FRIDAY MORNING, LATER

If you’re wondering what Andrew Mulroney looks like while he’s in workout mode, picture this: Thor and Captain America somehow defeat biology and have a love child together. And call him Andrew.

You’re welcome for the visual.

Anyway, my idea of the gym is something like this: trot on the treadmill or the elliptical at a pace just vigorous enough to make your boobs and ponytail look good, but without actually breaking a sweat. Twenty minutes, max.

But twenty minutes pass, and out of the corner of my eye I see that Andrew’s at the same machine he started with and doesn’t look like he’s even remotely close to finished with his workout.

While I talked at him (yes, at him) on the way here, I asked why he came to this gym instead of the fancy one in our building.

He muttered something about a particular machine that he liked.

To which I replied that he was a machine.

And then he quit talking altogether.

I trot for another ten minutes or so, then decide that I should probably hit the shower if I’m going to have enough time to make myself pretty before I follow him to the office.

Because yup, I’m totally taking him up on his offer to see what the hell it is he does all day and prove that I can keep up. If he thinks sitting behind a desk and talking legalese is hard, he’s never been down Fifth Avenue in December. I make a mental note to force him to do that with me in a few weeks.

I trot over to where he’s loading weights onto the end of a metal rod. “What?” he asks, not looking at me.

I drape myself over the metal. “How much longer?”

He pauses in the process of hoisting the weight, his biceps flexing with the strain, then sets it back down again with an expression that’s half exasperated, half triumphant.

“That’s it?” he asks. “That’s all you’ve got? Thirty minutes in my shoes?”

I lift a finger and gesture at his feet. “I’m confident I would have made it much longer if you’d worn Dorothy’s slippers. Those black ones you’re wearing are boring.”

“They’re practical.”

“Boring,” I correct. “So what’s next?”

“Well, considering I’ve barely started on my workout—”

“Okay, fast-forward,” I say, spinning my finger. “Lucky for you, my usual hairstyle doesn’t do itself, so I’ll be able to keep myself busy while you finish your aspiring-bodybuilder routine. I mean, what happens after?”

Instead of answering, he lets his gaze roam over me, almost reluctantly. I regret that I opted to drape myself over the bar instead of standing up straight so I could pretend to stretch my lower back in a way that pushes out my boobs.

Wait. What?

I don’t want him thinking of me like that. Because I don’t think of him like that.

Do I? Oh, dear. I’m not sure, not when he’s looking at me with . . .

Oh. It’s disdain. Never mind, then.

“What exactly did you do for exercise, Georgiana?” he says, giving me a skeptical look. “Twirl your hair?”

“If I do it vigorously, it counts as cardio.”

He gives the slightest of eye rolls. “Fine. Go shower. I’ll walk you home when I’m done.”

“Wait, no,” I say, feeling a little surge of disappointment and panic. “I’m going with you to work.”

Andrew rubs at his forehead. “Look, when I agreed to this the other night I was . . . I don’t know. Tired. Frustrated. If you’re bored here in the gym, you’ll be beyond bored with the rest of my day. The rest of my life.”

The way he says it is just a little bit sad, and I’m suddenly desperate to make it better.

“So show me,” I say, standing up straight.

“I can’t teach you to be a lawyer in a day,” he snaps.

I reach out and pinch his arm. “Quit pissing me off. I mean show me your routine here at the gym. We’ll do this one step at a time. I’ll let you know when I cry uncle and want to go back to Bloomingdale’s.”

“No thanks. Besides, you’re not dressed for it. That zippy thing looks like something you wear on a Starbucks run, not something you sweat in.”

“Fine,” I say, somehow managing to pour sugar into the word through my gritted teeth. “I’ll take it off.”

He doesn’t seem to register my words, but he does register the sound of a zipper being pulled, because his head whips back around just as the zipper reaches my waist, leaving the two sides of the jacket hanging open on either side of my torso.

Don’t worry. I didn’t flash the guy.

I’m wearing a perfectly gym-appropriate Lululemon sports bra, not at all different from what half the other women in here are wearing.

But the way Andrew is looking at my exposed tummy sure as hell makes it feel different.

His eyes burn hot against my skin, and I realize I’m so totally in over my head. But backing down is not an option, so instead of rezipping it like I want to, I place my hands on my hips.

“So?” I say, my voice a little lower than usual. “Show me your workout. Let me prove I can keep up.”

Andrew takes a step nearer to me, and my pulse goes crazy. Touch me. Touch me, touch me, touch me. . . .

His hands extend toward my sides, the warm pads of his fingers touching the outside of my stomach, and we both suck in a breath at the contact. My eyes close, silently begging him to slide his hands all the way into my jacket, to put his hands on me.

Andrew’s fingers skim up my torso, over my rib cage, lightly, teasingly.

His breathing is harsh and I’m pretty sure I’m panting.

But before things get really interesting he jerks his hands away from my skin, instead grabbing the sides of my jacket, tugging it together, then zipping it up.

Sure, the way his fingers adeptly pull at the tiny zipper is a sexy promise of how adept he could be with women’s clothes. . . .

But apparently the only thing he wants to be doing with my clothes is keeping them on.

“Go take a shower, Georgiana.”

“But—”

The tip of his index finger touches the center of my lip. “If I take you to my office, do you promise to be quiet and not get in my way?”

I slowly shake my head, not wanting to speak for fear he’ll remove his finger, and I suddenly feel like I need him to touch me in any way I can get. Who knew that prissy, asshole guys did it for me? But Andrew Mulroney, Esquire, is really doing it for me right now, all sweaty and irritated and a little bossy.

He shakes his head slightly, and I’m pretty sure he wants to smile, but he resists the urge. “Go shower.”

His hands drop back to his sides.

“I can come to your office? See what you do?”

He closes his eyes and runs a hand over the back of his neck. “Why do I get the feeling you’ll make me regret it no matter which way I answer?”

“See you in an hour!” I chirp, spinning on my heel to retrieve my bag and get pretty for the day.

“An hour?” he calls after me. “What can possibly take you an hour?”

Oh, Andy. How adorable.