Page 11 of Snatched
“I wasn’t flirting.”
He tilts his head. “She was.”
The heat rises in my chest.
“And you didn’t exactly shut it down,” he adds smugly.
I take a slow breath, the way my physical therapist taught me. I remind myself that Damien is five-foot-eight on a good day and gets winded climbing stairs. Not the enemy. Just a petty man with a clipboard and a Napoleon complex.
“Next time,” he continues, “keep the small talk strictly fitness-related. Abs, macros, form. Not her dating life.”
I bite back the instinctive:She brought it up.
Instead I say, “Got it.”
He doesn’t move or blink. He just inspects me like he’s looking for a weak spot.
“Don’t make me write you up, Cole.”
I nod once.
He walks away with the triumphant strut of someone who thinks they’ve won a battle I never signed up for.
When he’s gone, I sit on the edge of the training bench and exhale long and hard.
My knee throbs—just a faint pulse, barely noticeable now, but I know what it means. I shouldn’t have demonstrated lunges earlier. I should know better.
But Elena’s eyes lit up when she asked about abs, and suddenly I’m twenty-one again, showing off in a weight room, trying to impress someone I shouldn’t care about.
I rub the side of my knee.
That’s what ended it.
Not the fame or the pressure or the contract—my knee. One weird step, one bad angle, the pop I felt all the way up my spine.
Career over in a single sound.
I stand, stretch, ignore the ache.
My phone buzzes.
When I pull it out, my stomach sinks.
Mom: You coming by tonight? Feeling off again.
Shit.
I text back immediately:
Colt: Heading there now. Want anything?
She sends a heart emoji.
My throat tightens.
That’s why I haven’t hooked up with anyone in months.
It’s not that I don’t want to. I’m twenty-seven, not dead.
