Page 1 of Taking Denver

Chapter 1

Denver

The gun fires a second time, and I stop running.

I seize the arms of the treadmill and pick my feet up off the belt before I fall. Whirling, my heart in my throat, sweat pours down my face, and I wait for what always follows that sound—screams, panic, blood.

My gaze darts over the hotel gym, from machines to dumbbells to exercise balls and yoga mats. The wall of mirrors shows only me. No masked shooter, no dead body, no barrel to stare down and hope for mercy.

The third shot is louder, closer, and I swear, tearing my earbuds out and throwing them to the ground. More shots sound, but they follow a rhythm. Fuck. They’re not real. They’re in the song I’m playing.

I loose out a breath and push back my sweat-dampened hair. What a stupid fucking idea to add a gunshot behind the track. It reminds me of those songs with police sirens, always making me glance in my rearview for blue lights when it’s instead coming from my radio.

Facing the treadmill again, I slam the emergency stop button and rest my arms on the screen, head down, watching the beltslow until it stops. Droplets of sweat land on the machine, and I let my lungs get the oxygen they’re screaming for.

Adrenaline courses through my body—thick, hot, and fused with the fear I try to fight whenever I hear that sound. Panicking doesn’t help when someone shoots a gun within your vicinity. Panicking could get you killed.

“Are these yours?”

I glance behind me, still struggling to breathe. A man cradles my earbuds in his palm, his head tilted to the side, a towel and gym bag over his shoulder. Tall. Dark hair. Good-looking. He fills out his gym clothes nicely and has biceps I wouldn’t mind pressing my nails into.

Dammit, Denver, take a cold shower.

“Yes,” I say and step off the treadmill before snatching the earbuds out of his hand. I walk by him and to the fountain, leaning over to let the water lap against my tongue.

“You’re welcome,” he mumbles.

The heat across my skin ramps up. If this guy is going to give me attitude, he could at least do it with his chest instead of under his breath like a goddamn coward.

I straighten up, hands on my hips. “Were you looking for a reward?”

He turns to me, a bemused half-smile on his handsome face. “What’s your problem?”

“Right now?Youare.”

Why am I being such an asshole? He did me a favor. It isn’t his fault there was a gunshot in a song, and it certainly isn’t his fault I’m in a bad mood.

“Whatever.” He shakes his head and climbs onto a treadmill.

I pull a face and mouth a ‘whatever’ back at him because, apparently, I’m a complete child.

I need to stop doing this. I’ve made at least six enemies at this resort over the last few months. One is a sixteen-year-oldgirl who flips me off whenever we cross paths (your time will come, Courtney), and another is a Russian couple who took the last cinnamon roll at breakfast (my revenge was snatching it from their table as I passed). It’s a pattern I can’t break. I’m on a war path when I wake up in a mood like this. The staff at the resort have learned to spot it, ducking into rooms or corners as I storm by, but the guests come and go. They have no idea that crossing Denver Luxe, especially on a bad morning with a gunshot ringing in my ear, is akin to crossing the devil himself.

But what they say about redheads and their tempers is true, and I’m living proof of that.

Sitting on a yoga mat, I stare at the guy’s reflection in the mirror and almost scoff when he takes his shirt off. Who takes their shirt off to runinsidea gym? It’s air-conditioned, for Christ’s sake. What an arrogant, beautifully sculpted piece of shit.

Still, I watch him, likely giving him precisely what he wants, but I don’t care because Iwantto look at him. He could probably crack nuts between his shoulder blades.

“Getting a good look?”

I roll my eyes. “As if you don’t want me to. Put your shirt on. This is a family place.”

He turns to me, and my gaze drops to the crisp ink on his right pectoral, unreadable from where I sit. “It’s an adults-only resort. And I don’t think you can talk. Your leggings are practically a second skin.”

I look at my outfit, the burnt orange material a close enough match to my hair that I picked up three pairs last week. “These are nice leggings!”

He leans his hands against the arms of the treadmill, beautiful biceps tensing. “Leggings? Or paint?”

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