Page 47 of Ignite

To make sure she’s safe.

And if I get to watch her ass wiggle in those tight workout leggings?

Well, that’s just a bonus.

Chapter 16

HALLIE

Song- Soaked, Shy Smith.

Istretch out my hips in the frog position on the mat. Back row. As always, my usual spot.

The door creaks open behind me. Every head turns to see who dared interrupt mid-warm-up. And then—Holy. Hell.

The air shifts. Audible gasps emerge. One girl straight-up squeals. But me? I can't move. Can't blink. Conan Quinn. Conan fucking Quinn just walked into my Pilates class.

Black joggers slung low, a tight white tee stretched over every flexed inch of his tattooed torso, and, God help me, a bright pink mat under one arm. His green eyes find mine across the room. He grins like the devil. And walks toward me like he owns the floor.

“Do you know him?” Emma, the girl next to me, whispers. I nod, not tearing my eyes from his. He stops in front of me and looks down. That smile still lingering.

“Hi, trouble.”

My breath catches. Words die in my throat. I push my curls forward to hide the cut on my temple, even though I layered on the concealer. I’m not ready to talk about that.

“H-hi.” I give him a small wave, and he drops his mat next to mine like it was always meant to be there.

“Well, ladies, we have a new member today,” our instructor announces.

Conan turns to her. The whole class openly ogles him like a Greek god just wandered into Pilates. He clears his throat. “Um. Hi. I’m Conan. I’m training for my next fight, and I’ve been told this class will help.”

My brow arches. Coincidence? He sits down and tries, bless him, to copy my pose.

The way he's already grunting doesn’t bode well. Flexibility and Conan Quinn were never destined to be best friends.

“Right. Let’s start with our double leg stretch. We’ll work on the floor first today,” the instructor says, clapping as calm music fills the room.

I lie back, legs pulled to my chest. Conan copies, sort of. “Now, deep breath in, release the legs on the breath out. We’ll do ten.”

By number three, my core burns. I sneak a glance. Conan’s face is already flushed. His legs aren’t even close to straight.

By number six, he’s flat on the floor, arms stretched above his head.

“Fuck me,” he whispers.

I shoot him a look, biting back laughter. This is going to be so entertaining.

Fifteen minutes in, Conan’s dripping sweat, bright red, and trembling on all fours.

“Hallie. What the hell is this?” he huffs. “Why are my muscles burning? My legs are fucking wobbly, and I don’t know if I can stand up.”

His face is a picture. Absolutely horrified.

I burst into laughter. “You’ll be fine, beastie. Only another half an hour to go.”

His jaw drops. “I’m not even halfway?”

I shake my head, still trying not to laugh. He’s trying so hard. It’s almost endearing.

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