Page 46 of Miss Manage

That night after work, I met my sister at spin class, something I never thought I’d look forward to. But after the day I’d had, I needed to sweat out a mixture of frustration and anxiety. The latter was mostly about how things would play out with Gabriel in the office tomorrow.

Michelle was already perched on her bike, high ponytail bouncing as she adjusted her pedals, appearing infuriatingly cheerful for someone about to suffer.

“Saved you a bike.”

“Thanks.” I braced for the inevitable. If Mom had told Michelle about my overnight guest, I’d hear about it before my butt hit the seat.

When Michelle didn’t say anything, relief loosened my shoulders. I climbed onto the bike gingerly. Every muscle protested, reminding me spin class hadn’t been the wisest choice after…well, after Gabriel.

Michelle’s eyes narrowed. “Did you injure yourself?”

“No.” I adjusted the seat, keeping my tone casual. “A little sore.”

Her brows shot up. “Are you cheating on me with another workout buddy?”

“No. Just leave it.” Frack. I could already feel my face heating.

She paused, a spark of devilish glee igniting across her face. “Oh my God. You’re sore from sex.”

“Shhh.” My hiss wasn’t nearly sharp enough to make her the least bit contrite.

Her grin widened. “You are. Holy shit, your expression right now is priceless.”

“Could you please keep your voice down?”

Thankfully, the instructor interrupted, cranking the music to start class. But Michelle had enough breath between climbs to mutter, “Well, I know boring-ass Daniel didn’t give you a good dicking.”

“For fuck’s sake, Elle.” She’d inadvertently met Daniel at a charity event we’d both attended, and instantly likened the interaction to having a conversation with a potato.

She only shrugged, shameless as ever, while pedaling like a machine. Federal judge by day, nosy, ultra-athlete little sister by night.

“Nothing to be ashamed of,” she added. “We could all use something better to ride than this bike.”

“Thanks?” I puffed, half laughing, half mortified.

She picked up her phone when it suddenly lit up with a notification, and a slow, satisfied smile spread across her face. “Mom says his name is Gabriel, and he speaks Italian?”

My mom held a secret like a bucket with holes in it held water. I pinched the bridge of my nose and upped my resistance, driving into the hill the instructor shouted out.

Michelle’s eyes went wide. “Wait. Gabriel? How do I know that name?”

Three. Two. One.

“Holy freaking shit. He’s the guy from work, isn’t he? The one you said is after your job?”

“Ladies, if you’re able to chitchat, then you’re not working hard enough on the hill,” the instructor barked.

Mercifully, Michelle clamped her mouth shut, at least until after class.

Later, steam clung to the tiled walls as, wrapped in towels, we settled into the steam room. I wasn’t naïve enough to think the interrogation was over. But at least in here I could lean back and close my eyes.

“Scale of one to ten,” she pressed.

I sighed, knowing resistance was useless. And frankly, I could use someone to confide in since my emotions were all over the place. “An eleven.”

She whistled. “Damn. Then I won’t bother lecturing you about dating someone from work, let alone someone who reports to you. Because an eleven might be worth it.”

“We’re not dating. It was a one-time thing.” The words tasted hollow as they left my mouth.