Island of Glass (The Guardians Trilogy #3)(52)

“Okay, that’s something.”

“Three-mile run,” Doyle announced.

“We do five,” Riley countered.

“Today it’s three.”

“I can do five.”

“Bollocks. And pushing it to five only means you’ll be in worse shape tomorrow. Three, and we pace you.”

She started to bitch, caught Sawyer’s arch look, decided she really didn’t want her own words shoved in her face. She got to her feet.

“How about this? The five of you run the usual. I’ll use the machine in the gym, keep it to three miles. I’ll only slow you down.”

“I can stay with Riley,” Annika said.

“No need for that. I’ll be in the house, in the gym. Treadmill, three miles.” Riley crossed a finger over her heart.

“Done. Let’s move,” Doyle ordered.

She hated that he was right, already knew she could only manage five miles if she’d limped or crawled through it. Better to keep it to three, moderate pace, and try for more next time.

She barely made the three, even with music to distract her.

Dripping sweat, she sat on a bench, guzzled water. She made herself stretch, consoled herself she already had her breath back.

And eyed the weight rack.

She hadn’t promised not to lift.

She picked up a pair of twenty-pound weights, set, began a set of curls.

“Take it down to ten,” Doyle said from the doorway.

“I can do twenty.”

“And you’ll strain muscles instead of building them back up.”

Sheer stubbornness had her doing another rep before she racked them, picked up the tens. “You’re right.” She reset her position for triceps kickbacks. “I don’t need a spotter.”

“A keeper’s more like it. You’re too smart for this, Gwin. You know you’ll set recovery back by overdoing.”

“I won’t overdo, but I need to work it some. I’ve never really been sick, not seriously. A couple of days, stomach bug, a cold, whatever. Hungover, sure. But I bounce back. I need to bounce back.”

Saying nothing, he walked to the rack, took a fifty. He sat, smoothly curled.

“Show-off.”

She switched to shoulder raises, moved to chest curls, onto flies, found a simpatico rhythm with him working nearby.

“That covers it,” Doyle announced when she finished a second set.

She’d have argued, for form, but a third set was beyond her. “I just want to do one set of bench presses. One set. I’m a little sore, but it’s a good sore. You know what I mean.”

He walked to the bench. “One set.”

She replaced the free weights, swiped her face with a towel, then crossed over to lie down. “I won’t say I don’t need a spotter, because I’m not an idiot.”

He set the weights, nodded. “I’ve got you.”

Something tapped at her memory at his words, stirred something, then slipped away. Riley focused, fixed her grip. “Okay, I felt that,” she muttered as she pressed one. “One set of three. That’s all I’ve got.”

And the third rep was shaky, but gave her a lift of satisfaction.

“Okay. Okay, that’s it. That’s good enough.” It wasn’t until she sat up she noticed the weights. “You cut it down to ninety.”

“I’m impressed you could manage that. Day after tomorrow you can try for a hundred. Stretch it out.”

She decided ninety wasn’t mortifying given the circumstances. And besides, she felt good, accomplished, healthily fatigued rather than exhausted.

“I’m bouncing.”

“According to Bran’s grandmother, the wolf accelerates your recovery time.”

“Probably. Like I said, I’ve never been down like that before.”

She stretched, and so did he. When he did, she noted, everything rippled and bulged and sleeked out in exactly the right way.

She had to give it to him, the man was shredded.

What if he did have a kind of a little thing going for her? She had her own lusty—perfectly normal—thoughts in his direction.

They’d even managed a gym session without busting each other’s balls. It followed, logically, another form of healthy exercise—mutual—might just cap it all off.

“We could have sex.”

He had his left arm across his chest, cradled in the crook of his right for the stretch. And moved only his head in her direction. “What?”

“It’s not like it hasn’t occurred to you.” She went for another bottle of water, then studied him as she would a potential bootie buddy.

Sweaty, as she was, the mass of dark hair curling a little from the damp. Green eyes watched her suspiciously out of a face with hard planes and angles.

And the body? Well, Jesus, what woman wouldn’t want to play with that?

“I’m single, you’re single. I’m here, you’re here.” As she spoke, she wagged a finger toward him, toward herself. “We’ve already had a lip-lock that wasn’t half bad.”

“Half bad.”

“I’m good at it. I’m just saying.” She swigged water. “Or so I’m told. I’m betting you’re pretty good at it, too. Straight sex, Doyle, which I haven’t had for eight months and five days.”