Everyone who works within the New York Warriors organization knows that star player August Fletcher refuses to talk to most people...and especially team reporters. All except Quinn Castle, that is.
Quinn doesn't know why the broody football player...
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MY MUSCLES WERE ACHING by the time we made it back to August's house. After being on my feet all day yesterday and spending today unloading boxes, I was beat.
So when August surprisingly invited me to join him for a workout in his home gym, I declined, telling him I couldn't go another minute without rinsing off. It wasn't a lie; I badly needed a shower. But I also didn't want August to know how drained I was. He'd probably lock me up in his guest room the next time he had things to take care of around the island.
I had no idea how he had the energy to work out, but I was sure he was used to a hell of a lot more physical activity than I was. And while I certainly wouldn't mind watching August Fletcher engage in more physical activity, I figured that would be a terrible idea after what happened between us this morning.
I was already suffering from undeniable attraction to this man and making it way too obvious; watching him work out would not help my case.
Instead, I stared at the ceiling in my room and contemplated my life choices before taking a long, hot shower and wrapping myself in a fluffy robe I found folded in the bathroom. Had August put that there for me? Or did he just stock his guest bathroom as though it were a well-rated hotel? Either way, I took advantage of it.
Robe-clad with freshly blow-dried hair, I eventually emerged from my room to grab a glass of water. And when I turned the corner into the kitchen, I found a towel-wearing August Fletcher.
He didn't have a shirt on–of course, he didn't have a shirt on–and was bent over the kitchen counter as he sliced strawberries. His muscles shifted under glistening skin as he worked, hinting that he'd also just gotten out of the shower.
Never had a man looked so good while slicing strawberries.
"You must be hungry," he said, unfazed by the situation.
My mouth was watering. But it had nothing to do with being hungry. For strawberries, anyway.
When I struggled to respond, August glanced over at me. And then he did the unthinkable....he smirked.
He knew. He knew what he was doing, waltzing around without any clothes on while his hair was all wet and messy, and he smelled–ugh. Good. Too Good. And he was enjoying it. Way too much, in my opinion.
"Castle?"
"Sorry." I cleared my throat. "I'm just trying to figure out why you're standing there without clothes on."
"Does it bother you?" he asked, his eyes twinkling before he looked back at the fruit he was cutting.
"It doesn't bother me," I insisted, even though it did, in fact, bother me. In the way that seeing August Fletcher half-naked made me feel hot and bothered. Very bothered. Even more than that day we'd gone swimming, and he'd ended up in my shower wearing the same thing he had on now.
