Page 74 of The Woman in the Hollow
Then it was too late.
Because there was the source of the sound.
Dante on the treadmill, running like the devil himself was hot on his heels.
I’d seen men working out many times in my life. Never before had I felt such a gut-punch of desire. I swear I went back a step with the impact as my gaze took in his tight form, his focused face, hell, even the sweat trickling down his neck and chin.
As if that focus wasn’t troubling enough, I had the weirdest desire to go over there and bury my face in his neck, to smell his scent and sweat, to taste the saltiness of his skin.
What the hell was wrong with me?
“Hazel,” he said, panting out my name, which only made me think ofanotheractivity that might make him sound like that. Preferably in my ear with his weight pressing me into the mattress and his—
No.
Nope.
I really needed not to be thinking about him that way.
“Hey,” I said, shuffling my feet. “I heard a weird noise. I thought maybe it was your washing machine knocking. I should have, uh, knocked.”
“On the basement door?” he asked, shooting me a smirk as he reached for a crisp white towel and wiped the sweat from his face before taking his water bottle and chugging. “It’s fine. You don’t need to knock around here,” he told me when he finished.
“So, wait. Why do you go to the gym if you have a gym here?”
“I like all the equipment. This is just for situations like this when I can’t go out.”
“We can’t go out?” I asked. Even I couldn’t tell if my voice croaked from fear or excitement at the prospect of being locked inside a house with Dante Grassi.
“We can,” he said, tone soothing, clearly thinking the sound was from the former. “But I told you I would be here when you woke up. I wasn’t going back on my word.”
“Oh, that was sweet.”
“I thought you’d sleep longer.”
“Me too. But I knew once my eyes opened that there would be no falling back to sleep.”
“Been there,” Dante said, finally moving off the treadmill. “How are you feeling?”
“Worse. Like you said.”
“Didn’t want to be right about that. I’ve got some ibuprofen upstairs to help with the body aches. And ice or a heating pad if that doesn’t work.”
“Your first aid kit impresses me,” I admitted.
“I’ve hurt myself more times than I can count.”
“Because of… mafia stuff?”
“Because I spend a lot of time running on uneven roads or picking up and dropping down heavy shit.”
“Right. Sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologize. I’m not offended. I know a lot of people wouldn’t approve of my lifestyle but I’ve made peace with it. So it doesn’t bother me when you ask questions about it.”
“It’s not, you know, confidential?”
“You a Fed?” he asked, shooting me a smirk.
