Page 8 of Pour Decisions
Wes gives me one of his impish grins that drive me insane. He’s grown up a lot in the past few years, going from wildly irresponsible to running the bar so well that profits are growing quickly. His wife, Rose, is probably a big part of that too, but a lot of it was just him.
But he still loves riling me up. I can tolerate it since I know he’s not intending to truly piss me off the way our other brother Ash does.
“For someone who’s kind of a bossy asshole—no offense—you clam up when it comes to bringing anything vaguely interesting to Dad’s desk.” He dumps the creamer into his coffee, almost to the point where it overflows. “I brought up the idea ofthe canned drinks, and look where we are now. Why wait when there’s money to be made?”
He has a point. To be honest, I didn’t expect Dad to actually find one of Wes’s ideas interesting. But he had some data to back it up, so Dad listened.
“I don’t know what Dad will do. We’ll see,” I say. “Tell me about the sales numbers for the bar for this past month.”
We finally get to work, and eventually we part ways—Wes to the bar, and me back to the office. I throw myself into all my tasks, a weird mix of excitement and dread creeping up on me, little by little as the day goes on. By the time I leave for my physical therapy appointment, the pit is deep in my stomach.
Parking is somehow even worse this time, so I end up further than before. I park next to a small SUV, which, when I glance at it in passing, I see is packed, like someone is in the middle of a move.
I make my way inside, checking the time. One hour and I can get back to work. An hour where I have to be around Kat and hold in all the questions I still have. I didn’t even Google her because I knew I’d end up down a rabbit hole I don’t want to go down.
I chant,She’s married, it’s over,in my head over and over again as I walk in.
She’s leaning against the reception desk when I enter, laughing with the receptionist about something. It’s her big, authentic laugh—not self-conscious or inhibited. When she sees me, she stands up straight and smiles. It’s her restrained, professional smile, and it stings more than if she hadn’t smiled at all.
“Hey, JD,” she says, her tone equally as neutral as her professional smile. “Ready to go?”
“Ready as I can be.”
She says bye to the receptionist and leads me to the back. Once again, she’s wearing a polo with the practice’s name on it and leggings with pink running shoes. I try to focus on the swing of her dark curls, currently pulled back into a ponytail, instead of letting my eyes wander to her heart-shaped ass.
I fail, completely. She looks really fucking good and always has. Soft but strong and graceful. Her dance experience shows in every step she takes.
It’s been too long since I’ve gotten laid. I take care of myself just fine, but it’s not always enough to keep myself under control. And shit tends to go sideways when I don’t release the tension. I go to Nashville often enough for work to find a casual hookup, but now that I’ve seen Kat again, I can’t imagine myself doing it.
So that just means my balls are probably going to fall the fuck off because nothing is going to happen between us.
A pang of guilt hits me, even now, and I don’t want to dig any deeper. We broke up so long ago, but the more I see her, the more old feelings I thought were dead come floating up to the surface—guilt, shame.
“Okay.” Kat stops in the corner of the room, where several pads are on the ground. Other PTs and their clients are in different spots of the room, but we have plenty of space. “We’re going to start with some warm-ups, then get into our main exercises.”
She gets down on her knees and motions for me to come down with her. I slowly sink onto the padded floor.
“First up are bird dogs.” She gets on all fours, lifting her left arm and right leg at the same time, then switching. I manage to not stare at her ass as she does this. “Don’t go too fast—be sure to stretch into each movement. Take the time to feel it.”
I do as she says and feel absolutely nothing. She watches me carefully, eyes scanning my form.
“This is supposed to be a warm-up?” I ask, easily lifting my arm and leg the way she had. “I don’t feel warm.”
“It’s the first exercise.” She raises an eyebrow at me. “If you were warm from this, I’d dial you back even more.”
I still don’t feel as warm as I would during a regular workout, but I guess it’s enough for this. I usually go from an active warm-up to a punishing workout, so this process is driving me crazy.
She runs me through a few more warm-ups, hands hovering over parts of my body to correct my form if necessary. I accidentally lose my balance when my injured muscle tweaks, leaning into her. She lets out a little gasp and puts her hands on my back and stomach to catch me.
Her hands blaze against me, even though my shirt. They linger way longer than they should, almost blatantly, until she pulls them away.
Her nipples are hard through her shirt. I miss teasing them, mouthing them through the fabric of her bra, and lightly tugging on them until she squirms. My mouth on her tits and my fingers inside her were the perfect way to make her crumble to pieces.
She notices I’ve noticed, and scrambles back. All that dancer’s grace is gone.
“Um, are you…you’re okay? With the warm-ups?” she asks, sitting back on her heels and clearing her throat. She grips her knees, like she’s trying to steady herself.
“Yep.”
