Down and Out(51)

I repeat this over and over in my head while I flit about the gym and wipe down machines. It’s been a slow day, and there’s really not much else to do besides the never-ending pile of towels, but even that leaves me with a bit of downtime in-between loads. I’m trying everything I can to keep busy, so I don’t have to focus on what my mind seems to be stuck on: Declan.
What’s he doing? Does he miss me? Is he upstairs thinking about me right this very second?
Biting my lip, I stifle a groan.
I’m so not this kind of girl. I don’t obsess over guys, and I certainly don’t sit around wondering if they miss me. I have better things to do than worry about pointless shit like that.
Like cleaning the windows in the lobby. They looked kinda dingy. . .
Pursing my lips, I fiddle with the rag in my hand, then start for the back of the gym and the laundry room, where all the cleaning supplies are kept. Yes, it’s busy work, and yes, I’m mostly trying to find a way to keep my mind off a certain inked fighter who’s suddenly taken up residence in my brain, but so what? Maybe the fumes can kill off some of these damn brain cells of mine that seem to have gotten infected with Declanitis.
As I round the corner, I run into a sweaty, bare chest that’s about as forgiving as a brick wall. I stumble back, barely registering the water bottle slipping from his hands as they shoot out and steady me. My wide eyes meet Mike’s equally surprised face as he keeps me from greeting the concrete floor with my ass.
Then water splashes my legs, making me jump back.
“Shit.” His water bottle’s slowly bleeding out all over the floor, and as I bend down to pick it up, Mike does too. Our heads collide with a hollow-sounding thunk, and I wince, holding the spot that immediately flares with pain. “Ow.”
Mike laughs and grabs his nearly empty bottle, then squints one eye closed as he rubs the corner of his forehead. “Sorry.”
I shake my head, his comical expression making me smile despite the little birdies flying ’round my head. “It’s my fault. I wasn’t paying attention.”
He switches the dripping wet water bottle to his other hand, then wipes his free hand along his black basketball shorts. His low-slung shorts, that sit below what many would call an impressive six-pack.
All I can think is: Declan’s abs are better.
I blink at the unbidden thought, and my brain finally decides to get with the program. “Oh, God, sorry. Let me get you a towel.” Duh.
Unsticking my feet from their spot, I move around him and continue down the hallway. I hang a left into the laundry room and throw open the dryer door, stopping the machine mid-cycle. Hopefully the towels are dry enough. I grab one and toss it to Mike, who’s followed me inside.
“Thanks,” he says, drying off his bottle, then his shins.
I grab one for myself and dry off my legs. “Really, Mike, I’m sorry. I should’ve been watching where I was going.” The towels I’d grabbed are dry, so I pull out half the load and dump it on the folding table.
“I knocked you in the head, so if anything, I think I owe you an apology.” He runs a hand through his sweaty, dirty blond hair, smiling ruefully.
A smile plays with my lips as I begin folding towels. “I’m listening.”
Mike steps closer, his mouth curving into a friendly—if a little flirty—grin. “Well, it just so happens, I do my best apologizing over dinner.”
Oh. Uh. . .
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
As my brows pull tight, he says, “Sorry if that’s a little forward, but I’d be lying if I said I came here every day on my lunch break just to work out.” He looks a little sheepish as he admits this, and I’m at a total loss as to what to say.
I just assumed Mike was one of the gym’s “regulars.” We have several die-hard clients who come in every single day. Now that I know he has an ulterior motive, I’m . . . stumped.
Not at what my answer will be, just how to phrase it.
A throat clearing in the doorway has me jerking my head around and meeting Declan’s ice cold stare. His hard eyes flick over to Mike, lingering there as he bites out, “A word, Savannah.”
Shit. For once this is exactly what it looks like, although in my defense, I didn’t ask for it.
Mike swings his gaze back to me, seemingly unaffected by the towering, hulking man in the doorway who has murder written on his face and tension rolling off him in waves. Mike’s either got a huge set of balls, or he’s completely oblivious to his impending death. Lowering his voice, he says, “Think about it, okay?”
I can feel Declan’s stare burning a hole into me as I nod stiffly at Mike, forcing a polite smile that just comes off as tight-lipped.
He slowly backs away and walks over to Declan, who’s blocking the doorway. After a second of staring him down with a silent warning etched onto his face, Declan moves aside so Mike can leave.
As soon as he’s cleared the doorway, Declan slams the door behind him, shutting us in the laundry room. My heart’s stuck in my throat and I try to swallow it down, but it won’t budge.
“The f*ck was he doing back here? Besides hitting on you, I mean.” Declan crosses his arms. The movement makes me glance down at all the tense muscle underneath his tats. It’s preferable to looking him in the face right now, because then I’d have to see the lethal glare directed my way.
I didn’t do anything wrong, damn it.
My mouth sets into a thin line as I grab the rest of the towels from the dryer and dump them on the table. “I bumped into him as I was coming back here to grab cleaning supplies and knocked his water bottle out of his hands. I was just getting him something to wipe it up with.”