Page 33 of Doctor Hot Mess

“And you’re in denial,” he calls after me when he gets up and heads to the kitchen.

Friday,February 20

X4Downtown BHAM

1901 2nd Avenue North, Birmingham

2:44 PM

The scentof eucalyptus hits me the second I walk through the sliding glass doors of Jonah's fancy gym, and I can’t help the small smirk that tugs at my lips. Of course, Jonah would belong to a place like this—polished floors, minimalist decor, and a smoothie bar that probably charges twenty bucks for a kale shake.

“This is lavish,” I say, glancing around the sleek lobby. “Do they pump the eucalyptus into the air to make you feel rich, or is that just a bonus?”

Jonah laughs, handing me a guest pass. “Mock all you want, but I’ll have you know their smoothies are life-changing.”

Of course they are.

“Oh, well, if smoothies are involved,” I say, rolling my eyes but smiling anyway.

We make our way to the fitness floor. The hum of treadmills and clinking weights fill the air. The place is spotless—rows of pristine equipment line the mirrored walls, and everyone looks like they just stepped out of a fitness catalog.

“You sure this isn’t some kind of secret surgeon’s club?” I ask, tying my ponytail higher and glancing around at the rows of pristine equipment and perfectly sculpted people all around.

“Just making smart use of my paycheck,” Jonah says with a grin. “I’m efficient that way.”

He gestures toward the gym floor. “Weights are on the left, cardio upstairs, and there’s a stretching area in the back. Or you can stick with me for leg day. I can create a routine for you to put those muscles to work.”

I glance at him, noting the way his T-shirt clings to his broad shoulders and how his athletic shorts show off legs that look like they’ve seen their fair share of squats and lunges. Not that I’d ever tell him that. “Disciplined and dedicated,” I say, smirking. “Impressive. I guess that’s why you’re always so good in the OR.”

Jonah’s grin deepens, and he tilts his head. “Was that almost a compliment?”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” I shoot back, heading toward the stretching area. “I’ve got my routine. But I’ll meet you after—say, forty-five minutes?”

His grin widens, and there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—maybe amusement, maybe appreciation. “Deal. Try not to outshine me, though. This is my gym, you know.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I reply, already heading toward the stretching area. “See you in a bit, Bellinger.”

As I walk away, I can feel his gaze lingering for a moment before he turns toward the weight rack. I allow myself a small smile. It’s nice to feel like things between us are starting to loosen up, like we’re finding some semblance of the easy rhythm we used to have.

I’m toweling off near the smoothie bar, feeling that satisfying ache in my muscles that only comes from a good workout. Jonah had been in his zone, switching between free weights and cardio, but I’d caught him sneaking a glance or two my way. Not that I minded. It’s not every day I get to see him like this—more skin and fewer white coats. There’s something about the way he carries himself here, all confidence and driven, that’s… distracting.

Shaking off the thought, I head to start my warmup, already anticipating our next round of banter.

“Feeling good?” Jonah asks, grabbing a water bottle from the bar.

“Always,” I reply, stretching out my shoulders. “What’s next? Do you want to go back to your fancy surgeon club locker room and call it a day, or do you think you can keep up with me for another round?”

He raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Another round? How about a game of racquetball? Or are you too scared to lose?”

I snort, tossing my towel over my shoulder. “Me? Scared? Please. But are you sure you’re ready to get your ass handed to you by your guest?”

“Big talk,” he says, already leading the way to the courts. “Let’s see if you can back it up. Follow me.”

“You know the rules, right?” he asks, spinning the ball on his palm. “I’d hate to stop mid-game to explain how this works.”

I give him a sweet smile, adjusting my grip on the racquet. “Oh, I know the rules. The real question is, do you?”

He serves first, sending the ball flying toward the wall with a sharp smack. I dart to the side, returning it with a quick snap of my wrist. The game is fast-paced from the start, each volley sharper and quicker than the last. Jonah is good—really good—but I’m better, and I can tell it’s getting under his skin.

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