, his fresh laundry scent mixed with testosterone overrides my senses. The smell of sweat usually isn’t appealing, but on him, it’s marginally addicting. I refrain from purposely inhaling it like a drug addict.

“What did you do with my phone?” he asks calmly as my legs drop to the mat. He’s ruined my video. Again.

A doe-eyed, beauty-pageant-worthy expression overcomes me.I even toss in an innocent, slow blink for dramatic effect. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I shift onto my knees to face him, ready for a confrontation.

He doesn’t fall for my theatrics. “I know you took it. I left it here five minutes ago.”

“People tend to steal things in this gym. Like squat racks, for instance. How do you know it wasn’t some other random who stole it?”

“Because.” His eyes roam my face, hunting for any sign of weakness, like a take-no-shit homicide detective. “You’re smiling. You’re breathing hard. And you’re avoiding eye contact.”

No matter how justified, deceit has never been a strength of mine, even if I didn’t actually steal it. To keep my hands occupied, I reach back to tighten my messy bun. “Look, Nancy Drew, I’m trying to film an ab tutorial here. Do you mind?”

I’m about to cave and point him toward the shelf where his phone is stashed, but I’m momentarily distracted by his gaze flickering towardmyphone, which is still recording. With one smooth movement, he plucks it from the tripod and drops it into the pocket of his shorts.

I lurch forward, but it’s too late. My phone’s gone, deep into the faraway depths of his nether regions. “Hey! What the hell?”

His lips curl into a satisfied smile. “I’m not giving it back until you tell me what you did with my phone.”

I don’t let his mesmerizing smile knock me off course. This is war. I won’t be compromised. “I need my phone.”

“So do I,” he says smoothly.

“What, for Tinder?” I’m being a complete and total hypocrite right now. In fact, Tinder Joe is on the treadmill again as we speak.

He scoffs. “No, actually. For important stuff.”

“Well I use mine forimportant stufftoo. I’m a fitstagrammer.” I have no idea what possessed me to reveal my profession. He could use this against me. Or worse, mock me. I expect him to snort in derision or look me up and down, unable to comprehend how someone like me is qualified to give fitness advice.

But he doesn’t. His gaze is unwavering. “I need my phone for work too.”

I’m tempted to ask him what he does. I imagine it’s something physical. Perhaps he’s a lumberjack. Or a Captain America stunt double. Or maybe a pouty underwear model plastered in black and white on a billboard in Times Square. But then again, he isn’t pretty enough to be a model. Maybe he’s some sort of semipro hockey player, given his wavy hair flow.

Based on my not-so-subtle observation (or glaring), I’ve deduced he may not be one of those fist-bumping frat bros in a neon bro-tank. I’d place him a bit older, maybe late twenties, early thirties.

“Do you really need it for work?” I challenge him, taking his irritated expression as a personal life achievement.

He nods curtly.

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