Page 41 of Mr. Big Shot

He comes as often as I do, though our days don’t always sync up. (Not for lack of me trying, by the way.) I’m not ashamed to say I would rework my entire schedule for the pleasure of seeing that man work out. He’s not a gym rat. Picture: overly buff dude mainlining testosterone while wearing a two-sizes-too-small tank top that for some inexplicable reason has huge gaping arm holes??? No, no. Hudson usually pulls from a variety of old college t-shirts or concert shirts. So far I’ve seen Dave Matthews, the Grateful Dead, and Foo Fighters. We love a man with taste! Along with these, he usually wears Lululemon shorts and, if the gym gods decide to bless me that day, a backward hat (sob).

The gym rules as of late are as follows:

- We do not acknowledge each other.

- If we do accidentally get in each other’s way, Hudson pretends I don’t exist.

Once, I was coming out of the hallway that leads toward the locker room while he was coming in, and I almost ran smack into him. He grabbed my shoulders and brushed past me, saving me the embarrassment (and pleasure) of squashing my cheek directly into his hard chest. I know his chest is hard because while his t-shirts aren’t tight, they’re tight, you know?

I don’t know why these rules exist for us, but they’ve been especially in play since the Halloween party. In fact, I rarely see him in the office. Sophie’s kept me plenty busy, and Hudson hasn’t gone out of his way to pull me in on any spicy deals or mergers. It’s a bummer considering how much I’d love the distraction right now.

I only really have work to keep me occupied at the moment. My social life has dwindled down to nothing. I’ve had dinner with my parents a few times. Last weekend, Nyles and Barrett dragged me out with their friends and it was a lot of fun, but I’m still just adjusting to this new life and the title I now have to endure: BORING IN BED.

There is no getting over that comment, by the way. It’ll be with me until the end of time.

I head straight for the punching bags hanging in the corner near the boxing ring and work through a circuit my trainer usually puts me through that incorporates strikes and kicks alongside jumping jacks and crunches. After, I pull three-pound weights off the rack.

It’s fine. I mean my heart rate is up and I’m sweating down the front of my black sports bra, but when I’m done, I still head for the punching bag.

My dad bought me pink boxing gloves for Christmas last year, and my mom had them monogrammed with my name in curly script. I love them and use them every chance I can get.

I rear back and punch the bag, right-left-right, trying to remember to use the proper form Jake is always drilling into my head, then I freeze when I sense someone behind me.

“Want to get in the ring?”

I turn back to find Hudson standing there, sweaty and hot in his black t-shirt. No backward hat today. His hair is a shade darker near his temples, damp and slightly unkempt. There are pronounced veins in his arms. He’s clearly been working hard over there with the weights.

With my AirPods in, I’m not sure I heard him properly. I take them out and ask, “Pardon?”

He nods toward the empty ring. “Want to join me?”

I laugh. “Hilarious.”

His face gives nothing away. “I’m serious. Come on.”

“Isn’t it against company policy?”

He tilts his head like he’s not quite getting it. “To work out together?”

“For me to kick your ass on the premises…”

Now this makes him smile.

“That’s cute.”

“I’m pretty good, you know.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen you with your trainer.”

Nothing fazes him, does it? “But you think you’re better?”

He doesn’t answer that. He walks over to the empty ring and holds the elastic rope down so it’s easy for me to crawl up and onto the mat. Then he follows after me.

I go to one corner and adjust the Velcro around my wrist. “I’m serious, I don’t want to hurt you.”

He looks at me with unabashed amusement. “How about I promise to tap out if you’re hurting me?”

“Fine…” I arch a brow. “What are you proposing?”

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