Chapter 12: The Interruption
His hands were warm and sure on her waist.
“A little higher,” Dasha said, her voice tight with exertion. Her fingers gripped the cool metal bar, knuckles white. The gym was mostly empty at this hour, just the low hum of a treadmill in the distance and the faint, tinny beat of music escaping someone’s headphones.
Matt adjusted his grip, his palms settling just above her hips. “Here?”
“Perfect.” She took a sharp breath, then pulled, her body rising in a clean, controlled arc. The muscles in her back and arms corded, a stark contrast to the sleek tank top she wore. She held the position for a beat at the top, chin over the bar, then lowered herself slowly, with a grace that seemed more dancer than athlete.
“That’s four,” Matt said, his voice close to her ear. He hadn’t moved his hands. “You’re showing off.”
“You’re assisting,” she corrected, landing softly on the balls of her feet. She turned within the circle of his arms, a faint sheen of sweat on her collarbone. “Barely. Your contribution was largely moral support.”
“My moral support is very supportive.” He was smiling, that easy, unguarded smile that had become her secret addiction over the past week. It was Friday. The Tuesday rule, the Wednesday coffee, the Thursday dinner that had lasted until two AM—they were stacking up, these moments, building a new and fragile architecture between them.
This had been her idea. An early workout before her gallery opening tonight. His suggestion to join her, a last-minute cancellation of his own trainer. The normalcy of it was still a novelty. The mundanity was the entire point.
“One more,” she said, turning back to the bar.
His hands returned to her waist. “Make it perfect.”
She jumped, caught the bar, and began the pull. Her focus was absolute. The burn in her lats, the solid anchor of his touch, the world narrowing to this single, physical achievement.
“You’re late for hair and makeup.”
The voice came from behind them, flat and familiar. It didn’t belong in this space.
Matt’s hands fell away from her waist as if the contact had been wired to a switch. Dasha felt the loss of stability, the sudden cool air where his warmth had been. She completed the rep, lowering herself with deliberate slowness, before dropping to the mat and turning.
Leo Vance stood five feet away, a silhouette against the bright windows. He wore a dark sweater and jeans, his expression unreadable. He held Matt’s phone in one hand.
“Leo,” Matt said. The name was a sigh, a capitulation. The man from her kitchen, the one who made eggs, receded. His posture straightened, shoulders squaring almost imperceptibly. “I lost track of time.”
“Clearly.” Leo’s eyes flicked to Dasha, a quick, assessing scan. It wasn’t hostile. It was analytical. He was cataloging her workout clothes, her expression, her proximity to his client. He was calculating risk. “Car’s downstairs. You have thirty-seven minutes before they start gluing things to your face.”
Dasha picked up her water bottle, took a sip. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. The moment was shattered, the quiet intimacy punctured. She felt a sharp, unexpected anger—not at Leo, but at the intrusion, at the effortless way he summoned Matt back to his cage.
She looked directly at Leo. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”
A beat of silence. The treadmill hummed. Matt shifted his weight.
“Leo Vance,” Leo said, not offering a hand. “Matt’s manager.”
“Dasha Waldorf.” She capped her bottle. “I’m the one he was spotting.”
“I saw.”
“You probably forgot about the antiques when you accused me of stuff grabbing at the first meeting,” Dasha replied, her tone conversational, almost pleasant.
Leo’s eyebrows lifted a millimeter. Matt closed his eyes briefly.
Now, she watched the memory connect in Leo’s eyes. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He hadn’t forgotten. He’d just never expected the subject of his warning to be standing in front of him, referencing it casually while smelling of sweat and defiance.
“That was a professional concern,” Leo said, his voice careful. “Not a personal accusation.”
“Of course. It’s your job to worry about what people want from him.” Dasha slung her towel over her shoulder. “Mine was to identify a forged 18th-century porcelain shepherdess from forty feet away. Different skill sets.”
Matt made a soft sound, something between a cough and a choked laugh. He looked from Dasha to Leo, a silent spectator to a duel he’d inadvertently arranged.
Leo studied her for another long second. Then he gave a single, slow nod. Not approval. Acknowledgement. She’d parried. She hadn’t flinched.
“Matt,” Leo said, his attention shifting back. The priority re-established. “Now.”
“I’ll walk you out,” Dasha said, before Matt could speak. It wasn’t a question.
They walked in a tense, quiet line toward the lobby, Leo a step ahead. The bright, sterile air of the gym gave way to the softer, carpeted silence of the hallway leading to the private elevator.
“Your opening is tonight,” Matt said to her, his voice low.
“Seven o’clock.”
“I’ll try to make it after the taping. It might be late.”
“Don’t rush.” She meant it. The gallery opening was her world, her controlled chaos. The thought of him entering it, with all his attendant electricity and scrutiny, was thrilling and terrifying. She wasn’t sure she wanted Leo there, watching that, too.
The elevator doors slid open. Leo stepped in, held the door.
Matt hesitated. He looked at Dasha, and for a second, the mask was gone. She saw the frustration, the weariness, the apology. He reached out, not touching her, just a brief brush of his fingers against the damp fabric of her tank top, right at her hip where his hands had been.
“One perfect rep,” he murmured, a private callback.
Then he stepped into the elevator, the doors closing, swallowing him and his keeper whole.
Dasha stood there, the ghost of his touch cooling on her skin. The confrontation hadn’t been dramatic. It had been clinical. A boundary asserted. A reminder of the machinery that operated Matt Bomer, a machinery that didn’t include spontaneous mornings or easy gym sessions.
She walked back toward the pull-up bar, her own reflection warped in the glass. She could still feel the imprint of his hands.
Her phone buzzed in her bag. A text. She pulled it out.
Unknown Number: This is Leo. For what it’s worth, the shepherdess was obvious. The glaze was wrong.
Unknown Number: He’s worth more than porcelain. Be careful with him.
She stared at the screen. A warning and a concession, all in one. He’d gotten her number from Matt, or from some dossier. Of course he had.
She typed a reply, her thumbs tapping swiftly on the glass.
Dasha: I don’t believe he’s for sale. That’s why I’m looking.
Dasha: And the glaze was perfect. It was the crackle that was fake.
She put her phone away, not waiting for a response. She grabbed the bar again, her body thrumming with a new, fierce energy. She pulled herself up, once, twice, three times, with no one there to spot her. Each rep was clean. Each rep was perfect. She was alone, and she was strong, and the day was just beginning. Tonight was her gallery. Her world. Let them all try to keep up.