The Billionaire Boss Next Door(8)

“You okay?” Arnold Schwarzenegger’s long-lost brother asks, but I just nod off his question and put some much-needed distance between us.

Also, I scrub my face with the hand towel I brought down from my room like it’s a fucking Brillo pad capable of removing the ball sweat that’s probably found itself a home in my pores.

Note to self: take one thousand scalding-hot showers tonight.

With a deep inhale, I try to regain some of the pride I lost back there to Mr. Muscles and peruse the room until I find a machine that’s labeled with instructional pictures to boot.

Hip. Abduction.

Do I need aliens to use this thing?

Against my better judgment, I study the pictures and peptalk myself into sitting down on the seat and swing my legs over to the inside of the knee pads.

No face-to-butt-sweat mistakes happening here, folks!

The weight is set on one hundred and fifty pounds from the person before me, and it makes me wonder if Thor is staying at this hideous hotel too.

I pull out the pin and put it on forty instead.

After a quick test push with my legs, the setting seems doable, so I take out my phone and start scrolling through it to set up some music to accompany me.

Yes. Yes. That’s exactly what I need. Some workout jams.

Of course, once I’m on it, I get distracted by Instagram, and five minutes go by before I realize I’m sitting on a machine, not a couch, and the purpose here is to do something other than lounge.

I glance up from my phone and scan the room, wondering slightly if anyone knows how long I’ve been sitting here. Mr. Muscles has moved on to a new machine, but a different guy across the room makes eye contact and smirks.

Busted.

Normal human decency dictates he should let me off the hook and go about his day, but this fit, Adonis-looking, sweat-covered, brown-haired, green-eyed—good God, he’s attractive—man apparently has no manners.

Shit.

His sleeveless white T-shirt clings to his tanned body as he strides my way, and his athletic shorts conform to a muscular set of thighs and ass.

I look everywhere but at him, fiddling with the machine as though I’m doing something productive, but he still doesn’t get the hint.

Raspy and firm, the clearing of his throat sounds right next to me.

I look up as innocently as I can manage and pull out my earbuds as though I had music playing.

“Um, hi,” I say with a cute little manufactured laugh. “I’ll be done in just a second.”

He laughs too, but his seems genuine and undeniably directed at me. “If you keep up your current pace, I think it’s going to be a little longer.”

“Excuse me?”

“Come on,” he says good-naturedly—the prick. “You’re just pretending to work out.”

Oh no, he did not just say that….

“I’m not pretending to work out,” I deny. “I’m just getting warmed up.”

He nods knowingly.

“And setting up my music,” I continue.

He hums.

“I’m just about to catch my stride.”

“Sure you are.” He calls bullshit with his smug, green-as-fuck eyes, and for the briefest of moments, they glance down at my chest and my legs before meeting my gaze again. “But there are people who would like to really use it, so if you’re done…”

What. The. Fuck.

Who does this guy think he is?

“Are you always this rude?” I question, and his green eyes lighten a bit.

“All right, you’re right. I’m really not trying to be a dick,” he says and runs a hand through his hair.

Should it really take that much effort not to be a dick?

“Let’s start over…” He pauses and pushes a small smile to his full, kissable lips. “How are you enjoying the hotel?”

Start over? How about let’s never have started at all?

Still annoyed, I don’t censor my answer. “It’s…swell.”

He laughs at first, but when I raise an eyebrow in contention, he frowns. “You don’t like it?”

“Maybe ugly décor and a whole buttload of pretention are good for some people, but not for me.”

“Ugly décor? Really?”

How can he be shocked by this? Anyone with eyes could see the design flaws here.

“Are you kidding? I feel like I’m in my ninety-year-old grandmother’s living room, except it’s a waking nightmare and I’m about to be eaten alive by the curtains.”

“I don’t think it’s that bad. It’s timeless.”

Normally, I’m not such a snob about design, nor do I make a point to make other people feel bad for their likes and dislikes, but for some reason, this handsome prick and his dickish attitude just bring it out in me.

Before I know it, I’m channeling Regina George.

“Well…” I pause and scrunch up my nose dramatically. “I’m sorry to break the news to you, but the design of this place looks like it was done by a blind rat. Gilded sailboat pictures and tapestries with oxen on them aren’t timeless. They’re old.”

His eyebrows pinch together, highlighting the otherwise perfect features of his face. Goddamn this ugly hotel for housing such perfect-looking humans.

“What did you say your name was again?”