Page 31 of Concealed

Even if that’s true, I’d rather be alone than with him.

I’m in the middle of a very deep squat with weights racked on my shoulders. The telltale sound of Velcro fills my ears even louder than the music that’s playing, followed by the metallic clank of the gun safe closing.

Shit!

Wyatt is home early!

Double shit!

I slowly rise to a standing position and turn to face him. I’m not mistaking the heaviness in his expression as his gaze slowly tracks up and down my sweat-soaked body.

Since I wasn’t expecting him, I’m only wearing spandex shorts and a sports bra with my hair piled in a messy knot on top of my head.

But he did just see me in a bikini, so I’m not sure there’s any mystery to be salvaged anyway.

Wyatt licks his lips, and his swallow is audible even from a distance. “Hi.” He clears his throat, but it doesn’t take away the huskiness. “How’s it going?”

“Hey,” I manage. “I’m okay.”

My chest is heaving because I’ve never been one of those girls who try to look pretty when I work out. Getting my sweat on is the only goal, and I could care less how I look while doing it…

Unless, of course, Wyatt Harrison is staring at me.

Then I care a whole lot.

Luckily, he’s distracted by my abs, boobs, and thighs based on where his eyes are tracking, so he hasn’t noticed my tomato-red face.

“I’m on time,” he says.

“I see that.” I set the weights on the ground with a heavy clang and turn the music off, basking the room in silence except for the ticking clock.

His gaze is full of masculine intent and purpose, and a heat that has nothing to do with my workout spreads through me. There is no mistaking what he’s thinking unless I’m so out of practice that I’m reading everything entirely wrong.

Maybe he looks at every girl like he wants to devour them.

“Let’s go out for dinner tonight,” he says.

It’s become a given that we eat together whenever the timing aligns, an unspoken ritual that developed without conscious thought.

Surely that’s not common for roommates, and there’s something special going on here. I don’t have a word for it, but looking at him sends shivers up and down my spine and butterflies racing through my stomach.

It would be nice to get out of the house and eat food that I didn’t make. The bruises on my face have gone from black to purple to green to yellow, and while they’re still visible, I should be able to cover them up enough to be passable in a dark restaurant.

But is he asking me out on a date?

“I made dinner.” It’s all I can think of to say.

“We’ll save it for tomorrow.”

I wait for five beats and then ten, racking my brain for a way to say no even though I want to say yes. He keeps his steady, unrelenting gaze on me, and, sweet Jesus, the man is divine.

Shoulders so broad and solid, exuding a quiet strength.

Intense eyes that are somehow both confident and gentle.

Arms so jacked they look like inflatable water wings.

Narrow waist leading down to what I imagine is a very nice…

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