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She rolls her eyes.
“You wish.” She punctuates her words with another one-two jab. I don’t know why, given our history, but I like the idea of her keeping tabs on me. It should grate because any ammunition for her family will definitely come back to bite you in the ass.
I still have teeth marks on mine.
“I like the view,” I tell her, and in New York City, that’s nothing to sneeze at.
What I don’t admit is that my terrace has a view into her living room. If the lighting’s just right, I can watch her snuggle into her sectional as she reads a book. One of these days, I hope she’ll have to answer the door or something, fresh from the shower.
Fuck.
I spend way too much time thinking about a woman who’d just as soon filet me on her grill as she would speak to me. I need to get laid. With that thought in mind, I turn away just as Alex steps up to the punching bag, holding it steady for her. She throws a couple of punches, her hair swishing back and forth over her shoulders.
“Thanks,” she murmurs.
“You’re welcome.”
I watch the two of them for a moment, juggling the basketball between my hands. He’s like a giant bear with his arms wrapped around a trash can. And she’s like a woodland nymph dancing around, working her magic.
“Aren’t you going to give me pointers?” she asks, but the icy tone I usually associate with her is missing. She seems almost... warm with him.
“Do you want pointers?” he asks. His tone is soft and gentle, like he’s trying not to spook a rabbit.
I bite back a snort. This bunny could eat him alive.
She doesn’t bother to stifle her sigh. “Most men can’t wait to tell me what to do.”
“I’m not most men.”
I wait for a snarky comeback, but she keeps drilling her gloved fists into the bag. Wow. That’s a pain that runs deep. There’s a tiny furrow between her brows, and her gorgeous, bow-shaped mouth is set. Just as quickly as she was unleashing on the bag, she takes a step back, hands falling to her sides and shoulders dropping.
Oh god. What’s happening?
Please don’t let her cry.
She yanks off one of her gloves, taps something on her watch and then bends over to pick up her water bottle. Those leggings leave nothing to the imagination.
Holy shit. Forget basketball. This is the way to start a day.
All the smart suits I’ve seen her in have hinted at her curvy figure. I shouldn’t stare, but I can’t help myself.
She has a perfect, heart-shaped ass.
My brain scrambles as she straightens, lifts the bottle, and takes a long drink. I’m rarely speechless. There’s always an inane fact rolling around in my brain, waiting to be shared. But thoughts and words dissolve as I watch her throat move as she swallows.
I shift the basketball in front of my crotch, and Alex cuts me a look. A smirk pulls at the corner of his lips, and then he returns his attention to Katherine.
She tucks the water bottle into the curve of her arm and rips off the other boxing glove. “Was there something you needed?”
“Gabe just wanted to make sure you were all right,” Alex replies, still smirking at me.
And all I did was annoy her more.
She huffs a laugh and then pegs me with a sour look. “More like ‘see how he can press on my wounds.’”
Someone hurt her? My gaze rakes every inch of visible skin, looking for a mark. A bruise. A scrape. Her skin is perfection. Creamy with a dusting of freckles.
How far down do those freckles go?
