Outmatched

Seriously, this whole debacle was distracting.

So far, I’d avoided telling Jackson about how I met Rhys. I hated lying about dating him and the more I embellished the deception, the guiltier I felt. Avoidance was my friend right now.

There was absolutely no way anyone could find out about Rhys beyond my work colleagues. God, if my parents or my sister Easton found out, I’d die.

Okay, so that was melodramatic… but I would certainly feel like I might combust with shame if I had to fib to my family about Rhys. Probably because they wanted so badly for me to meet someone and fall in love.

I was thirty years old and single, and my parents were worried because I’d been single a while now. Like, a while. A whole lotta while.

Thirteen years.

My stomach lurched at the number.

It sounded worse than it was. I mean, I had dated during those thirteen years. And had lots of sex. Okay, maybe not lots. But I’d had sex. In my quest to feel that spark of chemistry once again, I’d gotten myself a little something-something over the years. Some of it bad. Some of it good. All of it… just… meh.

There was no point in settling down with someone I didn’t spark with. I’d rather be single forever than settle for less than I knew was possible. And I knew what was possible because for a brief, splendid moment in time I’d had something special.

So I kind of gave up, especially while working on my PhD. My career became my entire focus.

Ironic that a relationship was the one thing I needed to advance my career.

Twisty little universe.

Yes, my parents were definitely not going to find out about Rhys. I didn’t want to get their hopes up. Mostly I just didn’t want to lie to them. Not that it wasn’t slightly tempting, considering my younger sister had just gotten engaged. My family wasn’t putting any pressure on me, but I felt it anyway.

Ugh, societal pressures were the emotional equivalent of a black hole. No matter a person’s obstinate refusal to bend to them, every single one of us got sucked in somehow. Boo to black holes!

Speaking of… I slowed to a stop outside the gym on Fourth. It was a red-brick, seventies-style building, three-stories with tinted brown glass windows and a flat roof. Well-maintained greenery, grass and hedges, grew along the edges. But there was something drab about the building; the signage above the door was peeling.

“Here goes nothing,” I muttered to myself as I got off the bike and padlocked it to the railings by the entrance.

For the past few nights I’d spent my free time writing up a contract for Rhys to sign. Every time I thought I’d finished it, I’d think of something new. Hopefully, he’d sign the thing with no arguments.

That wasn’t entirely honest of me. The butterflies in my belly demonstrated there was a part of me that didn’t want Rhys to sign the contract at all. Part of me wanted him to tell me he’d changed his mind.

There was no reception area, so I strolled across the glass-fronted atrium and through double doors that led into the ground-floor space. This was the gym. Considering it was a Saturday afternoon, it wasn’t as busy as it should have been. Sure, there were people there, working out, but every machine in the room should have been in use and wasn’t. As I took in the peeling paint on the walls, some aging workout equipment, worn workout mats, and a sad little water cooler on either side of the room in lieu of a fancy drink dispenser, I could see for myself why Rhys needed the money. There were no TVs for people to watch during their workouts. They were stuck with the music pumping out of the PA system unless they brought their own headphones to drown it out.

The gym was run-down. It needed sprucing up to be brought into the twenty-first century. Curiosity still lingered over where his earnings from boxing had disappeared to, but it was none of my business. All that mattered was that Fairchild liked Rhys and Rhys would keep me on the boss’s radar long enough for me to get a permanent position.

The contract in my hand trembled a little as I tried to contain my nerves.

“Can I help you?”

I turned toward the masculine voice and found myself face-to-face with a beautiful man. The blood beneath my cheeks grew hot as I stared into dark chocolate eyes framed by the longest lashes I’d ever seen on a guy. He had warm, tawny skin and a head full of thick, jet-black hair. When he smiled, two incredible dimples popped in either cheek.

Dreamy bedroom eyes, ahoy there!

“Do you speak?”

I flushed and laughed at my ridiculousness. “Yes, I have been known to produce speech.”