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I take a cab to the club, a stone building with turn-of-the-century architecture, popping a couple of antacids on theway.
I stride through the lobby on my heels, craning my neck to peek into the lounge. It looks as though they’re setting up for an event with towers of glasses, and a few people are sitting in club chairs. From here I can see a Dali, two Pollocks, and a deKooning.
Because God forbid anyone think they’re old-fashioned.
“Have you seen my father?” I ask the guy at the desk after giving him myname.
“He’s likely finished his exercise bynow.”
I can either wait and hope my father surfaces or take matters into my ownhands.
My gaze lands on the changing room door across the lobby. I slide my sunglasses up on my head as I start across the carpet. A few male glances tilt my way, but no one stops me until I’m nearly at thedoor.
“Miss?” Then more urgent. “Miss!”
I hear glasses break behind me, but I don’t stop. I shove open the door to the men’s changing room. Holy crap, there’s wainscoting heretoo.
I turn the first corner, and some half-naked old guys appear. I hold a hand over my eyes so I can still see the floor, which changes to tile as I charge past thefoyer.
“Dad?” Iholler.
Murmuring and laughing turns to disgruntled whispering and slamming of lockers as I wind my way through. I’m like Perseus slaying the Gorgon because I don’t dare look ahead ofme.
These guys keep fit, but I’m still not pumped to see naked sixty-year-olds.
I get to the showers. “Dad!”
“Rena?” a low voicedemands.
It’s not mydad.
I turn back, forgetting to keep my hand over my face as I blink against the overheadlights.
That’s why it takes a second for me to realize the stunningly sculpted, way-south-of-sixty man standing in front of me—naked save for the towel slung low on his hips—is WesRobinson.
The broad shoulders I’ve seen fill out his jacket look even broader without it. He’s strong everywhere but lean too, the outline of his pecs and abs transitioning seamlessly from shallow muscles to flat planes. His hair’s dark from his shower, his bodyglistening.
And holy hell, I’m not prepared to watch the drop of water slide off his hair, down his neck, and across hisshoulder.
Is that the same droplet running down his pec, following the curve down to abs that definitely didn’t come fromsciencing?
I force my eyes up to his. “Wes.Hi.”
“Hi.” I forgot his voice was that low. Maybe I misrememberedit.
“I’m looking for mydad.”
His brow creases. “And this is where you typically findhim.”
“Not so much. But it’surgent.”
He moves to the side as another man, staring at me as if I’m a hologram that might steal his stock portfolio, sneaks past us toward thelockers.
“Are you okay?” Concern has him steppingcloser.
No. I want to stab a finger, accusing, in his broad chest, like he should’ve had the decency to announce at the outset,WARNING: I’m smart and have killerabs.
Before I can lift a hand—to keep distance between us or maybe to cop a feel of that chest, I’m not sure—Wes’s towelslips.
