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Well, they were working out. If she’d pulled out a cute little pair of yoga pants and sexy sports bra, he’d wonder what she had in mind.
Oh, let me tell you what I have in mind, Chris. See that weight bench and squat rack? I want to—
She yanked on her sweats and didn’t look in the mirror as she tugged open the door. He smiled at her and held the door as she walked out.
“Just leave your bag in there,” he said. “This room is small enough as it is. Reminds me of my first apartment in Vancouver.” He looked around. “Nope, my apartment was definitely smaller.” He rolled his luggage into the room and propped it against the door, holding it open. “Did you ever live in Vancouver?”
She shook her head. “I took one look at what I’d be able to afford and decided I liked commuting.”
“I don’t blame you. That first micro-apartment I had was a sublet. The owner went overseas and left her cats behind. Cats. Plural.”
He opened his bag and rummaged through it as he talked. Then he pulled out clothing and started undoing his shirt. Still talking. Still with the door open.
Should she turn away?
If he didn’t want her to look, he’d close the door, right?
Maybe it was just open so she could hear him, and she was supposed to turn away.
Or maybe he knew exactly what he was doing and stripping right in front of her, using the excuse of telling a story.
Reminding her of what was on offer, should she accept his terms and conditions.
He flipped open the buttons on his shirt, one at a time, each revealing an extra sliver, and sure, it was just his chest, and sure, she’d seen it before—multiple times—but that didn’t matter. She watched like he was opening a fully stocked fridge and she hadn’t eaten in weeks.
Was he still telling the same story? He was still talking, and she should listen. There might be a quiz later. He’d ask a question, and she’d start randomly blurting muscle groups. Pecs. Delts. Abs.
Speaking of abs…
His shirt was now unbuttoned and pushed aside, and he reached to absently scratch that stretch of skin just below his belly button, drawing her gaze there. That perfect stretch of light hair arrowing down.
Chris undid the button on his fly.
Now Daphne was openly and obviously staring, and dimly aware that he was still telling his story, but it might have been in Latin for all she noticed.
The button on his jeans was now open and she held her breath, waiting for that fly to zip down. Instead his hands rose to his unbuttoned shirt. He took hold of each side and slid it off his shoulders, and her gaze went there.
Traps. Delts. Pecs. Biceps. Oh my.
Was she drooling? Please tell me I’m not drooling.
He let the shirt fall. Then his fingers returned to his fly, and her attention returned there, too. She should look away. Really, she should. But it was as if she no longer controlled the movements of her neck and eyes. They trained on his fingertips and stayed there.
He slid down his zipper, one tooth at a time. Then his fingers hooked in his waistband and he pushed his jeans down to his hips.
She’d seen Chris wearing boxers. He wasn’t wearing boxers now. Today it was briefs. Black briefs, the waistband visible as he pushed down—
He stopped. The movement was so sudden that it broke the trance, and her gaze zoomed up to his.
“Water,” he said. “I forgot to grab water. Is there any out there?”
She turned. “There’s a fountain with paper cups.”
“Could you grab me one?”
Uh… Sure?
She did as he asked, and when she came back, he was yanking up a pair of baggy workout shorts, one sliver of black briefs visible before it disappeared.
