“Acting like a teenager and making very little sense.”
“He’s under a lot of stress,” she pointed out.
I proceeded to my desk and powered up my laptop. I laced my fingers together and stretched before typing Christian’s name into the search engine. I’d done it before, when I’d first realized he would represent Amanda. But this time, I didn’t get into his LinkedIn page or his professional profile at his firm. I went straight to his social media. There wasn’t much there. Just one forgotten Facebook page that looked like it hadn’t been updated since the Stone Age. I double-clicked on a picture of a younger version of Christian, smiling to the camera with the two men who’d been with him during trivia night.
I scrolled through his profile, but there was nothing other than people congratulating him on several promotions and tagging him in company pictures. The only person who seemed to be liking most of his pictures consistently was a woman named Alice, but she had no profile photo. An ex? An admirer? I was sure Claire wasn’t happy about Alice’s existence.
The last thing he’d been tagged in was a post from seven months ago by a guy named Julius Longoria. There wasn’t a picture, just a check-in at a glitzy gym downtown. The post read: Here to sweat!
Drumming my fingers on my desk, I contemplated my next move. Going to his gym was crazy. Then again, I’d never claimed to be within the lines of sanity. He’d thought I was a stalker before, when we’d bumped into each other randomly at the Brewtherhood. This would pretty much confirm all his Fatal Attraction theories about me, and then some.
On the other hand, there was something about Christian Miller that didn’t sit right with me. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something felt . . . off. It was worth looking into, seeing as he held Dad’s future in his hands. Besides, what if I found Christian hitting on a cute trainer or doing something sleazy himself?
Then there was Claire. I suspected he was sleeping with her too. Wasn’t there a no-fraternization policy for people who worked in the same chain of command? This was worth looking into.
Any leverage I could get on him would work in my favor at this stage, and all was fair in love and war.
“I know that look on your face.” Jillian tsked across the room, typing something on her laptop. “Whatever you are up to, Ari, drop it. It’s got disaster written all over it.”
But the seed had been planted.
Christian Miller was going to get another surprise visit.
Solstices was a three-floor gym on Columbus Avenue, fitted with a spa, indoor pool, hair salon, and wax parlor. Basically, you could walk in there looking like the cover of the Enquirer and come out looking like the cover of Sports Illustrated.
I signed up for a trial month and paid an obscene amount of money for the pleasure.
Contrary to popular belief, I’d done a lot of penny counting along the years. Came with the territory of becoming financially independent at age eighteen (excluding college tuition, which my parents had paid for). I enjoyed fancy brands and shopped for them at discounted second-and thirdhand stores, but I didn’t enjoy splashing money unnecessarily.
I arrived at Solstices both in the morning and in the evening to try and catch Christian, hitting the treadmills and keeping an eye out for him. By the third day, I figured I might as well get a real workout while I was doing my detective work and brought my bikini and a swim cap.
Since swimming was the only workout I could actually tolerate, I hit the indoor pool. It brought memories from when I was younger, with Nicky.
The first two laps were excruciating. My lungs burned, and I swallowed some water. By the third lap, I got into the rhythm of things. On my tenth lap, I broke the water when I reached the edge of the pool, taking a greedy breath, letting waterdrops slip into my mouth. I was delirious with exhaustion.
“Look what the cat dragged in.”
My head snapped up, and I was met with Christian Miller in the flesh. He was wearing swim trunks, his Adonis six-pack on full display. The dusting of hair on his chest glistened. That was how I knew he’d been swimming right beside me this whole time when I hadn’t been paying attention.
“Am I not allowed to attend the gym either?” I propped one arm over the edge of the pool, ripping the swim cap from my head with a satisfying thwap. “Why don’t you just email me a list of places I can and cannot go to in the city?”
Christian readjusted the waistband of his trunks. His V cut gave Joe Manganiello a run for his money. “That’s actually not a bad idea. I’ll get my secretary on that.”
“Let’s see how that works out for you.” I braced myself on the edge, pulled out of the water, and sauntered to the bench where I’d left my towel and flip-flops. Christian followed me, sneaking a peek at my legs as I wrapped the towel around myself.
“Are you saying you haven’t come here because of me?” He folded his arms over his chest.
I let out a snort, like the idea itself was preposterous. “Believe it or not, Mr. Miller, the world doesn’t revolve around you.”
He watched me pat myself dry. “Do you swim often?”
Huh. No verbal sparring. Maybe he’d come down with something.
“Just started again. You?”
“Every day since I was twelve.”
I could tell. He had the sinewy, long, and lean body of a swimmer. His muscles were defined but not bulging.
“It’s a healthy sport,” I said. Great. Now I sounded like my grandmother. Next, I’d give him a granola-cookie recipe.
“Yes,” he replied flatly, not letting me off the hook.
“I missed swimming.” More meaningless words from yours truly.
Christian began circling me like a shark, a smirk playing on his lips. “Why are you here, Roth? Really, now. What’s your game?”