I’d woken up at five this morning, cursing myself in the darkness, when any sensible person would have drowsed in bed for hours longer. I’d been woken by Caesar, who’d trotted into my bedroom to heft his huge fluffy body at the foot of my bed. The sheepdog had become my morning alarm, because he only came to visit me after Edward was gone. When the dog woke me, I knew the day’s battle was already half-lost.
Now, snow was falling softly outside as I hurried toward the gardener’s cottage. I pulled the hood of my sweatshirt more tightly over my head, shivering as the gravel crunched beneath my feet. It was still dark, as was to be expected at five o’clock in December, the darkest day of the year.
I’d thought I could bring Edward St. Cyr to his knees? Ha. I’d thought I would make him beg for mercy? Double ha.
I’d worked with football players, injured stuntmen, even a few high-powered corporate types. I thought I knew what to expect from the typical arrogant alpha male.
But Edward was tough. Tougher than I’d ever seen.
Shivering down the garden path in the darkness, I pushed open the cottage door to discover that, just as I’d thought, Edward was already there. Doing yoga stretches on the mat, he looked well warmed up, his skin glowing with health, his body sleek in the T-shirt and shorts as he leaned forward in Downward Dog. My eyes lingered unwillingly on his muscular backside, pushed up in the air.
“’Morning.” Straightening, Edward looked back at me with amusement, as if he knew exactly where my eyes had been. I blushed, and his grin widened. He stretched his arms over his head, then spread his arms and legs wide in Warrior II Pose. “Enjoy your lie-in, did you?”
“I didn’t sleep in,” I protested. “It’s the middle of the night!”
He lifted his eyebrows and murmured, “If five is too early for you, just say so.”
I glared at him. “It’s fine. Happy to be here.” I’d come at four tomorrow, I vowed privately. Maybe I’d start sleeping in the gym, instead of the beautiful four-poster bed down the hall from Edward’s master suite on the second floor of Penryth Hall.
Edward looked at me with infinite patience. “Whenever you’re ready....”
Scowling, I stomped to the equipment closet, where I yanked out a stairstep and some resistance bands. The bands got caught, so I yanked even harder.
“Maybe you should do some yoga,” he observed. “It’s very calming.”
My scowl deepened. “Let’s just get started.”
I supervised his stretches, rotating his foot and his arm and shoulder, before we progressed to squats and knee lifts on the step, then thirty minutes on the exercise bike, then stretching again with the resistance bands, then walking on the treadmill, then lifting weights—carefully, with me spotting him. I helped him stretch and strengthen his muscles, stopping him before he could do himself another injury, or dislocate his shoulder again. But it was a constant battle between us. He worked like a demon at it, and his determination showed.
After nearly two months, he no longer wore a sling or brace. In fact, looking at him now, you wouldn’t see a sign of injury. He looked like a powerful, virile male.
And he was.
Damn it.
Don’t notice. Don’t look.
We’d become almost friends, in a way. During the hours of physical therapy, we’d talked to fill the silence, and prove that neither of us was winded. I’d learned that his financial firm was worth billions, was called St. Cyr Global, and had been started by his great-grandfather, then run by his grandfather and father, until Edward took it over at twenty-two with his father’s death. He’d tried to explain what his company did precisely, but it was hopeless. My eyes glazed faster than you can say derivatives and credit default swaps. It was more interesting to hear him talk about his cousin Rupert, whom he hated, his rival in the company. “That’s why I need to get better,” he said grimly. “So I can crush him.”