Romance Impossible(40)

Was this a way for him to work out his guilt? Did he think it was going to make me feel better? In his mind, would this somehow solve the problem that we couldn't work together?

He closed his eyes, tilting his head back, and dumped the rest of the water bottle onto his hair. It dripped down his face and body, a few thin streams tracing a pathway down his stomach to the waistband of his shorts. As he blindly grabbed a towel and scrubbed himself dry, I clenched my fists at my sides.#p#分页标题#e#

"Okay," I said, finally. He didn't even react. He'd known I would do it. Of course he'd known. "Fine. But you better not hold a grudge against me if I accidentally hurt you."

To his credit, he didn't laugh. Didn't even crack a smile. He opened one eye, then the other, fixing me with a sincere, artless gaze. "I won't," he said.

My heart was thudding against my ribs as I changed, hastily. The dusty bare bulb hanging from the ceiling didn't give off much light, but it was enough to notice just how tightly my workout pants hugged my hips. It wasn't something I'd given much thought to, before. They were purely pragmatic, something I put on my body that would wick away the sweat and wouldn't flop around or get caught on something. But holy shit were they tight.

And then there was the issue of my shirt. Specifically, that I didn't have one.

When I'd first started working out at my gym, I'd self-consciously worn a baggy workout shirt for a few weeks. Then, I finally realized I was the only woman there who actually wore something on top of her sports bra. Bare midriffs were in, and I looked like a refugee in someone's cast-off clothes. After that, I never brought a shirt again.

Today, I wished I had anything else to wear. Even something stupid and embarrassing, if it would just cover some skin. But I had no choice. I'd already said I would do it.

I couldn't back down, for the same reason I couldn't say no in the first place. If Chef Dylan challenged me to something, I accepted. It was the only way to deal with him. I had to meet him, toe to toe, eye to eye, whether it was in a kitchen or in a boxing ring. Otherwise, I'd never have his respect.

After a few deep breaths, I walked back out into the gym with my head held high.

If anyone but Chef looked at me, I didn't notice. I kept my eyes glued on his face, and he matched my gaze without wandering down my body, which was both a relief and a disappointment. He was holding a roll of tape in his hand, and there were two pairs of boxing gloves slung over the ropes nearby. I climbed up and bounced a little on the floor, getting a feel for it beneath my feet.

"Here," said Chef, gesturing me over to his corner. "I'll wrap you. This fucker's all thumbs." He jerked his head in the direction of the kid by the spit-bucket, who shrugged, mumbling:

"Whatever, man."

I stopped a few steps away from Chef, holding my hand out flat in front of me. Like a kid waiting to get smacked with a ruler, I thought, smiling humorlessly. He didn't seem to notice as he closed most of the distance between us, looking down at my hands instead of my eyes.

Now that I was up close, I could see him in all his glory, shining under the unforgiving fluorescent lights. I must have looked like hell, but he could have been on the cover of Sports Illustrated. A spicy, unmistakably masculine scent filled my nostrils.

When his hand closed around my wrist, I almost let out a gasp. I managed to make it a long, shallow breath instead. A tingling heat, growing out from where we touched, traveled its way up my arm.

He wrapped the tape around my hand with steady precision, while I tried to stay still, tried to pretend I couldn't hear and feel his breath and that I wasn't right now, at this very moment, imagining the salty taste of his skin on my tongue.

The surreality of standing mere inches from someone, while I shamelessly imagined such things, wasn't lost on me. My head was buzzing. I felt like I couldn't hear myself think, but really, my thoughts were even louder than the white noise. And they were practically sub-verbal, in the way that only X-rated thoughts can be.

lick suck bite taste moan kiss tongue writhe grab stroke slide#p#分页标题#e#

fuck

Fuck. I couldn't afford this kind of distraction. With my free hand, I dug my nails deep into my palm, until the sting was enough to shake me out of my fantasy world.

Right on cue, Chef finished with my right hand and reached for my left. He never turned it over, so he couldn't see the marks in the soft flesh from my nails.

When he was done wrapping, he laced me into a pair of gloves.

Somebody rang a bell. It wasn't me, and it wasn't him. I didn't have eyes for anyone else in the room. As far as I was concerned, we might as well be alone. A thousand miles from civilization.

The excuse that had been on the tip of my tongue - I've never sparred anyone before - wasn't quite true. As a kid, I'd become briefly infatuated with karate and advanced quite a few ranks before I lost interest. But I hadn't sparred in years, and I felt like a clumsy giraffe stumbling around the ring. I tried to lunge in his direction, but it was laughable. He might as well have been moving at Mach 5.