Page 16 of Blurred Lines

I took a deep breath and waited. We were only having lunch. Cristian was probably worried in case I tried to sue the gym for the fall from the treadmill, that was all. A man like him was a grumpy unicorn, as unattainable as Rush Moder, so I might as well just sit back and eat a burrito. Not that I was hungry, thanks to Mario. If I ever met that jerk, I’d thank him for the contribution to my weight loss right before I junk-punched him. Those burritos didn’t contain mushrooms, did they?

Cristian came back with an ice pack and a towel, and he was swiftly followed by a waitress who brought two burritos and a bowl of sweet potato fries. After he’d wrapped my ankle and settled into the seat opposite, I thought we might have a conversation, but instead, he held my phone up to my face to unlock it.

“Can I have that back yet?” I asked.

“No.”

“That’s all I get? No?”

“I need to see the messages. The most recent ones came by text?”

“Yes.”

“And before that?”

“Facebook was his favourite, but he’s also fond of email.”

“Did you keep them all?”

“I deleted some of the earlier ones, but they were all the same format—nasty picture, disgusting suggestion.”

“Today’s message is more concerning. He’s threatening contact. Have you ever replied?”

“A couple of times in the beginning, just telling him to leave me alone or I’d report him, but he must have known it was an empty threat.”

Cristian was zooming in on the photos now, studying them. He must have had a strong stomach.

“What are you doing that for?”

“I’m building up a picture of what he looks like. I want to be certain he isn’t a member here.”

A chill ran through me. “You think he could be?”

“You’ve been getting the messages for months, so it’s unlikely, but I believe in making sure.”

“What are you gonna do? Stake out the men’s locker room looking for tiny mushroom dicks?”

“If necessary. Tell me if you hear from him again, okay?” When I didn’t answer right away, the corners of Cristian’s lips flickered, that intense gaze spilling over me. My thighs clenched of their own accord. “Or do you like the idea of the massage table?”

This was starting to feel dangerously like flirting.

“I’ll tell you when he sends another message.”

Cristian peeled the foil from his burrito and took a bite. “Good girl.” Then he leaned back in his seat, seemingly satisfied with himself. “So, Lauren Rossi, what’s your story?”

“My story?”

“Your accent says Texas, your skin says you don’t go out much, and those lines on your forehead”—he reached out to trace one with a fingertip—“say you’ve been stressed for a while.”

Three out of three.

“Are you always this observant?”

“Yeah.”

“Why do you want to know my life story?”

“I thought women liked to talk about themselves?”

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