Page 126 of Inflame

“Answer my question,” I say coldly.

“I went to the gym.”

I glance down at her yoga pants and quick-dry workout shirt. Her hair looks freshly washed and blow-dried. Something about this picture looks so wrong. Feels so wrong. “You’re telling me that you left work at 6:07 p.m. and have spent the last seven plus hours at the gym?”

She nods, and I want to hit something.

“Unbelievable.”

I need to step away from her before I lose my mind. I walk toward the elevator and hit the button for her floor, as she follows me inside.

“Sorry if I pissed you off,” she says meekly.

I look at her. “I just need to wrap my head around the idea of you living at the gym.”

“I’m not living there,” she defends.

“Then why not go to your apartment and knock on the door to be let in?” Why is this such a hard concept?

“I was already at the gym when I realized I didn’t have my keys. And it is late. I didn’t want to wake anyone.”

“You are neglecting your needs and that stops tonight.”

Propping her hands on her hips, she glares at me. “Quit being so dramatic. You are worse than your brother."

“Prove to me otherwise,” I growl, not getting distracted by her attempt at lighthearted humor. I amnotin the mood. Thoughts of her hanging out at the gym and using the facilities for taking care of her personal hygiene just sound sad to me. Is she afraid to go back to the loft? Blake may be innocent and nonthreatening, but what about his dipshit roommate?

“Listen… I went to the gym after work and grabbed some clothes out of my locker. I think best when I am moving, so I was online shopping for the office while jogging on the treadmill. Then they were having a late-night yoga class, so I hit that up. A coworker’s car broke down, so…” She stops her sentence and then taps her foot onto the floor. “What's so funny? Why are you grinning?”

I wipe a hand down my face. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s obviously something.”

“It’s just that it’s rare to find a girl these days who has yoga pants that actually make it to a real yoga class and aren’t just worn for comfort.”

Once my words penetrate Claire’s ears, she bursts into a fit of giggles. “Fact,” she laughs. “But these”—she points to her bottoms—“have made it to several, including the one I hosted at the river. They are very much my favorite pair and are workout whores.”

I let out a laugh. “Good to know. Then what did you do?” I inquire.

“I went into the locker room and showered and changed. But then I got tired, so I took a little nap on the sofa there. It is a twenty-four-hour gym, and I have unlimited access because I teach some classes.”

I listen to her ramble. It sounds innocent, but I can’t shake the feeling that she was avoiding going back to Blake’s loft. “How are the sleeping arrangements at your friend’s place?”

“Less than stellar,” she huffs out a laugh. “But I have slept in worse places. No big deal. I’m pretty sure my entire junior year of high school was spent on a blow-up mattress because my parents were too busy with the restaurant to bother thinking of anything else. Or maybe they didn’t want to invest money in a real bed for me if I planned on leaving for college. Who knows with them.”

I want to ask more about her childhood but resist. I need to keep the lines from being blurred. Asking personal questions about the past will just make things more complicated.

“I would have just stayed here and started my work shift early if I had appropriate clothes,” she points out.

“You can’t pull these long hours without it taking its toll,” I comment. “Plus, you just started here. No need to set the precedent that you are a work addict.”

She smirks. “Pot meet kettle.”

“Touché.” The elevator stops and we exit together. “I installed a new lock on your office doors and can show you how to use it.”

“Thanks, but I’m pretty sure I know how to open a door,” she says with a smirk. “Put it in and turn? I think I got that handled.”

My teeth grind together over the sexual nature of her words. “There’s more to it than just that.”

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