Too many men with the same name. I sighed, scrolling through the long list of profiles. My finger paused. There you are. Jackson Reyes. The only one in Stillwater, Minnesota.

My lips curved into a smile as I clicked on his account, eager to see more of the man who had quietly hijacked my imagination. But the excitement dulled as quickly as it had come: private.

Of course it was private. A man like him probably didn't need digital validation—no thirst traps, no hunting for likes. Just... existing. Effortlessly.

I fell back onto my bed, blanket pulled up to my chest. My thumb hovered over the "Send Request" button.

Don't be ridiculous, Ava. 

You talked once and it was about his daughter. That doesn't give you permission to lurk in his online life. He's still a stranger.

But yet... I lingered on the profile photo: a close-up selfie. His head rested on one arm, hiding the lower half of his face. Those beautiful brown eyes looked straight into the camera. Tousled waves peeked out from above his forehead. 

I tried to zoom in. My finger slipped.

Ding.

My heart stopped.

"Follow request sent."

No. No no no. No. I scrambled, frantically hitting "Undo." And then my fingers stilled. What if he saw the notification and then noticed it was gone? What if he remembered my name?

I sent it again.

What if he now had two notifications?

Shitshitshit. He's going to think I'm some unhinged stalker.

I was just about to undo it again when—

Ding.

"Jackson Reyes has accepted your follow request."

Ding.

"Jackson Reyes is now following you."

My breath caught. My heart pounded like it was trying to outrun the moment. Heat spread across my face. He followed me back.

I couldn't help myself. I explored his page. But disappointment struck again—three posts. That's all.

The first: a landscape. A photo from behind him, looking out over a ridge. Trees stretched like rivers below, a sunset bleeding color across the sky. Hiking? Camping? Was he with someone? His daughter? A woman? There was no caption—just a moment, frozen and offered without explanation.

The second: a German Shepherd. Its head rested in what I assumed was his lap, big brown eyes gazing up at the camera with affection so tender it made my chest ache. 

The third: A gym mirror selfie.

One of those black compression shirts. Gray sweatpants. One hand tangled in his hair. His bicep flexed beneath fabric stretched tight. Just the faintest edge of a tattoo peeked out from under the sleeve—enough to make me ache for more.

And then the center of the photo.

The bulge.

I bit my lip. Was it intentional? Did he know what he was posting? 

Ding.

J: You're from the bookstore, right?

Panic flared. Think of something, Ava. He probably wanted to know why I tracked him down and requested to follow him like a complete creep.

This is why I hate messaging—I can't read tone through a screen. But maybe that was a blessing. I didn't know how to act around him anyway and this saved me from looking like a fool again.

A: Hello there! Yes! I just wanted to let you know that if your daughter is available tomorrow, the afternoon is completely clear for an interview. As long as the paperwork is filled out ahead of time.

Message read. A pause. Then:

J: We can stop in tomorrow. I'll make sure she has the paperwork done by then. Thank you for reaching out.

Ding.

"Jackson Reyes liked your post."

My heart stuttered. I clicked the notification.

It was the photo Alex had taken of me weeks ago—curled up in the armchair at the back of the store. Floral slip dress. Gray cropped sweater. A romance book in hand. We were closed, and I'd been waiting for Alex to finish cleaning up the café. I vaguely remembered the novel. It was some sort of bodyguard trope.

My fingers teased the end of the page before I turned it, and suddenly—two large hands clasped the underside of the book.

"Ava," he said, low and rough, as he gently closed it.

Jackson knelt between my legs, shifting them to spread with gentle ease. He set the book aside with care. Fingers trailed up the length of my thighs, slow and deliberate, my dress inching higher with every pass.

"Ava," he said again—breathless, dangerous, reverent.

His lips brushed my inner thigh.

I snapped out of it and closed my documents app. Locked the screen and set the phone down.

What was I doing? There was no story here. No trope. Just a man I desired, and me.

I sat up, the blanket slipping off my frame as my bare feet hit the cold wooden floor. The glow from my laptop lit the dim room as I settled at my desk.

It had been over a week since I posted to my blog. The comments were flooding in— When's the next story? Can you do enemies-to-lovers next? We need more dominant male leads. Try reverse cowgirl, but with emotional eye contact.

And then, of course, the ones who thought they were being helpful. The self-proclaimed critics who masked their condescension as "constructive feedback."

"If you can write something better, then do it," I muttered, glaring at the last comment I hadn't deleted yet. "It's smut. Not a literary masterpiece."

Still... it had taken me a while to write anything. The billionaire-CEO-needs-a-fake-wife trope just wasn't clicking. Too cheesy. Too forced. Call it writer's block, or maybe I was just bored.

My gaze drifted from the blinking cursor on my screen to my phone. I unlocked the screen and there he was—Jackson Reyes. My thumb hovered, then tapped again on that gym selfie.

"Can you spot me?" I asked, wrapping my fingers around the kettlebell as I approached.

"For squats?" His brow lifted, hands resting on his hips, his head tilted in that maddeningly cocky way of his.

"I just need help with my form."

"You don't need a spotter for form," he said flatly—but I saw the way his gaze dropped, lingering.

I turned, taking position. These leggings were intentional, ones that made my ass truly pop. I dipped into a squat, slow and steady. When I rose, I gave the motion a little sultry curve. Another dip—this one with a slight bounce.

"So," I looked back over my shoulder, "how's my form, Jackson?"

He didn't answer. Didn't need to. His gaze was fixed—hungry—on my ass. Before I could even stand fully, I felt the warmth of him behind me. One arm wrapped around my waist; the other took the kettlebell from my hand. And there it was, beneath those gray sweatpants being pushed against me—the very hard to deny proof of what he thought of my "form." 

I chuckled at the pun. God, I am hilarious. I glanced around my room as if waiting for applause.

"Are you trying to tempt me?" His breath brushed my neck. A low growl vibrated from his throat.

"I'm just trying to work on my form, sir." I blinked up at him through the mirror, soft and sweet. "Was it not to your liking? Maybe... you could show me how to do it better?"

I shifted against him, slow and deliberate. I felt him react.

"Hands against the mirror. Wait there."

He stepped away.

I watched him stride toward the door. Locking it. Of course he did—I had booked the last session of the day with him for a reason, but he was making extra sure we wouldn't be interrupted.

I placed my hands on the mirror. And waited. The sound of something dragging caught my ear. I glanced through the reflection—Jackson was pulling a weight bench behind me, moving it like it was nothing. He sat on the edge, legs apart, watching.

"Spread your legs," he said, casually. Like he was asking for the time.

I hesitated. And then—

His hands gripped my thighs, firm and commanding, spreading them apart. He pulled me back, my back arching instinctively, ass now mere inches from his face.

His fingers trailed over me, feather-light through the fabric. A whisper of touch that sent warmth cascading down the length of my spine and pooling low between my thighs. The tension, the pulse, the ache this man created with such little effort.

His fingers pressed lower, firmer and I couldn't help the moan that escaped me at the friction. But the sound caught in my throat at the sudden rip, followed by the rush of cold air that kissed my now exposed skin.

"No panties?" he mused, smug as ever.

"No ugly underwear lines," I shot back, breathless. My palms pressed harder against the mirror, breath fogging the glass as his hand slid between my thighs. My pussy aching and wet for him. 

Then came a teasing glide of his finger between my lips before a stroke that barely pressed inside of me. "About your form," he said, calm, deliberate. "I'll need another demonstration before I can help you improve." His hands gripped my hips, urging me downward. "Show me how low—how deep—you can take it." The brunt of his tip, hard and insistent, pressed against me. 

"Ava." My name again, velvet-wrapped and low. "Don't make me wait."

Damn it.

I closed my laptop with a groan and leaned back in the chair, staring at the ceiling. I don't know if she should take charge next or if I should let him stay dominant. Readers love a shift in power... but they also love consistency. Ugh. They're going to be mad at another cliffhanger, but I'll claim it's a teaser for a very steamy long gym chapter to come very soon.

My fingers dragged over my face. Maybe meeting my muse wasn't such a good thing after all. Now I just want to know. What is Jackson really like in bed? Dominant and in control? Or gentle, deliberate? Maybe a sadist, slow and cruel with his pleasure? Or maybe—maybe he's a service top. Submissive beneath the surface, all about her.

I exhaled. God, the possibilities were endless—and for once, that was a problem.