Page 13 of Theirs to Hunt
Bobbie leans back. “Finally. That’s the Rae I know.”
“And if I fall for them?” I ask.
She smirks. “Make damn sure they fall first.”
I sit down beside her. My heart is pounding. Not from fear. From adrenaline.
I’m not waiting anymore. I’m choosing this.
If they want a game, I’ll play.
But I won’t be the one who loses.
Chapter thirteen
Reagan, Monday 07:15 p.m.
God, it feels good to be back in the gym.
Playing scared prey is boring.
I already took a couple days off work and have been hiding in my apartment like a good little fawn. I need some kind of release, and right now, the gym and its endorphin high is just what the doctor ordered. Or rather, Nurse Bobbie, who is officially over my whining.
I drop all my stuff off in a locker except for my phone and earbuds, then head to warm up on the treadmill.
Holy shite.
I almost trip over my own feet when I spot the perfection in the back corner. He is already running, positioned with the perfect view of the whole gym. Hoodie hanging over the railing. As he bumps up the speed, his shirt goes with it, pulled up, clinging, sticking, and revealing a lot of lean, carved muscle in the most beautiful gold shade.
It is a body you do not get from skipping leg day or flirting with protein powder. That is hard-earned, tactical,and delicious. I rub the back of my hand across my mouth in case I am visibly drooling.
There is nowhere I can stand where I will not look obvious checking him out, and sliding onto the treadmill next to him would look desperate.
While I mentally dither, some Barbie-wannabe brushes past me with a not-so-subtle hip check and claims the treadmill right next to him. Of course she does.
Screw it. I will stretch and hit the weights, because in reality, all I want to do is tap that.
Stop it, you slut, I whisper to myself. How many balls can you realistically juggle?
Then I snort, because wow. That gives a whole new meaning to ball juggling. God, I cannot wait to tell Bobbie.
Not that it matters. Except for vocal GPS dipshit who ghosted after he barely got me off. Must have been too much work for him. The rest are narcissistic douchebags who treat women like side quests and talk about crypto. I have had sleeping pills with more personality.
I am not dating. I am coping. Mostly with wine, snacks, and a USB-charged vibrator that does not need ego stroking or a personality.
I grab a PVC pipe from the wall rack and start working through my shoulder mobility warm-up. Slow arches over my back, arms extended, chest lifting forward with every pass.
I am feeling pretty damn cute today. Teal racerback sports bra, matching cropped leggings, loose tank on top to hide the food baby I developed over the weekend during my hostage situation with the cheese in my refrigerator and the two pints of emotional support ice cream.
Mid-stretch, I catch a gym bro approaching out of the corner of my eye. Please do not. Damn it. Too late.
"Need a spot?" he asks, puffed up, a walking protein fart.
I blink. Then deadpan, "Spot what? I am literally stretching with a PVC pipe."
Most guys would back off. Not this one.
"Well," he grins, "I saw how good you were with that pipe and figured I would offer mine up."
