Page 39 of Going Viral for Christmas
Surprisingly, he doesn’t smirk. Or wink. Doesn’t say a damn thing. Only nods. Like we’re two regular people in a regular gym doing regular things and not co-starring in the ShelfSpace rumor mill’s hottest romance of the season.
Correction, fake romance.
I refocus on the treadmill, which is hard when my brain starts writing smut based on how his biceps flex when he stretches his arms behind his head.
Focus.
I glimpse the timer. Ten minutes left. I can survive ten more?—
After a few more seconds, he says, “Morning,” voice still rough with sleep, like sand mixed in honey. It’s sexy. And I hate that. Kind of.
I try to reply, but my throat has decided to be dramatic. So, I nod instead and jab at the elliptical incline setting with slightly more force than necessary.
Soren moves to the weights and starts doing bicep curls. I try not to watch him in the mirror, which of course means I absolutely do. His shirt rides up a little, revealing a line of skin that shouldn’t be legal before coffee.
After he finishes a set, he approaches. “You want to lift with me?” He towels off his forehead.
I nearly trip again. “No, I’m doing cardio.”
“Right.” He grins, crooked and cute. I hate that too. “Well, if you’re planning to brave the weight rack after you finish yourcardio, let me know. Don’t want you getting pinned under a barbell. I’d be obligated to save you, and then you’d owe me your life.”
“I’d rather take my chances with the barbell.”
His smile falters, then he exhales. He’s clearly tiptoeing across eggshells with me. After what he said last night, he deserves to.
“Listen,” Soren’s voice drops so low I have to slow my pace to hearhim, “about last night—I’m sorry. What I said was out of line, and it was shitty of me.”
I’m caught off guard. Soren Pembry, offering an actual apology?
He scratches the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean what I said.”
There’s a brief silence. One beat. Two.
Softer, he adds, “Anyway. I don’t want to walk around, pretending it didn’thappen. Or have you thinking that’s how I am when it’s not. I’m not that guy.”
This is the official moment my brain abandons cardio mode and enters full emotional glitch.
“Okay,” Soren drags the word out. “Um, good talk then.” He taps the side of my treadmill twice before walking back toward the free weights.
His words bounce around my head, along with a few more smutty visuals, because when Soren rolls his shoulders, his shirt clings tighter across his chest and back, making my mouth go dry. Bone-dry. Dust-bowl dry. I have to gulp down half my water before my voice even works.
“Hey,” I call out right as he’s about to resume lifting.
He looks back over his shoulder.
“Thanks.” My voice comes out quieter than I intend. “For the apology. Seriously.”
The smile he gives me might be the worst thing that’s ever happened to my heart. It isn’t the practiced Pembry grin he unleashes on fans. It’s gentle. Almost shy. And I know right then that if I’m not careful, it’ll split cracks in the foundation of every wall I’ve built to keep men like him out.
We dance around each other for the next half hour—subtle glances when we think the other isn’t paying attention. Except we are. I catch him watching me in the mirror more than once, his gaze sweeping over me every time.
When our eyes meet head-on, for a split second, his jaw tightens, and his brows twitch. It’s like we’re standing under a spotlight and I’m not sure whether to step away or lean in.
What if Emily is right? Would he burn a kingdom down for me?
Nah. Soren’s too selfish. Best to remember that.
When I finally move to the mat area to do a few half-assed crunches, Soren follows. I stretch out, trying to ignore him. He picks up a medicine ball.
