Tip Two: No feral lunges. Even if it’s leg day.
“…And that also includes access to nutrition planning, and wellness check-ins if you… Hello?” Flirty Gym Guy says.
“Yes,” I say. “Sign me up.”
He grins. “Great. For which package?”
“The one with the most personal training,” I say, eyes still locked on Jett.
Jett catches me staring. Smirks. Doesn’t wave.
I press my pink pen to the intake form like it’s a blood pact.
This isn’t crossing boundaries.
It’s called investing in my health.
And if health just so happens to look like Jett Ryker bench-pressing judgment and rolling his jaw like he’s about to bite God? Or my ass.
That’s between me, my glutes, and my higher self.
Jett saw me.
Knows I saw him.
And if he doesn’t know I just signed up for three months of cardio lies to be near him, he will soon.
Surprise, bestie. I’m your new gym crush.
Your move, Ryker.
Chapter Six
Jett
She’s wearing a hat that could block a solar eclipse.
Hot pink, wide-brimmed, ridiculous. Somehow still not enough to hide that platinum hair tipped in bubblegum. She’s got on glitter heart-shaped sunglasses, a dress that deliberately shows the tops of her thigh highs, and a mouth cherry-glossed like she came here to ruin someone’s week.
She’s tiny. Probably too short for most fair rides.
She’s also staring at me like we didn’t just meet in a court-mandated group therapy session for men you shouldn’t fuck with.
God help me, I stare back.
She doesn’t wave. Doesn’t look away. Just owns the space between us in a way no one that pink has the right to.
Jesus Christ.
I finish spotting Taylor, lavender shorts, giggles when she’s nervous, and help her rerack before stepping back.
“Good set,” I tell her, but half my voice is somewhere else.
Across the gym. On her.
Delilah fucking Darling.
Did she follow me here?
