“CAN YOU, like, not touch her so much?”
For what feels like the millionth time, I groan, a sound Amelia echoes. Dropping her gloved hands, her shoulder brushing the bare skin of my abs as she pivots to scowl at the whiny asshole scrutinizing us from the corner. “Can you, like, shut up?”
“He’s groping you!” Cass falsely accuses, eyeing my hands where they rest on Amelia’s waist as if I’m cupping her fucking tits.
Amelia’s head drops back, her eyes screwing shut as she makes a whining noise. “He’s helping me! We’re working out, Cass. It’s not like he’s feeling me up in a dark hallway.”
I wish, I wish, I mutter internally at the same time Cass barks, “I fucking hope not.”
The first workout Amelia and I shared—the one that’s inspired many a cold shower since its occurrence—was the beginning of a routine, a routine born without any discussion. Every evening around the same time Amelia will appear, always hovering with an initial hesitance that melts away the second I toss her the spare, smaller gloves I’ve taken to storing in my gym bag. And for an hour, sometimes two, we’ll steadily work through the regime I may or may not have conjured up with her in mind.
Are there many, many other ways I could get her worked up and breathless that have nothing to do with boxing, that I’d much prefer? Fuck yes. Does working out with her mean my training is suffering? Yeah, a little. Do I give a shit? Absolutely not.
Despite the fact my skin constantly feels a size too tight for my body, despite the fact my dick hasn’t stopped aching for almost a week, despite the fact she’s trying to kill me with her little matching athletic sets—today, it’s emerald green shorts and a matching crop top with an open back that makes me clench my jaw so hard, I’m a step away from grinding my teeth to dust—I fucking love our sessions. There’s something about watching her get stronger and more confident and looking so fucking proud of herself when she nails a combination… fuck.
I need an extra long cold shower after each and every one of them, but it’s worth it.
It’s our fifth session in a row and the first time we’ve had an audience. Unsurprisingly, I prefer when it’s just me and her. Although, aggravating Cass is one of my favorite hobbies.
And aggravated he most definitely is.
His dark eyes are narrowed as they flit between my hands, my smirk, my bare chest. “Put on a fucking shirt.”
He literally harrumphed when I took it off in the first place, acting like I was doing it as some kind of mating ritual and not because it was more sweat than material. Usually, I’d swap it out for one of the spares I always keep handy but that disgruntled reaction had me staying shirtless purely out of wry spite.
And maybe it had something to do with the way Amelia’s eyes went wide as they scanned me quickly before shyly darting away, a pretty blush staining her cheeks.
“Am I distracting you, Morgan?” I tease, simpering at my friend as I make a show of raising both arms, curling them so my biceps bulge while I tense my stomach. Beside me, Amelia makes a choking noise and I shoot her an admittedly asshole-ish wink, finding all too much satisfaction in how that lovely blush deepens.
Cass’ expression remains deadpan. “Stop preening. It’s annoying.”
“Both of you are annoying.” I expel a surprised puff of air when soft leather grazes my abs in a weak punch, an exasperated noise leaving Amelia. “Why do you only have these dick-measuring contests around me?”
I scoff, eyeballing Cass. “There’s no contest.”
“Drop ‘em, pretty boy.”
“Oh my God.” Amelia socks me again—perfect form, I note proudly—before holding her hands out towards me, hidden palms up, a silent plea to unlace her gloves that I oblige.
Tossing the discarded gloves in my bag, I quirk a brow. “Done?”
Amelia nods. “I’m starving.”
I can’t help letting my gaze drop, eyeing her flat stomach as the Brazilian in me screams feed her, feed her, feed her.
“Me too,” Cass chimes in, abandoning the dumbbells he’s been pretending to use for the last hour. Looping an arm around Amelia’s shoulders, he drags her away, tossing me a scowl over his shoulder. “Let’s go.”
Snickering, I bend to grab a spare t-shirt from my bag, pulling it over my head before calling after him, “Don’t you have class?”
Cass’ footsteps falter. Glancing at the clock on the wall, he swears. “Raincheck?”
Amelia shoots him a dry look. “I didn’t invite you in the first place.”
Curling his arm around her neck, Cass grips her in a headlock, ignoring her shrieks of protest as he digs his knuckles into her skull, brutally ruffling her hair. Only when Amelia lands a elbow dangerously close to his groin does he let her go, dropping a kiss on her mussed crown as he does. “Love you. See you tomorrow.”
“Love you,” Amelia returns the sentiment with a grumble, shoving her brother away with one hand, smoothing down her hair with the other.
“Love you,” I can’t resist mimicking.
Cass spins around, walking backward so he can flick his middle finger at me. “Keep your hands to yourself, Nicolas,” he yells as he rounds the corner and disappears from view.
“No promises,” I sing in reply. When I glance aside and find Amelia evil-eyeing me, the grin I’m sporting drops, replaced with a perfectly innocent expression. “I mean I promise.”
“Uh-huh.” My newest workout buddy shakes her head, hiding her grin by tugging a sweatshirt over her head. When she dips to grab her bag, I snatch it before she can, slinging the tote over my shoulder.
“So, where’re we eating?”
Amelia blinks at me, pink lips pursing when the corners of her mouth twitch. “I don’t remember inviting you either.”
Ignoring her and with her bag as my hostage, I head in the direction of the tiny cafe tucked in the furthest corner of the gym. It’s a glorified smoothie stall, strictly healthy super-foods, but it’s not half bad. Glancing my shoulder, I crack a smile at Amelia who hasn’t moved an inch. “My treat.”
She blinks at me again, a hint of confusion in her vibrant gaze, and I get why. This isn’t a part of our usual routine; we don’t shoot the shit over shared meals. Today, though, I’m feeling reluctant to part ways. More reluctant than usual. And if the price for some extra face time is a Green Goddess smoothie, that’s no hardship.
“I never asked you how you have a key to this place.”
I pause demolishing my salad—a mix of roasted cauliflower, mixed greens, chicken, poblano peppers, and chickpeas—and spare Amelia an upwards glance. “The owner gave me one.”
“Why?”
Shoving a forkful of spinach into my mouth, I take my time chewing before shrugging nonchalantly. “I fucked her.”
The peach ice tea Amelia just took a sip of almost comes out her nose as she chokes on it. “Seriously?”
I only manage to leave her in suspense for a handful of seconds before letting my grip rip free. “No, and I’m a little offended you believed that so quickly.” Dodging the sweet potato fry she launches at my head, I explain, “Her kid was having problems with bullies. I gave him a couple of lessons,” I didn’t show him how to beat the crap out of other kids or anything—I taught him how to defend himself if it got to that point, “she was grateful, I got a key.”
The dainty hand holding another fry, poised ready to fly my way, hovers mid-air as Amelia cocks her head at me. “Really?”
I nod.
“That’s really nice.”
“You sound surprised, querida.”
Popping the makeshift starchy weapon in her mouth, she asks, “What language is that?”
My eyes narrow at the subject change, but I allow it. “Portuguese.”
“You’re Portuguese?”
“Brazilian.”
Amelia makes a thoughtful noise as she chews. “How’d you end in Sun Valley? Or in Carlton,” she adds, naming her hometown.
I keep my eyes on my food as I skim over my past; born in Salvador, moved to New York when I was a kid because that’s where my dad was from, where my parents originally met, and moved to Carlton when I was twenty—a year or so after Dad died—because Ma couldn’t take being there when he wasn’t anymore. I speed through that last bit. It’s not something I like discussing and it’s not anyone’s business but my own, as far as I’m concerned. I’m not sure I really intended to tell Amelia; it slips out, and my body tenses as it does.
That tension rushes out of me, though, when a small, warm hand covers my fisted one, a thumb sweeping over my wrist. She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t mutter an apology like most people do and I’m grateful for it; I always hate the empty comfort. She simply holds my hand and when I risk a glance upwards, her eyes are as soft as her touch, lined with sympathy.
I like how that look makes me feel almost as much as I hate it.
“Anyway,” clearing my throat, I smoothly retract my hand and snatch up her iced tea, stealing a sip because I’m severely regretting my green juice decision, “that’s how we got invited to the Morgans’ Thanksgiving. Lynn found out we don’t really celebrate since it was my dad’s thing and the next thing I know, I’m sitting in her kitchen with a plate of food in front of me.”
Retrieving her drink with a playful sneer, Amelia snorts. “Sounds like Lynn.”
I’m sauntering out of the gym, freshly showered and riding the adrenaline-induced high of winning a fight, when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I’m half-tempted to ignore; I’ve got a gut feeling that whatever it is will mess with my carefully curated plan of heading straight to the nearest bar and finding a pretty girl to celebrate my win with. But it might be Ma—she always texts me after a fight—and if I don’t reply, her mind will conjure up the worst possible scenario.
With a resigned sigh, I fish out my phone. Sure enough, ‘mamãe’ lights up my screen, her text a blunt question; você ganhou? Snickering, I type an equally blunt sim before scrolling through the rest of my unread messages, all from Cass. One asking where I am, another detailing an address I don’t recognize, a request for wine coolers—that coaxes a snort out of me—and about a dozen variations of misspelled please’s and hurry up’s.
Why? I tap out quickly. The reply dings as I’m slipping behind the steering wheel of my truck. Clicking on it, a picture floods my screen, a handful of people visible but my brain only seems to focus on one. My attention goes right to the beautiful redhead hiding in the right rear corner; curls a wild mess, eyes squinted shut, mouth cracked in a mid-laugh beam that I subconsciously copy. I’m so busy gawking at her like a fool, it takes a moment to notice the half-empty pint bottle of cider clutched in her grasp, a metal straw sticking out the top. Quickly scanning the rest of them and noting an array of droopy eyes and flushed cheeks, I chuckle; they look drunk off their asses.
And they sound even drunker when, twenty minutes later, I rap my knuckles against what I’m assuming is the girls’ front door and a cacophony of loud voices and off-key singing seeps through the wood.
It takes four tries until the banging of my fist is heard over the noise, a round of husking and quiet giggles breaking out. Another minute passes before the door swings open to reveal the smile I broke several speed limits to see up close.
It’s a shame it disappears as soon as Amelia realizes it’s me darkening her doorway, balancing a case of wine coolers, a six-pack of cola, and a bottle of rum in my arms. “What’re you doing here?”
Not exactly the warm reception I was hoping for. “Ouch.”
“Sorry.” Hazy eyes blink rapidly. “I just wasn’t expecting you.”
“Cass told me to come.” Suddenly feeling awkward, I shift from one foot to the other, my brow knitted in a frown. “Is that not… okay?”
Shit, maybe it wasn’t. We parted ways on an awkward note yesterday but I didn’t think it would carry over. “Same time tomorrow?” she’d asked me, the physical embodiment of a ray of sunshine as she graced me with an effervescent beam.
“I can’t.” Something in my chest had ached when her face dropped. “I have plans.”
Granted, I could’ve been more specific. I could’ve clarified that I’d had a fight scheduled for weeks. But I didn’t and it created this weird moment of… I don’t know, friction? Distance? Whatever it was, I didn’t like it, and I was relieved when it dissipated almost as quickly as it formed.
“No!” Amelia all but yells. “I mean yes. Yeah, it’s okay. Sorry.” Pretty pink lips curl upwards in a sheepish smile. “I’m kinda drunk.”
I tamp down on the sarcastic ‘noooo’ perched on the tip of my tongue. Adjusting the alcohol in my arms getting heavier by the second, I quirk a brow. “Can I come in, then? Because it’s fucking freezing out here.”
Amelia’s gaze pinballs, darting from my wet hair to my full arms to my lack of a jacket, and she seems to snap out of whatever funk she’s in. “God, sorry.” She steps aside and ushers me inside. “Come in.”
I do as she says, only making it two steps in the door before a shriek makes me cringe, warm fingertips suddenly grazing my throbbing cheekbone. Oh, right; I almost forgot my opponent managed to get a single hit in. “What the fuck? Did you get beat up?”
I snort. “Barely.”
Face crumpled with concern, Amelia leans in, her voice a comically loud whisper. “Did your date do that?”
“My what?”
“Your date,” she repeats louder. “Cass said you had a hot date.”
“He did, huh?” Jaw clenched, my head swivels towards the shithead lounging on a sofa three sizes too small for his lanky body and looking way too proud of himself.
The innocent way he holds up his hands is completely contradicted by his roguish snicker. “Hey, you and another man fondling each other for an hour sounds like a hot date to me.”
Not even sparing him the energy it would take me to flip him off, I glance at a still-frowning Amelia. “I had a fight. Like a boxing fight,” I clarify when her confusion lingers.
A long, drawn out ‘ohhhh’ sounds before a tiny fist whacks my bicep. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she demands. “I would’ve gone.”
She would’ve? “Really?”
The indignant, slightly lopsided ‘duh’ look she shoots me says it all.
“Okay.” Fuck me, I’m smiling like a loser. “Next time.”
“C’mon.” Fingers loop around my wrist and shake. “I’ve got Arnica in the kitchen.”
Before letting her drag me to the kitchen, I make a pit stop to drop off Cass’ fucking wine coolers, slapping him upside the head for his meddling and doing the same to Ben, just because. Jackson, I steer clear of; the guy’s too busy mooning over the blonde in his lap to notice my arrival anyway.
“What was that about?” I murmur once we reach the relative privacy of the kitchen.
Amelia glances over her shoulder fleetingly as she attempts to scale the kitchen counter, a precarious wobble to her movements. “Hm?”
I nod towards the front door as I nudge her aside, following her grumbled directions and snagging the first aid kit from the top cabinet, nestled in a basket right at the back of the first shelf. When she gestures for me to sit at one of the stools lining the counter, I oblige, leaning down so my face is within her range. “The cold front.”
“Oh.” She keeps her gaze downcast, focusing on unscrewing the half-empty tube and depositing a dollop of the thick, white cream on the pad of her index finger. “I told you, I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Amelia,” I coo her name, my tone making her glance up warily. “You can tell me the truth.”
Emerald eyes narrow in suspicion. “I am.”
I wait until she’s smoothed Arnica evenly across my bruised cheekbone before smirking. “You were jealous of my imaginary hot date, weren’t you?”
“No.” Slender fingers flick my forehead. “Jesus Christ. I’m surprised your head fits through doorways, you know.”
“It’s okay,” I croon, her hair silky soft beneath my palms as I pat her head. “It’s only natural. I know I’m hard to share.”
She’s wondering if she can chuck the Arnica tube at my head and get away with it, I can tell, but she can’t hide the upwards twitch of her lips. “I really don’t like you.”
Yeah. I really don’t like her either.
