Page 81 of Snatched
Inside, the lights are still half-off, and the reception desk lamp glows like a lonely lighthouse.
The air is warm, quiet and still, like the whole building is breathing softly.
I check the time.
6:28.
Why am I here?
Because Colt texted:
COLT: If you want, I have a 6:30 a.m. session this Saturday that just opened up. Empty gym. Good time to push heavier without the usual stares from you-know-who.
An empty gym with myself and Colt Evans.
Right.
That isn’t dangerous at all.
I set my bag down just as he walks out from the back, hoodie on, hair messy, eyes sleepy but sharp when they land on me.
Oh no.
He looks good in the mornings.
Too good.
“Morning,” he says softly, his voice a little growlier than usual.
“Hi,” I whisper back, because my voice refuses to work at full volume when he looks likethat.
He gestures to the weight area.
“Let’s get started.”
We warm up quietly—just the sound of breath, metal, and my inner monologue screaming.
He’s close today.
Closer than usual. Maybe because it’s early, or maybe because the gym is empty.
Or, maybe because pretending we’re “professional” feels stupid when we’re the only two hearts beating in a room full of silent machines.
“Let’s do deadlifts,” he says.
Of course he picks deadlifts.
I step up to the bar, and he steps behind me. He’s not touching me, he’s just there. I can feel the warmth of his presence.
“Feet hip-width,” he murmurs, voice low and a little rough with morning. “Good. Engage here.”
His hand hovers near my hip—not tightly on it, but close enough that my skin reacts anyway.
I inhale sharply, and he notices.
“Relax your shoulders,” he whispers.
“I am relaxed.”
