T-shirt.
She sucked in badly needed air and quickly looked away as he rose.
“Well,” he said. “I can check later after I work out, but I don’t have patience for standing around in line down there, I gotta tell you.”
She didn’t blame him. She wouldn’t be too happy about that either.
“You coming?” he said. She risked a look at him as he pulled the T-shirt over his head and swallowed a sigh. “You said you could work out too.”
Maybe that would be a good thing to do. She could run on a treadmill or something and burn off this…excitement. Or whatever. “I’ll meet you down there,” she croaked.
He grinned. “Clucked, aren’t you?”
“Uh…what?”
“Clucked. Chicken. Afraid. You don’t want to change in front of me.”
Heat swept from her hairline to her toes. “I have no intention of undressing in front of you,” she said coolly. She made no move from the bed and waved her hand in a “go on” gesture.
Still smiling, he shoved his feet into a pair of Nikes and strode for the door. “See you down there.”
When the door closed behind him, she fell back onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. Dear sweet Jesus. The man was having too much of an effect on her girl parts. And her heart, which was pumping as if she’d already done a few miles on the treadmill. She blew out a long breath.
After another peek outside at the raging storm, she sighed and pulled her workout gear from her suitcase. She’d optimistically packed it but hadn’t really thought she’d need it. Once changed into the snug black shorts, sky blue tank top and her own running shoes, she grabbed her iPod and key card and left the room.
She found the gym and Dylan there, alone, on his back on a weight bench, pressing huge weights.
“Something seems wrong about working out when there’s a natural disaster occurring outside,” she said to him as she climbed on the treadmill and studied the buttons.
“What are we going to do about it?” he asked.
She could easily sit and worry and fret in an effort to control the weather. But he made a good point. She couldn’t really control it.
She poked at a button. Nothing happened. Then another. The belt started moving. She adjusted the speed until she was at a comfortable pace. She worked out regularly at the gym in San Amaro. Staying fit was important to her. Not as important as it was to a professional athlete, obviously.
Funny, before this she hadn’t really made that “athlete” connection. It sounded stupid, because of course she knew he was a professional athlete, but “surfer” didn’t sound the same as “Olympic athlete” or even pro football player or hockey player. Why was that?
She knew only too well how big pro surfing was. She’d grown up in San Amaro, a surfing city that hosted a major pro surfing event every year. She’d done the research when they were signing Dylan. She lived in a city where surfing was a major pastime and she’d done it herself, many times, though she was far from accomplished at it. So why hadn’t she taken his athleticism seriously?
Seeing him go through his workout, which she was sure was somewhat adapted to the hotel gym facilities, made her appreciate the work he must put into staying in shape. She watched him finish the chest presses with the dumbbells, then do some jump squats, a further series of one-armed dumbbell exercises, more squats on one leg, biceps curls—done while sitting on a large stability ball—some triceps presses and then a series of demanding crunches that made her own abs ache.
He said something to her. She pulled the earbuds out and let them hang. “Sorry, what?”
He grinned. “Sorry. I said how often do you work out?”
“I go to the gym a couple of times a week, and I run a couple of times a week. And swim.”
“Cool. Which gym?”
“Power House.”
“Ha. That’s where I worked out last year when I was there.”
“It’s a good place. How about you? How often do you work
She sucked in badly needed air and quickly looked away as he rose.
“Well,” he said. “I can check later after I work out, but I don’t have patience for standing around in line down there, I gotta tell you.”
She didn’t blame him. She wouldn’t be too happy about that either.
“You coming?” he said. She risked a look at him as he pulled the T-shirt over his head and swallowed a sigh. “You said you could work out too.”
Maybe that would be a good thing to do. She could run on a treadmill or something and burn off this…excitement. Or whatever. “I’ll meet you down there,” she croaked.
He grinned. “Clucked, aren’t you?”
“Uh…what?”
“Clucked. Chicken. Afraid. You don’t want to change in front of me.”
Heat swept from her hairline to her toes. “I have no intention of undressing in front of you,” she said coolly. She made no move from the bed and waved her hand in a “go on” gesture.
Still smiling, he shoved his feet into a pair of Nikes and strode for the door. “See you down there.”
When the door closed behind him, she fell back onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. Dear sweet Jesus. The man was having too much of an effect on her girl parts. And her heart, which was pumping as if she’d already done a few miles on the treadmill. She blew out a long breath.
After another peek outside at the raging storm, she sighed and pulled her workout gear from her suitcase. She’d optimistically packed it but hadn’t really thought she’d need it. Once changed into the snug black shorts, sky blue tank top and her own running shoes, she grabbed her iPod and key card and left the room.
She found the gym and Dylan there, alone, on his back on a weight bench, pressing huge weights.
“Something seems wrong about working out when there’s a natural disaster occurring outside,” she said to him as she climbed on the treadmill and studied the buttons.
“What are we going to do about it?” he asked.
She could easily sit and worry and fret in an effort to control the weather. But he made a good point. She couldn’t really control it.
She poked at a button. Nothing happened. Then another. The belt started moving. She adjusted the speed until she was at a comfortable pace. She worked out regularly at the gym in San Amaro. Staying fit was important to her. Not as important as it was to a professional athlete, obviously.
Funny, before this she hadn’t really made that “athlete” connection. It sounded stupid, because of course she knew he was a professional athlete, but “surfer” didn’t sound the same as “Olympic athlete” or even pro football player or hockey player. Why was that?
She knew only too well how big pro surfing was. She’d grown up in San Amaro, a surfing city that hosted a major pro surfing event every year. She’d done the research when they were signing Dylan. She lived in a city where surfing was a major pastime and she’d done it herself, many times, though she was far from accomplished at it. So why hadn’t she taken his athleticism seriously?
Seeing him go through his workout, which she was sure was somewhat adapted to the hotel gym facilities, made her appreciate the work he must put into staying in shape. She watched him finish the chest presses with the dumbbells, then do some jump squats, a further series of one-armed dumbbell exercises, more squats on one leg, biceps curls—done while sitting on a large stability ball—some triceps presses and then a series of demanding crunches that made her own abs ache.
He said something to her. She pulled the earbuds out and let them hang. “Sorry, what?”
He grinned. “Sorry. I said how often do you work out?”
“I go to the gym a couple of times a week, and I run a couple of times a week. And swim.”
“Cool. Which gym?”
“Power House.”
“Ha. That’s where I worked out last year when I was there.”
“It’s a good place. How about you? How often do you work
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