Page 9 of One Little Mistake
* * *
My alarm goes off at four-thirty, just as it does every day, but I’m already awake. After tossing my suit in the garbage last night, I showered and climbed into bed around two a.m. Sleep is an elusive bitch most nights.
I toss back the covers, slip into a pair of gym shorts, grab my suit, and head down the stairs. My morning routine is the same every day. The coffee is streaming from the pre-programmed Keurig, and the muffins Alice, my housekeeper, made are wrapped in the fridge.
Thanks to my mother and a team of decorators, my house is homey, but it’s not a home. No life happens here. A home is where I grew up with lots of noise, love, laughter, and support. I always thought I would have the same thing, but life had other plans. Dillon Henry had other plans, and it irrevocably changed my life.
I fucking hate thinking of my ex-best friend. It always leads to my ex-love. Having lost my appetite, I chuck the muffins back into the fridge with more force than necessary, grab my coffee, and head out the door. A few miles on the treadmill will clear my head and help me figure out how to handle the mystery that is Sexy Lexi.
Entering The Westbrook Group at this ungodly hour always puts me at ease. Dad and I used to come here to work out before school. It’s a hard to break habit, but truthfully, it’s the one connection to him I still allow myself.
When the elevator stops on the top floor, I’m surprised to find all the lights on. I know Preston didn’t come in early. That dick can’t function before ten a.m. Maybe Halton?
“Hello?” I call out just as Lexi exits the woman’s locker room dressed in workout gear unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Whoever created spandex and crop tops is both my hero and my worst fucking nightmare right now. She’s gorgeous.
Stop staring, East. Suddenly, I wish I had grabbed the muffins after all. I blame my mother and her food-pushing ways for my inexplicable need to feed this girl.
With a hand on her hip, it accentuates the legs that go on for fucking miles. She’s built like an athlete, even if her muscle tone has diminished. Lexi makes a show of glancing at her watch. “You’re late.”
“I’m … what are you doing here?”
“You said you get your best work done here, right? You have a deadline, and I’m here to help you. It seems like the logical solution since time is running out. Plus, my grandmother is coming to visit. I need to get into shape to deal with her meddling ass. So, where do you want to start?” Her posture says, ‘don’t fuck with me,’ but there’s a vulnerability about her I can’t quite figure out.
“You’re going to work out with me?”
“Yes.”
“As in, you want to do my workout with me?”
She taps her foot in annoyance. “Are you dense? If we’re tag-teaming the equipment, we can make the most of our time here.”
“I’m running ten miles today,” I tell her so she can reevaluate her plan.
“Fine. Let’s go.” She marches to the treadmills that face out over the ocean. Everyone thought my dad was insane wasting the top floor of this building on a gym, but this is where he did his best thinking, too.
I eye Lexi skeptically. It’s not that she isn’t in shape. It’s that her body looks frail, and I’m nervous about her pushing herself to prove something.
“Are you sure you’re up for this?” I ask, as delicately as my gruff exterior will allow.
That was the wrong thing to say. I have a feeling I’ll do that a lot around her.
“Easton, I was a division one athlete. I haven’t run in a few months, but I can guarantee I’m no shrinking violet. I can do anything you throw at me in here.”
I don’t believe her, but give her credit for trying. Stepping onto the machine to her left, I see she has her phone set to record. She’s all business as her machine comes to life.
Twenty minutes in, I’m struggling to keep up with Lexi’s pace. Thankfully, we’re on treadmills, or she would have left me in the dust, but I refuse to slow my pace. She runs beside me with rapid-fire questions, never once losing her breath.
By the time we hit ten miles, I’ve caught her up to speed with every aspect of the project—everything except Macomb’s involvement. As she walks to the mats, I notice a slight limp, and I feel like a dick.
“Are you okay?” I ask, nodding toward her leg that she’s now stretching on the foam roller.
“Yeah, it’s fine. I tore my hamstring my senior year, and it acts up sometimes.”
“What did you play?” I ask, already moving toward her.
“Basketball.” She lies back on the mat, and I move into position without thinking.
Dropping to my knees between her legs, I grab her ankle and knee and move them gently toward her chest. It’s a stretch I know will help, but she tenses at my touch.
