Page 52 of The Gaybor War

"This is what happens when you care," I announce to my ficus. "You end up in a recycling bin over a brother."

The ficus remains unsympathetic.

I drop to the floor, reach under the couch, and slide out my ab roller with a vengeance. If my dignity is bruised, at least my core can be immaculate. My shorts are short—aggressively so—and my stomach is on full display because if I’m going to suffer, I might as well suffer hot.

I’m halfway through my third set, muttering, "Never spy again, Benjamin, never—" when there’s a knock at the door.

I freeze.

Another knock. Firmer this time.

Oh no.

I scramble upright, chest heaving, hair damp, skin flushed, and abs absolutely doing the most. I catch my reflection in the hallway mirror.

I look… unfairly good. Worked over in the best way.

I open the door to see Carter standing there. His gaze drops immediately. It’s not even subtle or dignified. Straight to my stomach like it’s magnetized.

He clears his throat. Once. Twice. "Hi."

"Hi," I say, breathless for reasons that are definitely cardio-related.

There’s a beat where neither of us speaks. His eyes flick back up to my face, then down again.

"How is it you look like that?"

"Like what?" I ask innocently, popping a hip.

He gestures vaguely at my torso. "That. I’ve never once seen you dressed for the gym. And you certainly don’t run well."

Rude. Accurate. But rude.

"Gym?" I scoff. "Please. I’ll have you know I do a very serious home workout every night."

He blinks. "You’re joking."

"Thigh master," I continue, counting on my fingers. "Resistance bands. Ab roller. Arm weights."

His mouth twitches. "My God. You’re like a walking nineties exercise infomercial."

"Excuse you," I say, affronted. "This body is tighter than Jane Fonda’s and Suzanne Somers’s."

That does it. He laughs. A real one. Quick and surprised, slipping out before he can stop it.

Carter steps inside without asking, then seems to realize he did that and stops short, hands flexing at his sides. His eyes drift south again.

Interesting.

I don't know what he's looking at exactly, but I'd like to believe my dedication to core strength isn't going unnoticed.

"I just—" he says, then sighs. "I came to check on you. After earlier."

"Oh. So you did notice my dramatic fall from grace." It’s a rhetorical, self-inflicted joke. Of course he noticed. He witnessed the entire sad debacle.

"I noticed you nearly concuss yourself over my garbage cans," he says dryly. "Yes."

I toss out what I hope is a charming grin. "They came out of nowhere."