Page 14 of Gigi and the Gym Rats

Shit, I’m going to be late.

“Yeah?” I wedge the phone between my cheek and my shoulder and grab handfuls of wet clothes, slinging them into the basket. “Yeah, mom. No, I haven’t forgotten. You’re downstairs already? Shoot. Gimme five minutes and I’ll be down. Yeah, sorry. Love you!”

I run to the balcony, fling the clothes onto the line and race to my room to change. Then I’m racing down the stairs, only by a miracle not breaking my neck, and bursting into the café.

Almost crashing into Ronin’s broad chest.

He growls something that sounds like a curse, grabs me with a big hand and holds me away from him like a doll.

And now I’m bathed in warm and spicy alpha scent, and if my panties were wet before, now they’re soaked.

I seriously need to get laid.

“Gigi?” That’s my mom, standing behind Ronin, wearing a baffled expression on her face, her red hair, like mine, pulled back in a ponytail. “What’s going on?”

“Um, hi, Mom. This is my roommate, Ronin.” I paste on a smile while trying to disentangle Ronin’s hand from my top. “Ron, let go.”

Slowly he releases me, blinks. “Gigi,” he says. His eyes look very dark, and he’s even slower in stepping away from me. “Damn.”

“Gigi, come on, we’re late.” Mom grabs my hand, pulls me away from him, and he turns and stares some more. “What’s his deal?”

“Okay, Mom, stop pulling me like that.”

“He’s an alpha,” she hisses.

“I know, Mom. I told you two of my roommates are alphas. There’s Ronin and Sophie.”

“Right. Ronin.” She hesitates, glances at him again. “He’s not bad looking.”

“I know that, too.” I sigh and let her link our arms and drag me out of the Book Café anyway. “How are you? How is Travis?”

“Your brother? He’s fine.”

“I only know the one Travis, Mom.”

And by ‘fine’ she means, he’s the same. She doesn’t like discussing him. We both avoid the topic as a matter of course.

I miss him. I miss lots of things, but time doesn’t run backward. Both me and Mom are coping as best we can. Retail therapy. Yoga and meditation. Pretending that nothing’s wrong, nothing to worry about.

“I need some new leggings and running shoes,” she says. “You?”

“Works for me. My running shoes are falling apart.”

She pats my arm where it’s wrapped around hers. “We’ll get you taken care of, baby.”

I can read the subtext. I know what she’s really saying.

We’ll fix this.

We’ll ignore this.

We’ll keep going until we fall apart and then pick ourselves back up.

“So, have you met any potential grandbaby-maker?”

“Oh Mom, gross.”

She grins at me and I can’t even resent her for pushing because she’s not, not really.

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