But I can’t.

He’s beautiful in a way beautiful had never had a visible image for me except for things that felt surreal and perfect. He is perfection in an all-male way. He is surreal, like from a different species, exuding an air of a rebel and of someone implacable who will not be stopped.

He lifts his brows, as if he’s genuinely surprised I didn’t say anything at all.

“That’s beautiful body art.”

He frowns a little, thoughtfully. Then he smiles to himself and turns around.

What? Am I missing something here?

He throws me a set of gloves. I put one on, and then struggle with the other one. “Here. I’ll do yours,” he says.

I’m nervous when we stand so close. I could touch him from here. His hands wrap the glove around my wrist, and I’m vulnerable and feel like rambling, even though I don’t like to talk a lot.

He’s watching me.

He turns away, exhales softly, then stalks to the bags. I see his tattoo again, amazed by how much of his back it covers. A massive bird with its wings outstretched spreads out toward his shoulder blades, the tail trailing down Maverick’s spine. Some sort of ominous black shape sits on the bird’s back, while fire consumes the tips of the bird’s feathers.

I feel as if he’s giving me something. A glimpse of something no one in the gym has ever seen. I stare at it, thirsty for it, my eyes taking in every inch of that tattoo while the muscles of Maverick’s back work beneath it.

He’s punching.

He seethes with energy, mounting with every hit.

It’s just me in the gym.

And Maverick.

And my dirty thoughts about Maverick.

I hate the thought and scowl at myself.

But there is no extra space in the whole gym. It seems like he takes up more than his body occupies—a world more.

When he shifts to hit the bag on the other side, the bird’s wings flare with every ripple of his back muscles as he slams the punching bag. Pow, wham, pow.

I decide to test myself against a speed bag, all the while wondering where he gets the force that drives him.

I work out on the bag for about half an hour, then come settle down on the bench closest to him and lie down on my side and sigh, close my eyes in exhaustion, and hear silence.

I open my eyes, and he’s staring at me with the most puzzled expression. He looks away and exhales.

When he starts back up, his hits become fiercer. I’m feeling agitated. My brain fixating on the way he moves. The lock of hair that falls on his forehead when he slams. The way he braces his feet and swings. The look on his face that makes me imagine him being this concentrated doing something else.

Doing something to me.

Oh god, this is not what I meant when I signed up for a Summer to a Better Reese.

I get up on my feet, surprised that my body feels as substantial as liquid. “I’m going to leave, I have somewhere I need to be.”

His eyes slide to me in surprise, and suddenly, blatantly, his gaze dips downward and he stares at a spot of sweat under my throat, above and centered between my breasts. He scans my chest and then jerks his eyes upward, with a flash of frustration sparking in their depths. “I’m staying until I’m worn.”

Did he just check out my breasts?

Right in front of me?

“Okay. I’ll . . . see you. I guess. Teach me how to remove the first glove with both on?”

I walk over to get him to show me, but oh. Mistake. He smells delicious. Of sweat and guy. Like he just took a shower and now with the heat of his body, his soap and shampoo smell strongest.

I inhale deeply, looking at his face to see him staring at me.

God, did he notice?

For a moment there, I think I see heat in his eyes.

He speaks then, his voice low. “Use your teeth on the Velcro. Tuck the glove under your other arm and pull your hand free.”

I try it, tightening the glove under my arm as I pull, and manage to succeed. “Oh. Neat trick.”

I go hang up the gloves and hear him start punching again as I leave. I step out of the gym and look inside, but the windows are frosted, blocking him from view.

EIGHT

COMPULSIONS

Reese

I once read that external inconsistencies create compulsive actions. Performing the same action and getting different results, a positive and a nil or a negative, causes people to more compulsively perform the acts in search of another positive.

This must be why I’m compulsively spending time at the gym. At the Tates’ home there’s a pool, tennis court, sports court, and home gym. But have I used any of that? No. I keep telling Brooke it’s because of the sun, but the truth is, I have an odd compulsion every morning to go to the gym.

And look for him. At the door, waiting for me. Inside by the speed bag, the heavy bag, the ring. But nothing.

Today, I’ve run five miles. I’ve sweated buckets and need to leave for Racer in ten minutes, but I compulsively wait at a side bench, drinking a sports drink, wondering if I will never ever see him again.

Wondering why the thought makes me so sad. Like I lost something.

I’m finishing my drink when a tall fighter with a shiny shaved head and a chest of bloated muscles comes over. “Hey.”

I smile and pull out my phone in the hope he goes away.

“I’m Trenton.”

He seems to expect a reaction.

“Twister,” he adds finally.

Once again, I smile dismissively but worry I’m being rude, so I end up offering, “Reese.”

“Reese, I like it. How come I’ve never seen you before?” he asks, stepping forward.

He starts telling me he thinks I look Southern and that he lives here and fights in the Underground, and I’m nodding, which seems to encourage him, and he fills me in on how many years he’s been training when I feel a prick on the back of my neck, and then I feel something—someone—sit down right next to me.