Page 12 of Giovanni
“I’m sore but good.”
His eyebrow lifts at my words as though they sound like an unintended innuendo of my own. He leans over, moving his ear toward my face. His cologne invades my senses, a clean fragrance that enhances my growing infatuation with him.
“Come again? I didn’t hear that.”
Thinking he does indeed hear it and wants me to repeat it, I change my word choice by raising my voice over the loud bass throbbing through the speaker directly overhead.
“Good. Ready for more.”
He comes away with a smile, muttering something that gets lost in the music, but his expression says it all. He did hear me the first time, and my heart spikes at the thought of the flirting starting even earlier in the workout.
The moment passes as he turns toward the apparatus fastened to the top of the bar, yelling the instructions and demonstrating them for me. When it’s my turn, he adjusts the length to accommodate my short arms and taps the side of my tennis shoes for me to widen my feet.
Once my form is set, he counts the reps for me. I’m groaning all the way through, the burn in my arms growing as his enthusiasm for me grows too. With his encouragement, I push myself harder to earn his praise and feel accomplished.
Praise is my kryptonite.
Throughout college and law school, I strived for the teachers and professors praise to keep going through the most challenging struggles. It drove me more than the perfect grades and high scores I received. Respect as a minority is hard-earned sometimes. When it comes, I feel on top of the world.
Praise is not given in a courtroom or the endless hours I spend in my office. It’s offered in the private chambers of grieving families when their loved ones receive justice by winning their case. Those are getting rarer with the backlog of cases due to the flooding of the criminal court building during Hurricane Harvey and the pandemic shutting down the courts for months. The backlog is well past three years and continues to grow with each new administration.
Sweat forms on my chest, forehead, and back. I dot the neckline of my shirt when I wipe my face on it, forgetting I’m wearing makeup. Shoot.
“Do we need to take a break?”
Giovanni’s gorgeous dark eyes flash to mine with concern.
“No, we’ve barely just begun.”
“Good, let’s continue warming up, and then we’ll move on to the workout,” he explains, demonstrating another exercise while my mind cries.
This is only the warm-up. I’ll be drenched by the time we’re done, and he won’t be flirting with me then.
He walks me through another two exercises, my breath heaving in and out. I could have sworn he was staring at my chest before his eyes darted away when I caught him. I’ll have to pay closer attention to see if he does it again.
When the warm-up is finally over, I’m ready to collapse on the stretching mat beside me until he suggests a water break. Forgetting to bring a water bottle, I make for the water fountain across the gym, away from Giovanni, so I can wipe the sweat from my face and try to fix my hair. Looking cute while working out is a lost cause, something the petite blonde does and makes look easy.
When I’m better assembled and can breathe again, I see Giovanni standing in a row of machines, bent over, getting things ready for us when she approaches him. I don’t hesitate to make a beeline for him. I’m curious about what they are to each other, and I’m paying for this hour of his time. She isn’t—even if that sounds a little possessive of me.
“You ready to go again?” Giovanni directs at me, and her eyes follow. She’s very pretty, definitely his age. The familiarity of her hand on his arm speaks volumes.
“I am.” I edge closer, my investigative skills getting the best of me. “Is this your girlfriend?”
The reaction is immediate. Giovanni’s cheeks color with a flush, and the girl gives me a look that’s hard to read before her hand falls away from him.
“I’ll check on you tomorrow, Gio,” she says, with a swift departure, leaving a tense silence in her wake.
I didn’t intend to provoke such a harsh response, and a flicker of guilt passes through me for the blunt intrusion. But it’s quickly replaced by a sharp spike of something else—relief and satisfaction. I push the feeling aside.
Giovanni clears his throat, looking anywhere but at me.
“No, she’s not my girlfriend.”
“But you like her.”
His expression turns into misery when he raises those dark eyes to mine. I’m surprised by my forwardness and the impulse that drove the question. Yet here we are, standing in a sliver of honesty as raw as an exposed nerve.
“Is it that obvious?”
