by Tara Sivec
Of course he works out. He owns a gym. For disabled veterans. Jesus Christ, can this guy get any more perfect on paper? He’s all lean muscle instead of big and bulky, with a tapered waist, in dark jeans that fit him like they were made for him, short, dark brown hair that’s a little longer and artfully messy on top, chiseled jawline with dark scruff, and gorgeous blue eyes with the longest lashes I’ve ever seen on a man. He’s not just hot. He’s goddamn pretty.
Remember Carson Jameson? Captain of the football team. Total jock. And a total douchebag prick who told me I had a fat ass when I wouldn’t blow him. And don’t forget about Ryan Andrews, who could have been an Abercrombie and Fitch model, and was a star forward on the basketball team. The guy I gave my virginity to, who then told the whole school all about it in explicit detail. Like how I cried after. At least I got my revenge when I told everyone I cried because his dick was so small.
It’s no wonder I think Baker is hot. He’s a jock. Who will eventually turn into a giant douchebag prick. I know his type. I dated his type up until I met my ex. Sure, he’s got a great sense of humor now, but it won’t be long before he’s telling me I have a fat ass, and hosting a cabaret all about our sex life for everyone he knows.
For fuck’s sake, what is wrong with me? I rub up against my first hot guy in a decade, and I’m already planning our future. This is a job. Not a date. There will be no sex life.
“You can ask me about my leg,” Baker suddenly mutters after I slowed down my walking speed, a touch of annoyance in his voice.
Since I’m still gawking at his profile, I can even see the annoyance written all over his face. He doesn’t want me to ask about it. He definitely doesn’t want to talk about it.
I say something flippant, asking if he’ll need me to carry him. He doesn’t really want to talk about it, so I figured I’d be my usual, charming self. I noticed his limp as soon as we started walking away from the table at Starbucks. It’s none of my business why he’s limping. If he wants to tell me, that’s fine. I’m not going to pry, even though he’s technically a stranger and I probably should so I can learn more about him. Still, none of my business.
Baker laughs softly and finally turns to look at me. The annoyance has been replaced with creases around his eyes, which are bright with humor, and a dimple in one cheek as he smiles at me. He likes it that I’m a smartass. I like that he likes I’m a smartass.
I have no business liking that he likes anything about me.
“No,” Baker replies, answering my question about having to carry him. “Shot full of shrapnel, total knee replacement. It bothers me sometimes, but I can carry myself.”
I can clearly see how well he carries himself. I can’t stop staring at him carrying himself, with his hands shoved into the front pockets of his jeans, forcing the cut of his arm muscles to be more defined.
Bad, Ember, bad! Down, girl!
I say something else sarcastic about how he’d kill me if I tried to carry him, and I tell him I don’t give a shit about his knee. I’m being honest. As long as it has nothing to do with me, why should I worry about his knee? I mean, I feel a little bad that it’s bothering him right now, but he’s not crying, and I don’t need to call 911, so he must be okay. I’m not going to fawn all over him, making a big deal about something he’s clearly not comfortable talking about.
“I’m not usually this honest with people. At least, I haven’t been in a long time,” I admit to Baker as he pauses at an intersection.
He immediately puts his arm out across my chest, looking both ways before dropping it as we start walking again.
Like a goddamn boy scout. Nope. Not turned on at all. Not one bit.
All of a sudden, he starts walking a little faster to get in front of me, veering to the left and pulling open a glass door for me at a two-story, brick building. I can see backward etching on the glass door he holds open that says The Barracks, and realize we’ve arrived at our destination. When I walk past him to enter, Baker leans his face down close to me, his cheek brushing against mine. I have no choice but to stop right there in the open doorway, trying not to shiver having Baker’s mouth so close to mine.
Go back to sleep, ovaries. Nothing to see here.
“I’m glad you’re honest with me,” he says in a low voice. “I like it when you give me shit.” He pulls his head back and smiles down at me with a wink. “Just don’t go getting too soft on me now, Tink.”
I snort and roll my eyes like he’s the most annoying person in the world as I start walking again and move past him, inside the gym.
A wink and a Tink. Two of my least favorite things a guy could do, and my ovaries have not only woken up from their long slumber; they’re currently trying to claw their way out of my body.
Of course Baker’s wink turned my legs into jelly, because he’s… him. And of course I knew damn well he was referring to Tinkerbell when he called me Tink. I can’t even tell you how many guys have tried to use that nickname on me. I’ve threatened all of them with a throat punch if they ever uttered it again.
Baker moves to stand next to me when I stop right inside the gym, and all I can think about is how long it will be before he calls me Tink again. He didn’t look at me like I was so adorable he wanted to pick me up and put me in his pocket, even though he said those exact words to me. When Baker said it, he looked at me like he wanted to pick me up and shove me down inside his pants. Maybe swirl me around in there for a decent amount of time.
“So, this is it. Welcome to The Barracks,” Baker says loudly, pulling me out of my dirty thoughts that have no place during a business meeting.
When my head is firmly out of the gutter, I finally take notice of all the noise and look around. It’s definitely not the type of gym I’ve been to before. The brick on the outside of the building is the same on the inside, but it’s been given a beat-up, white-washed look. The beams are exposed in the ceiling, and you can see all of the duct work. It’s industrial and cool as hell.
There aren’t rows and rows of machines and people staring at themselves in floor-length mirrors. There isn’t one mirror to be found in here. There aren’t bright, florescent lights shining down on you, pointing out all your sweaty flaws. It’s dimly lit with just a bunch of light fixtures hanging down from the ceiling, made out of silver metal and rivets. It makes you feel like you’re in a back alley, getting ready to do something badass. Or like you’re ready to call to order the first meeting of Fight Club. There’s even a giant boxing ring taking up the center of the space and is the main focal point. There’s a small handful of gym equipment around the outer wall of the gym, but most people seem to be using free weights, or stretching and doing other exercises in small clusters, or gathered around the boxing ring, talking and laughing and cheering on the two guys currently in the ring.
A man with a prosthetic leg, and another with tattoos up and down his arms and halfway up his neck finally stop circling each other in the ring, and they both start swinging. It’s amazing to watch these two men beat the shit out of each other, and not one person in this room is looking at the man with the prosthetic leg like he shouldn’t, or can’t, or telling the tattooed guy to take it easy.
“You are such an asshole!” I shout over the noise, shaking my head as I glance next to me at Baker.
He’s looking at me with an amused smile on his face, like he’s just been standing there this entire time I took in everything there was to see, waiting to see what would come out of my mouth next. So, I give him what he wants.
“I distinctly remember you telling me you were nothing special,” I inform him, putting my hands on my hips as I turn away from the boxing match to glare at him. “There was a mutually agreed upon decree that you. Are nothing. Special. This is kind of special, Baker.”
I remove a hand from my hip long enough to make a sweeping gesture of all the special that is currently happening around us, from a man strapped to a wheel chair doing chin-ups—wheelchair and all—in one corner, to a man missing one
arm, rapidly punching a speed bag in another corner.
“That is correct. I may have downplayed how awesome I am a little. Although, it’s customary to seal that type of agreement with something binding. Otherwise, it’s invalid.”
Baker takes a step closer to me until we’re toe-to-toe, his eyes locked firmly on my mouth. I can’t help it; my tongue darts out and I wet my lips. He’s making me all flustered and nervous and giving me dry mouth, standing all up in my business, looking at me like that.
“I’m not going to kiss you,” I mutter. “You did something special. You’re still below average as a person.”
I take a step back to put some distance between us, and he finally looks away from my mouth, the corner of his tipping up in amusement.
“Who said anything about kissing? I meant a pinky swear. God, Ember,” he says with that damn smirk as I look down between us and see him holding up his pinky finger.
My heart absolutely does not flutter when I see his pinky. It means absolutely nothing that this guy wants to do a pinky swear, when this has been mine and Lincoln’s thing since he first learned how to talk.
Everyone knows about pinky swears; it’s not like I invented them. This means nothing!
My eyes narrow at Baker as I wrap my pinky around his, which just amuses the guy even more.
“This pinky swear is a mutually binding agreement, hereto forth, and other legal words, stating Baker Matthews is, in fact, nothing special,” I announce.
I need to nip this shit in the bud. I don’t care how great he is because he opened up a gym for wounded veterans. He’s still just a guy. A hot jock guy. I cannot be attracted to a hot jock guy. Nope. No way.
“Couldn’t agree with you more.” Baker nods, our fingers still intertwined between us. “Are you going to cry at a gym again?” He raises one eyebrow as he looks down at me.
Sue me. I got a little emotional looking around at all these people Baker brought together so they can feel good about themselves, and my eyes are still a little wet.
“Oh my God, it was one time, and I told you. I was going through some shit. Don’t judge my gym crying. It’s normal, and it happens to everyone.”
Baker tugs my finger, pulling our hands closer to him until they’re resting against his chest.
“You still going through some shit, Tink?” Baker asks, all of the humor disappearing from his face as he stares at me.
Nope, no shit around here! Who said anything about shit? We should probably make out now. You know what’s a great boner killer? What’s about to come out of my mouth in three, two…
“I’m a mom!” I blurt loudly. “I was going through some shit, I’m now past the shit, and I’m trying to forget about the shit and be happy. But I’m someone’s mom. A human being came out of my body. He came out eight years ago, not like, recently or anything, but still. He will always come before anything else in my life, even though he’s the reason parts of my body just didn’t go back the way they should have after I had him. Weird parts. Like my feet. They grew half a size when I was pregnant with him, and never went back down.”
Baker doesn’t even blink when I finally stop word-vomiting. I’d worry that I killed him after the shit that just came out of my mouth, but that damn, amused smirk is still on his face as he looks at me. Like he doesn’t give two shits if I’m a mom. Like my possible hotness factor didn’t just go down a thousand points as soon as I started talking about my feet.
I cannot be attracted to a hot jock!
“Stop looking at me like that. I work for you,” I remind him, finally pulling my head out of my ass, but not my pinky out of his hold against his chest.
“Fine. We’ll keep this strictly business, if that’s what you want.” Baker shrugs.
“Yep, that’s what I want.” I nod, while every part of my body from the neck down screams, Jesus Christ! What are you doing?
I yank my pinky out of his grasp and away from the warmth of his muscular chest, shutting my body up so we can get back down to business. What we’re here for and what we just pinky swore on.
“How about a tour of the gym, and I can introduce you to a few people? Just a warning, most people here are a little chatty, save for a small handful of new people, and that tatted guy in the ring who hates everyone. I’m sure you have to get home soon, so we can reschedule the interview for another day if this takes too long,” he tells me.
He’s being accommodating, because he knows I need to get home to my son.
Or, he’s a hot, douchebag jock who’s just playing me right now. Extending this so we’ll have to spend more time together. Whatever. I’m still getting paid, since this is just a job, so it doesn’t even matter. And he pinky swore. That shit is sacred.
“Sounds great. You’re still an asshole. And super below average.”
“Noted.” Baker chuckles.
“Just making sure we’re on the same page.”
Baker presses his hand against the small of my back, pushing me toward a group of people sitting on the floor, working on some stretches. He keeps his hand there the entire half-hour we spend chatting with the other veterans. The warmth of his heavy palm and the way his thumb lazily traces a pattern over the material of my shirt against the skin at my lower back send goose bumps up my spine, and I can’t stop the small shiver that runs through me.
I don’t even know how long it’s been since someone touched me. And I’m not talking about snuggles and hugs from my son. I’m talking about the kind of touch that makes you think of hot, dirty, sweaty things. The kind of touch that makes you realize you’re so fucking starved for affection just a few little thumb traces against your lower back almost makes you have an orgasm.
“Feel free to let me know when you’re ready to flip the page,” Baker says quietly, his warm breath skating over the shell of my ear.
I glance up at him, and he’s already pulled his head away, not even looking at me. He’s looking at Alex, the Vietnam vet casually rolling back and forth in his wheelchair in front of us. I can’t drag my eyes away from Baker’s profile as I watch him throw his head back and laugh at something Alex just said.
I haven’t turned the page. I’ve just flown a hundred pages forward, to the part where he’s ripping my clothes off me and fucking me against a wall.
This is not good. Not good at all.
CHAPTER 10
BAKER
Science
To: Ember Hastings
From: Baker Matthews
Subject: Re: Hot, Manly Transcription
I took it upon myself to change the subject line of our email exchange. I have it on good authority this subject line better suits our conversation going forward. On account of the fact I have it in writing that you think I’m hot and manly. And you couldn’t stop staring at me yesterday, picturing me naked.
No worries, I am respecting your decision that this should remain strictly professional, due to the legally binding pinky swear. Since we’re keeping this all-business, I won’t tell you that seeing you in person for the first time, being in the same room with you, listening to you laugh, standing close to you, and watching your face when you put me in my place took my goddamn breath away. It’s okay. I trust that you’ll remain completely professional in regards to this information that I did not tell you.
Call me crazy, but I feel like you told me you’re a mom because you thought it would scare me away. Oh, ye of little faith in the male gender. I’m actually a rare species of hot manly man who likes kids. *See attached photo.
Please consult your calendar and let me know post haste if this Wednesday evening around 6 p.m. at the gym works for you, to continue with our interview process. The Barracks is closed after six on Wednesdays, so it will be quiet enough to concentrate on all the professional, businessy things we need to do. GOD, Ember, get your mind out of the gutter. We won’t be completely alone where you’ll have a chance to take advantage of me. My sister will be here, doing some bookkeeping. She’ll keep you in line if you’re wor
ried about not being able to control yourself around me. Also, please wear something comfortable. I’m putting you to work during the interview.
Below Average Baker That You’re Still Picturing Naked
To: Baker Matthews
From: Ember Hastings
Subject: Re: Hot, Manly Transcription
You are ridiculous. I’m only keeping the subject line of this email as is, because I feel like you could really use that ego boost. On account of you being so mediocre and all. (PINKY SWEAR)
In regards to picturing you naked? Eh. See: mediocre
Really? REALLY, BAKER? You attach a photo of you not wearing a shirt, taking a nap on a couch with a precious, tiny baby asleep on your chest? That’s just… low, man. Really low. I thought you were better than that. Wait, no I didn’t. Ha ha, my mistake!
I will report for duty on Wednesday at 6 p.m. sharp for our business interview. I swear to all that is good and holy, if you’re telling me to wear something comfortable because you expect me to go anywhere near a Stairmaster, consequences will be swift and painful. For you.
Ember “Shirtless Jocks Holding Babies Do Nothing for Me” Hastings
“Man, you’re bringing out the big guns with this woman, aren’t you? Attaching a picture of you sleeping on the couch with my daughter when she was born. Shameful.”
I sigh when I hear Blake leaning over my shoulder, once again reading my fucking emails without me knowing. It’s Wednesday, five minutes before six o’clock, and I needed something to keep my mind off what a pussy I am, being nervous about seeing Ember again. So, I read through our recent email exchanges while I waited for Ember to show up.
Like a fucking pussy.
“There’s this nifty thing called privacy. You should google it,” I mutter as I swivel around in the office chair to glare at my sister.
“I’ve cleaned the drool off your chin and put you to bed after having an hour-long discussion about the inventor of the Frisbee, and how he had himself cremated into a Frisbee after he died. You cried, hugging a Frisbee. For an hour. There’s no such thing as privacy between us,” Blake reminds me.