Page 56 of The Savior

“You? You’re like a gun-toting cupcake.”

Her jaw fell then snapped shut. “First off, cupcakes could have a drinking problem.”

“If cupcakes could drink.” His amusement knew no bounds.

“You just said—” Her brows pinched. “And second, I don’t have a drinking problem!” Chelsea cringed, positive that anyone within a twenty-foot radius could’ve heard her. “I don’t, and you know it. I know it.”

He didn’t stop laughing.

“This will go in my file!”

Eyes watering, Liam gasped with mock horror.

“This is your fault.”

“Totally.” He crossed his arms, nodding sarcastically. “Absolutely.”

“I would’ve gone to bed if you hadn’t shown up,” she pointed out. “And arrived at work bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.”

“You’re always bright-eyed.” He cocked a half-grin. “Maybe even bushy-tailed too, if I knew what that meant.”

Her stomach flipped even if she wanted to strangle him. “It means eager.”

“Like a beaver?”

“What? No!”

“I didn’t think so.” Liam stepped under the pull-up bar next to hers.

“What does that mean, anyway?”

“Who knows, sunshine.” He stretched then grabbed a hold of the overhead bar, effortlessly lifting his chin high.

She watched the indentations of his muscles flex and the rest of the gym, with the clang of weights and the whirl of exercise machines, faded.

With smooth finesse, Liam eased down. His sinewy muscles straightened. He wasn’t dressed for the gym. The dark jeans and cotton shirt alone would be cause for him to stand out.

But his T-shirt clung to his sculpted back and powerful shoulders. As he continued, each steady flex and pull over the bar belied its difficulty, and Chelsea couldn’t ignore his physique. His shoulders tapered. His backside rounded. For the quickest moment, she pictured his backside, bare. She could imagine how his buttocks would flex when he thrust. She could almost feel the delicious friction between her thighs if he lay over her.

She staggered back, scared how much more she wanted beyond their drunken hug. She wanted him on her,inher, caging her to his chest.

“Excuse me,” a voice pulled her back to the loud gym. “Are you using that still?”

A woman motioned to the pull-up bar next to the one Liam was using.

Chelsea didn’t move. “Yeah, sorry.”

But she wasn’t sorry one iota. Liam held himself over the bar for a beat then eased down and dropped. He clapped his hands together then worked his shoulders back.

Fidgeting with her water bottle, Chelsea couldn’t look him in the face after her imagination had gone on a tear. “Are you done?”

“Not sure. Are you?”

She clenched the bottle, finally glancing up. Exertion colored his face, but he didn’t breathe hard—barely broke a sweat—and he held her in place with only a long, undecipherable look.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Working out with you.” His eyebrows barely arched. “What did it look like I was doing?”

She glanced away again, unable to explain his actions any more than she could her thoughts. “Becausethatmakes sense.”

“Trust me,” he mumbled. “Nothing makes sense anymore.”

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