Page 61 of Gym With Benefits

I pulled into the gym’s parking to find Dane waiting by his truck.

“You're late,” he said, his eyes tracking my approach from behind a pair of aviators. He looked relaxed, almost content, a different animal than the guy I first met. “The squat racks are already filling up with the nine-to-fivers.”

“Some of us have jobs that require extended hours on weekends,” I replied, stopping a few feet away. My muscles still carried a trace of the ache from our encounter on those leather seats, a souvenir that made my gym bag feel lighter.

Dane grabbed a plastic cup from the roof, and held it out. “Peanut butter, banana, and double whey. No kale. I don’t believe anyone who says they like that shit.”

Our fingers brushed for a fraction of a second, a small spark of heat resetting the perimeter between us. The hostile wall we’d built out of insults and competitive lifting had dissolved into something loose and collaborative.

“What's this? An apology for stealing my underwear, or are you trying to poison me?”

“Consider it an investment,” he chuckled, his gaze dropping to my chest even though I wore an oversized t-shirt over my crop top. “I figured you needed the fuel after yesterday's session. Your form suffered toward the end of it.”

“My form was spectacular,” I shot back, and took a long sip as we headed for the entrance together. The sweet, rich flavor cut through the stale taste of the morning coffee. “You're just mad I have better endurance.”

“Let's see if you can back up that big mouth of yours in the Muscle Mansion.”

The rubber flooring of the free-weight section groaned under the impact of loaded iron bars. Dane took up his post beside my lifting platform, offering a steady stream of critique that lacked his old, bitter edge. It turned into a game of verbal tennis; every time he tried to call out my stance, I dropped a sarcastic retort that kept him on his heels. Part of me missed the intensity of our rivalry, but this was way better.

Across the gym floor, near the cable machines, Hunter and Brock stood huddled together. They stared at us as if we’d just dropped out of a UFO, their expressions a mix of disbelief and curiosity as they watched us laugh and bicker over a set of deadlifts.

“You need to dial it down, or they’ll catch on,” I muttered to Dane, leaning over to adjust the spring collars on the steel bar.

He dismissed my warning with a laugh as he bent down to help me. His fingers grazed the bare skin of my shin, a fleeting, electric contact that sent a spike of heat straight up my spine.

“They’re watching you, not me.”

An intoxicating sense of exhilaration flooded my veins. The conclusion David and I had reached on the balcony last night burned fresh in my mind. The rulebook lay in ashes, andthe prospect of dating all three of them openly made me feel untouchable.

That was if I could get Dane to go for it.

A shadow fell over the platform as Brock sauntered over, a pair of steel plates balanced under his arm. His eyes tracked the easy proximity between Dane and me.

“You need a hand with that positioning? Your left hip kept dropping on that last set.”

“I've got it covered,” Dane said before I could answer.

He reached around my waist, his palms flattening against my lower abs to pull my pelvis into correct alignment. The scorching heat of his torso pressed flush against my back was an intimate, sweaty confession that left no doubt about our current familiarity. Brock stood less than two feet away, his gaze locking onto the exact placement of Dane’s hands.

The attention felt incredible. I leaned into the physical perimeter, eating up the sudden drop in temperature between the two men as the competitive friction took over the platform.

“Actually, if she flares her elbows more, it’ll protect the rotator cuff,” Brock countered, stepping closer and reaching out to tap my upper arm.

“The narrow grip builds the foundation first,” Dane said, his thumb grazing the edge of my tights.

A breathy laugh fell from my lips as I stood trapped in the middle of their silent turf war. Me being the turf. “Hey. I can only listen to one coach at a time. Decide who owns the whistle today.”

Dane let go of my waist, though he didn't retreat from my personal space. He turned his attention directly to Brock, his posture shifting into something uncharacteristically level.“Look. I owe you an apology for the punch last week. I was out of line.”

I was just as stunned as Brock to hear this. The apology came out of nowhere, a total departure from Dane's usual attitude.

“It’s forgotten, but thanks for saying that.” His eyes darted from Dane’s neutral face down to my flushed cheeks, then to the smudged print on my tights where Dane’s hands just rested. The gears clicked with visible force, and a quiet realization dawned on Brock's face as he connected the sudden truce to the heat coming off the platform.

So much for keeping it from him.

But the expected wave of nervousness failed to materialize. I met his probing gaze with openness, standing straight as if to invite his next move rather than shrinking from the exposure.

A knowing smirk replaced his tense expression as he took a step back, dropping his plates onto a nearby rack. “Well, I can see Jess is in good hands today. I'll leave you two to it.”