Just My Type(21)

Of course Baker’s wink turned my legs into jelly, because he’s… him. And of course I knew damn well he was referring to Tinkerbell when he called me Tink. I can’t even tell you how many guys have tried to use that nickname on me. I’ve threatened all of them with a throat punch if they ever uttered it again.

Baker moves to stand next to me when I stop right inside the gym, and all I can think about is how long it will be before he calls me Tink again. He didn’t look at me like I was so adorable he wanted to pick me up and put me in his pocket, even though he said those exact words to me. When Baker said it, he looked at me like he wanted to pick me up and shove me down inside his pants. Maybe swirl me around in there for a decent amount of time.

“So, this is it. Welcome to The Barracks,” Baker says loudly, pulling me out of my dirty thoughts that have no place during a business meeting.

When my head is firmly out of the gutter, I finally take notice of all the noise and look around. It’s definitely not the type of gym I’ve been to before. The brick on the outside of the building is the same on the inside, but it’s been given a beat-up, white-washed look. The beams are exposed in the ceiling, and you can see all of the duct work. It’s industrial and cool as hell.

There aren’t rows and rows of machines and people staring at themselves in floor-length mirrors. There isn’t one mirror to be found in here. There aren’t bright, florescent lights shining down on you, pointing out all your sweaty flaws. It’s dimly lit with just a bunch of light fixtures hanging down from the ceiling, made out of silver metal and rivets. It makes you feel like you’re in a back alley, getting ready to do something badass. Or like you’re ready to call to order the first meeting of Fight Club. There’s even a giant boxing ring taking up the center of the space and is the main focal point. There’s a small handful of gym equipment around the outer wall of the gym, but most people seem to be using free weights, or stretching and doing other exercises in small clusters, or gathered around the boxing ring, talking and laughing and cheering on the two guys currently in the ring.

A man with a prosthetic leg, and another with tattoos up and down his arms and halfway up his neck finally stop circling each other in the ring, and they both start swinging. It’s amazing to watch these two men beat the shit out of each other, and not one person in this room is looking at the man with the prosthetic leg like he shouldn’t, or can’t, or telling the tattooed guy to take it easy.

“You are such an asshole!” I shout over the noise, shaking my head as I glance next to me at Baker.

He’s looking at me with an amused smile on his face, like he’s just been standing there this entire time I took in everything there was to see, waiting to see what would come out of my mouth next. So, I give him what he wants.

“I distinctly remember you telling me you were nothing special,” I inform him, putting my hands on my hips as I turn away from the boxing match to glare at him. “There was a mutually agreed upon decree that you. Are nothing. Special. This is kind of special, Baker.”

I remove a hand from my hip long enough to make a sweeping gesture of all the special that is currently happening around us, from a man strapped to a wheel chair doing chin-ups—wheelchair and all—in one corner, to a man missing one arm, rapidly punching a speed bag in another corner.

“That is correct. I may have downplayed how awesome I am a little. Although, it’s customary to seal that type of agreement with something binding. Otherwise, it’s invalid.”

Baker takes a step closer to me until we’re toe-to-toe, his eyes locked firmly on my mouth. I can’t help it; my tongue darts out and I wet my lips. He’s making me all flustered and nervous and giving me dry mouth, standing all up in my business, looking at me like that.

“I’m not going to kiss you,” I mutter. “You did something special. You’re still below average as a person.”

I take a step back to put some distance between us, and he finally looks away from my mouth, the corner of his tipping up in amusement.

“Who said anything about kissing? I meant a pinky swear. God, Ember,” he says with that damn smirk as I look down between us and see him holding up his pinky finger.

My heart absolutely does not flutter when I see his pinky. It means absolutely nothing that this guy wants to do a pinky swear, when this has been mine and Lincoln’s thing since he first learned how to talk.

Everyone knows about pinky swears; it’s not like I invented them. This means nothing!

My eyes narrow at Baker as I wrap my pinky around his, which just amuses the guy even more.

“This pinky swear is a mutually binding agreement, hereto forth, and other legal words, stating Baker Matthews is, in fact, nothing special,” I announce.

I need to nip this shit in the bud. I don’t care how great he is because he opened up a gym for wounded veterans. He’s still just a guy. A hot jock guy. I cannot be attracted to a hot jock guy. Nope. No way.

“Couldn’t agree with you more.” Baker nods, our fingers still intertwined between us. “Are you going to cry at a gym again?” He raises one eyebrow as he looks down at me.

Sue me. I got a little emotional looking around at all these people Baker brought together so they can feel good about themselves, and my eyes are still a little wet.

“Oh my God, it was one time, and I told you. I was going through some shit. Don’t judge my gym crying. It’s normal, and it happens to everyone.”