His hand lifts. Not fast. Just a promise. For one glorious second I think he’s going to wrap it around my throat and push me against the wall in front of God and Kevin and the smelly man at the squat rack.
But then the door swings open.
Jett’s whole body snaps toward it. From wrath to holy fucking apocalypse in half a second flat.
I step back just as the man walking in tries to fill the room with something like dominance. He’s stocky, overly bulked, like masculinity’s a sport and he’s benched in every category.
“You’re gonna have to leave, boy,” he says, staring straight at Jett.
Oh. Oh this dumbass wants to die today. I stare at him, wondering if we’re on a prank show.
The testosterone in here could pickle eggs and melt tampons. And of course I strut right into the middle of this dick-measuring contest in real time.
“Chad,” Jett says flatly, all jaw and thunderclouds. “You shouldn’t be here. My lawyer…”
“My lawyer says I don’t have to eat my gym membership just because you’re a fucking animal,” the man spits back. He jerks a thumb toward the door. “Go wait in the parking lot like a good little rage case. Hundred yards, you know the drill.”
Chad. Ohhh. This must be the human lawsuit responsible for Jett’s mandatory court-ordered self-reflection. The rage gremlin origin story.
I step into the ring with all the grace of a blunt-force trauma. “Excuse me, Chet?”
“It’s Chad,” the man grunts.
“Right. Brad. Brent. Biff. I’m not great with the names of future restraining orders. Anyway, I’ve got a session with Jett, so why don’t you be a doll and give us a hundred yards, come back in an hour. Maybe after you’ve Googled how to apologize for being shaped like a neck vein.”
His eyes cut to me like I’m the problem in this scenario, which is rich coming from a man whose entire personality is pre-workout powder and poor impulse control.
“Listen, tramp,” he starts.
My bag hits the floor. So do my scruples.
Round one, bitch.
I’m already stepping in, swinging on instinct, fingernails first, lawsuit second.
Except…
Jett wraps an arm around my waist like I’m an angry toddler mid-meltdown in the frozen food aisle. One second I’m feral. The next, I’m airborne.
“Called me what, you motherfucker?” I hiss from midair, still swinging.
“Delilah,” Jett grits, voice sharp with warning, but not at me. Oh no, he’s holding me back the same way you hold back a lit match from a leaking gas can.
Kevin pokes his head out from behind the front desk. “Hey, hey, Chad, maybe cool it down. Jett, buddy, can you step outside for a bit? I’ll work with Delilah today.”
Jett doesn’t put me down. “You gonna behave?” he asks, voice low and right against my neck.
I twist in his hold to glare at him. “Get your fucking hands off me.”
His breath brushes my ear. “He’s not worth it, princess.”
And that is when it hits me.
He’s not boiling. He’s not clenching his fists or snarling like usual. Jett, who bench-presses grudges and probably fucks like he’s trying to break the mattress is… calm. For me.
God help me, I like it.
Chapter Sixteen
