Oh. I couldn’t help the little internal sigh at his words.
He leaned forward once again, rasped a hand over his chiseled jaw. He'd probably shaved this morning, but he needed it again. Not that I minded. I wanted to run my fingers over his whiskers and see if they were soft or prickly. “Let me start over. Okay?”
I c****d my head and noticed his chagrined expression. So I nodded, curious.
“I’m Gray, Paul’s trainer.”
Of course, he was a trainer. He looked it. Fit. But fit like he lived that way, not just by pumping iron. His forearms were corded with muscle, his hands rugged, fingers long. With the scar and tattoos, he looked downright dangerous, more like a fighter than a simple trainer. Perhaps he’d competed in the past. Boxer? What did I know about that stuff? I just knew what I could
