Page 72 of Snatched
“What the fuckwas that?” he snaps.
I stare at him, jaw tight. “Beg your pardon?”
“You were practically on top of her,” he continues. “The hip thrusts? Seriously? Are you kidding me? This is a luxury gym. Clients pay for professionalism, not whateverthatwas.”
I grit my teeth. “I was correcting form.”
“Form,” he scoffs. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”
I rub my face. “Come on, Damien.”
“No. No excuses.” He leans forward. “You keep this up and Iwillwrite you up. One complaint. One rumor. And you’re gone.”
He steps back, folding his arms.
“Is that understood?”
My jaw ticks.
“Yeah,” I force out. “Understood.”
“Good.” He gestures at the door. “Now get out.”
I step into the hallway and finally let my breath out.
God.
This is getting dangerous.
I walk to a bench in the locker room and sit heavily, the packet still in my hands.
I thumb through it.
Local programs.
Youth leagues I could volunteer with.
Accelerated certifications I didn’t even know existed.
Salary comparisons, application deadlines, and handwritten notes in the margins.
She even circled one.
“This one feels right for you.”
My chest does something weird and uncomfortable.
I swallow hard.
She wants to be casual.
She said that.
She meant that.
And I—idiot that I am—I played into her casual idea too.
But this?
