His Mafia Queen

Torture

RILEY

Had I known what the next hour and a half entailed, I would've said no. I would've begged off, claimed to be exhausted, declared that I needed a couple of hours to myself. Or maybe canceled the interview and the article altogether.

Because this—watching a shirtless Gabriel lift weights, do pushups, and jump rope—is pure fucking torture. Especially since I keep replaying our kiss in my mind.

Somehow, I assumed he'd be clothed. Or less sexy. I was kind of hoping he would smell weird, or let out little unattractive grunts. But no. Every movement is fluid and silent, and somehow he smells...fresh. Despite the light sheen of sweat covering the miles of his beautiful, smooth skin.

I'm perched on one of two weight benches, pen in hand, notebook on lap, and I've only scribbled a few things so far.

GABRIEL GRECO

Focused

Physically strong, wearing a faded, dark blue t-shirt and gray shorts

Takes shirt off... (I underlined that three times).

Trail of dark hair down muscular abs

My eyes flicker to his chest, then the sprinkling of hair that trails from his bellybutton to the perilous netherworld that resides under the waistband of his shorts.

I drag my gaze back up to his face. Good lord, I'm objectifying the guy. How inappropriate. Of course, he's smiling and knows exactly what I've been staring at. Bastard.

"Care to join me?" he says, the rope making a whizzing sound as it slices through the air and circles his body. Nothing on his body is jiggling. Every muscle is rooted in place, like a slab of granite. Apparently, he has zero body fat.

"Ha. No, I get my exercise in other ways." Did I mention that I'm also somehow suddenly incapable of normal conversation?

"Oh, yeah?" Surprisingly, he doesn't leer or say anything provocative. He stops skipping rope and walks over to the free weight set, which takes up one entire wall of the home gym. He grabs a large hand weight. "What kind of workouts do you do?"

I can't help but stare at his back muscles, and the small beads of sweat that cling to his olive-hued skin.

"Riley?" He turns with the weights in hand.

"Uh. Yoga. I do a lot of yoga." It's not a lie, but I suspect my definition of "a lot" of exercise is probably vastly different than his. I try to attend the Saturday morning yoga class on a nearby beach.

If I'm not hungover.

"That's really cool. I need to work on my flexibility." As he speaks, he effortlessly curls the weight, flexing and tensing his rock-hard bicep.

"So, you're into physical fitness. Any reason?" I inwardly cringe at my stupid, softball question. But this is essential. I need to get him comfortable before I ask anything tough. I gawp at his arm muscles.

Liar.

"I actually was on the track team at USF in college. Working out helps me manage my stress."

I scribble this down, along with a couple of follow up queries on a separate page, under the imaginative heading of QUESTIONS. I'm so busy writing that I'm startled when Gabriel stands next to me. I yelp and jump to my feet, and my notebook flutters to the floor. He bends over to get it and checks out the first page.

"No, Gabriel—" I reach to grab the pad of paper and he easily turns away with a grin.

"You're quite observant of me taking my shirt off. And"—he flips a page—"the size of my bicep. You wrote, 'how big is it?'"