Page 65 of Twisted Knight

I should be minding my own business.

Stop gawking.

Yet, I stand there like an idiot admiring a man who is just as beautiful as he is mysterious.

He is the enemy. But what a beautiful enemy he is.

I’m just about to look away when Holden glances up and meets my eyes—like he knew I was standing there staring at him—and a slow, knowing smile crawls over his lips.

My stomach shouldn’t flutter. In fact, I’m pissed that it does, and so the only response I allow myself to give is a curt nod before turning back to my own workout.

But I was stupid to think the man who happened to be everywhere I was today is going to be content with a simple nod.

Irritated at myself for my reaction and at him for being here, I slam an extra plate on each side of the barbell and lie down on the bench. Just as I lift it off the rack and lower the bar to my chest, Holden’s face appears over me and upside down from mine.

“Sunshine,” he says by way of greeting.

I grit my teeth, close my eyes, and push the bar up, trying to ignore him. It’s not an easy feat when his cologne is in my nose and if I look back, his crotch is right there.

Maybe he’ll just go away.

I’m on my fourth rep when I realize, in my irritation of him being here, I put way too much weight on the bar. I’m strong for my size, but there’s no way I’m going to be able to finish this set, let alone lift the bar high enough to get it to the resting bar. A strangled groan escapes my lips as I try to get it there.

“Want me to spot you?” The bar suddenly gets lighter, and as much as I do need the spot, I grip tighter to it so that he can’t take it out of my hands.

“No. I’m fine. I don’t need your help.” I open my eyes to see his hands on either side of mine holding the bar. “Let go.”

Holden doesn’t release it. “I expected you to be the type who only works out at the country club.”

I snort. “No, thanks.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I’m here to work out. Not to be seen. Not to be gossiped about. Not to be invited to god knows what function I don’t give a flying fuck about.”

“So you don’t like the Westmore Country Club then?” He angles his head to the side as he stares down at me.

“All I want is to work out. Ninety minutes in, out, and done.”

He smirks. Only a man would listen to that and hear an innuendo. “In. Out. Done,” he repeats with a hint of mischief in his eyes that I can recognize even upside down.

“Can you go away, please?” I mutter as I fight with him over the bar that he’s still holding. “You’re making it hard to concentrate.”

And you’re confusing me.

One minute—well, the majority of the time—he’s an asshole, and now all of a sudden he’s cute and charming. I don’t want him to be that. I don’t want him to make me smile or want to talk to him.

What in the hell is going on?

“It’s the guns, right?” He lifts the bar even higher so that he can flex. “They’d ruin anyone’s concentration.”

“Go away.”

“Oh, the abs, then?”

“Very far away.”

He leans farther over so that his face is just over the bar he’s holding and whispers, “I’d say it’s the quads, but that would require me to pull my pants down to show you. Then we’d have to deal with the whole ‘you wouldn’t be able to resist me even more than you already do’ thing, and it might get messy.”