Page 35 of Close Contact
Aurélie
Oui, obviously. I wouldn’t send you this if I wasn’t.
Aaaand there went the last of my restraint.
I dropped the towel on my kitchen counter, stalked to the coat closet by my front door, and pulled out a zip-up hoodie. I tugged it on, grabbed my wallet and keys, and pulled the door shut behind me. She’d texted me where she was staying earlier in the week—just in passing, some offhand comment about how the hotel gym had better resistance bands than the one at Luminis HQ. I hadn’t forgotten. I didn’t forgetanythingabout her.
The moment the cool Monaco night hit my skin, I started jogging. It wasn’t a calm jog, or a scenic route through the harbor. No headphones or distractions, just me chasing agoddamn high I couldn’t get out of my system. And that high washer.
Every step was a countdown, a beat of my heart that whispered her name.Aurélie. Aurélie. Aurélie.
My thighs burned from the sprint, calves tightening with every impact, but I didn’t care. Icouldn’tcare. I was dripping sweat again by the time I reached the building, strolling right through the lobby like it was the most casual thing in the world for me. It wasn’t until I was in the lift, alone, panting like I’d just come off a final lap, that I realized how fast I’d run. The floor numbers blinked past slowly—too slow. My pulse thudded behind my ribs.
Tomorrow, the rest of the world got the driver. Tonight, I got the woman.
And I wasn’t keeping my hands to myself in private.
Not tonight.
The typing bubbles disappeared.I frowned at the screen, mid-leg lift with the resistance band cinched around my thighs, and pouted like a child.
Really?He asked if I was alone, and then… nothing? He was going to leave me high and dry after that photo?
With a sigh, I let my leg fall and dropped back onto my forearms, glaring at my phone as if it had betrayed me. I told myself I didn’t care. I’d already sent the selfie and teased him. If he didn’t take the bait, fine. Whatever. It wasn’t like I needed him to reply.
Except Idid. Or at least, Iwantedhim to. Badly. I’d been thinking about it since I left his flat yesterday morning with his hand print on my ass cheek.
Focus,I told myself. I still had a video to make—some dumb little assignment from my PR team to showcase a “behind-the-scenes fitness moment.” Keep the fans engaged, maintainrelatability, blah blah blah. As if that was the biggest concern after taking pole position in Monaco. Still, I propped my phone up against my water bottle, pressed record, and forced a soft smile for the camera.
“Hey, guys,” I said a little too cheerfully, switching to French as I adjusted the resistance band. “Here’s your little peek into what a post-quali workout looks like.”
I moved through the routine, trying not to look like I was dying inside. My legs burned and my core ached. My shoulders felt stiff and my muscles were tight. I was sweaty and sore and fuckingneedy, but I powered through the set—glute bridges, side leg lifts, fire hydrants—until I shifted onto all fours, removed the band, and slipped into a series of donkey kicks that looked a little too provocative for a public gym. I’d probably cut this part out, because the last thing I needed was for a bunch of internet trolls calling me some other variation of whore or slut.
Slut.Callum and I called each other that back in Miami, and honestly, I’d spent a little too much time thinking about that. Maybe I’d gotten off to the memory of it more than a few times.
My ass was high in the air, and just as I settled into a rhythm, the gym door creaked open. I turned my head and about collapsed.
Callum.
He stood there in the doorway like he’d just stepped out of a dream—or straight off the track. Sweat slicked his hair to his forehead, and his hoodie clung to his chest. He wore a pair of exercise shorts and expensive sneakers, and all I could do wasgawkat how fucking good he looked. He was panting, chest heaving as if he’drunto me. His eyes locked on mine and then drifted down.
And down.
Anddown.
They landed on my ass in the air, my thighs, my entire body frozen mid-motion like a deer caught in headlights.
I blinked, turning to watch him in the mirror that spanned the far wall of the gym, slowly lowering my leg so I could lean back on my haunches. “You didn’t answer my text.”
He took one step forward, jaw clenched. “No,” he rasped. “I ran instead.” He moved toward me like he wasn’t walking at all—like gravity had given up trying to hold him back. I stayed exactly where I was, sitting on my heels with my knees splayed, body still warm and trembling from the workout. I tilted my head, watching him in the mirror as he stalked closer, his breath ragged, a flush creeping up his neck.
There was something dark, dangerous, and untethered in his expression. Like he’d snapped and didn’t know how to put himself back together. And fuck, it made my stomach drop in the best way.
“You ran here,” I repeated, light and teasing, even though my heart flipped at the thought. “For me?”
His jaw ticked as he dragged his gaze over me, hot and feral. “I told myself I was behaving,” he muttered. “But then you sent that photo, and now I’m here.”
I barely had time to react before he dropped to his knees, right behind me, with no hesitation or pretense. Then hecrawled, closing the last meter of distance between us, and the sight of it—the way he moved, the intensity in his eyes, the fact that this wasCallum Frasercrawling across the gym floor like he’d die if he didn’t touch me—lit something wild and molten in my core.
