Page 8 of Like You Know

I heard Cal’s deep voice speaking low and calm but didn’t try to work out what he was saying. I resisted the urge to slam my door so hard it would bring the house down, closing and locking it instead. Good thing I did too, because barely a moment later, footsteps thudded on the stairs and my door handle jiggled.

“Open this door!” Mom pounded on it.

I ground my teeth, rushing into my walk-in and changing into activewear. I really didn’t want to go out the window, but I would if I had to.

Cal’s irritatingly calm voice said something to Mom as I gathered my shit and slung my gym bag over my shoulder.

A soft knock sounded on my door, then Cal spoke to me. “Amaya? Could you please open the door? Your mom has gone downstairs to cool off. I’d just like to have a word with you.”

He’d like to have a word with me? Fuck that. And fuck going out the window. Fuck them both!

I marched to my door, unlocked it, and opened it. Cal stepped out of my way reflexively as I barreled through, giving him my back as I made sure to lock my door from the outside.

“Listen, I know that you and your mother—”

“You don’t know shit, Cal.” Without waiting for a response, I jogged down the stairs, snatched my keys, and peeled out of there, my tires giving a little screech as I took off out of the garage.

I drove straight to the gym, forcing deep breaths down my throat the whole way so I wouldn’t crash and die from rage-driving. Once I parked, I leaned against the car and lit a cigarette, hoping the death stick would calm my nerves, but I only got halfway through. It was doing nothing to stop the frustrated energy coursing through me, so I put it out and headed inside. I needed to thrash this out on some gym equipment. Then I’d call the girls and bitch about it. Then I’d have some ice cream, and everything would be right with the world again.

I spotted Jet on the bench press as soon as I walked in, and I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. Either this would make my night a hell of a lot worse, or it would be just the distraction I needed.

Half an hour into my workout, I still wasn’t doing any better. If anything, I was even more frustrated, because Jet followed me around the gym like a bad smell. I’d changed machines three times, going from the treadmill to the cross trainer to the rowing machine without completing any semblance of a proper set.

“Hey, Turner.” I abandoned the rowing machine and darted up to grab Mena’s boyfriend as he passed. He’d been moving about the equipment with a spray bottle and a cloth, wiping everything down between answering the phone at the front desk.

“Wassup?” He spun the spray bottle on his finger like a gun.

“Can you kick that creep out or something?” I huffed, glaring in Jet’s direction.

Turner followed my gaze. “Jet?”

“Yes. Jethro,” I gritted out. “He’s been following me around since I got here.”

“Amaya, you’re the one that’s used half the machines since you arrived. He’s stayed in the weights section this whole time.”

“Yeah, well ...,” I spluttered. Technically he was right, but I’d made eye contact with Jet several times, and no matter which machine I was on, he seemed to be positioned so he could see me. “He’s just ... he’s ... he’s looking at me too much. It’s distracting.”

Turner raised his brows and pointedly looked over his shoulder. “He’s not even facing you.”

He wasn’t, dammit! He was doing lunges with a weight in each hand. His shorts tightened around his ass with every lunge in the most delicious yet infuriating way.

“It’s ... he’s ...” I sighed. “His very existence is an affront.”

“Okaaay ...” Turner frowned. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” I did my best not to let it come out snappy as I rubbed my temples. He was going to push me for more—he didn’t believe me, I could tell. But then his coworker called him over to the reception area. Turner reluctantly rushed off, saying he’d be back as soon as he could.

There was nothing between me and Jet now, nothing to distract me from his inconvenient presence. He’d finished his lunges and shook his arms out, took a drink from his water bottle. Then he removed his sweaty T-shirt.

I barely resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Who did he think he was to just take his clothing off like that in public? The nerve of this guy, showing off his—admittedly pretty tight—body. I mean, his back was so damn smooth and defined it was downright ... insulting!

And because he was clearly an asshole, he jumped up, grabbed the pole above his head, and started doing pull-ups.Pull-ups! The audacity! I mean, how was I supposed to focus on my own workout when he was over there, clenching every muscle in his back and arms and shoulders? His movements were smooth and practiced, his feet crossed at the ankles, his flesh dancing under all that smooth skin.

He finished a set and jumped down, making me realize I’d been staring at him this entire time—like the creep I’d accused him of being. With a huff, I sat my butt back down on the rowing machine, determined to focus.

Jet did a few stretches, checked his phone, then glanced at me over his shoulder. I caught his smirk just as he turned away. Why was he getting under my skin so badly? That little satisfied smirk made me grind my teeth.

When he jumped up onto the bar again, he didn’t do another normal set of pull-ups. Instead, he lifted his legs so they were straight out in front of him—as if he were sitting down. Then he started pulling himself up and down again. He was clearly showing off.

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