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2026-10-13 10:26:14
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My Husband’s Brother, My Filthy Trainer 140
MIA Clara didn’t say good morning. She walked straight up to the counter, set a patient chart down like it was evidence, glanced at the wall clock, then lifted her eyes right to mine. “A neighbor mentioned a car in the lot last night,” she said, her voice even, no edge to it, no warmth either. “Parked out back. Late. Long after we locked up.” My fingers froze on the keyboard, one key half-pressed. I slowly pulled my hand back to my lap. “I was finishing up some notes,” I said. “Lost track of time.” “In the parking lot?” One eyebrow lifted just slightly. “I sat in my car for a little while afterwards. Just… breathing. Thinking.” She didn’t look away. Her gaze stayed steady on my face — searching, careful, not cruel, but not buying it either. “Was it Jake’s car?” The question landed between us, sharp and clean, no smile to soften it. My heart gave a hard, uncomfortable thud. “No,” I said. A small lie. A necessary one. And it still made my stomach twist like I’d swallowed some
My Husband’s Brother, My Filthy Trainer 139
MIA The courier turned up just before closing, no uniform, no logo on his bag. He set the plain white envelope on the front counter, glanced at the name written on the front like he didn't care either way, and walked back out to his car before I could even ask who it was from. No official seal. No return address. Just thick paper and Ryan's handwriting — neat, sharp, every letter deliberate, like he'd practiced it. I waited until the last patient left, until the door had locked behind them and the waiting room was quiet and empty, before I slit it open. Separation and Release Agreement. I sat down hard on the stool behind the desk. Numbers ran down the first page — an amount so big my eyes skipped over it twice. Monthly support. A lump sum payment. Release of claims. And then the clauses that stopped my breath cold: Petitioner agrees to have no direct or indirect contact with Jacob Hale, his business, or his family. Petitioner shall not contest the legitimacy, custody, or parenta
My Husband’s Brother, My Filthy Trainer 138
JAKE The house smelled like lemon polish and that soft vanilla candle she always burned — clean, safe, exactly the kind of place where nothing messy should ever happen. I dropped the yoga mats on the floor by the window, kept my movements steady, my voice level. “Warm-up first,” I said. “Same order as Tuesday. Nothing different today.” Mia nodded, eyes fixed somewhere near my shoes. She was wearing Clara’s spare leggings again — dark grey, too snug around her hips, pulling tight where they shouldn’t be anything but fabric. She kept tugging at the hem of the oversized shirt, like pulling it lower could hide the shape of her, like I hadn’t already memorized every inch she was trying to cover. Clara was already bending forward, loose and easy, chattering about a patient who’d cancelled last minute and how that meant she actually got to finish her own workout for once. “Clara — don’t lock that knee,” I said, stepping in gently to adjust her stance. “Soft bend through the joint. Mia —
My Husband’s Brother, My Filthy Trainer 137
MIA Clara’s phone rang sharp from the kitchen counter, cutting through the quiet. She glanced at the screen, already pushing herself up from the sofa. “Sorry — it’s the clinic,” she said, hurrying toward the hallway. “Give me two minutes. I promise.” Her footsteps faded down the hall. A door clicked shut behind her. Then it was just the soft glow of the lamp, the quiet hum of the fridge, and Jake’s knee pressed close enough to mine that I could feel the heat through both our clothes. He didn’t lean in. Didn’t reach for me. Just turned his head and looked at my mouth like he was waiting for me to stop lying — to him, to myself. “Did you mean it?” he asked, his voice so quiet it wouldn’t travel past the couch cushions. “Mean what?” “Stay away from me.” His gaze held steady on mine. “Because every time I sit this close, your breath changes. Your hands tighten. Your body doesn’t know how to lie even when your mouth tries.” Heat crawled up my neck, hot and guilty and impossible to
My Husband’s Brother, My Filthy Trainer 136
MIA Clara’s heels hit the tile before I could move. She pushed the glass door open with her shoulder, bag on one arm, phone still in her hand. The clinic was half-dark. Jake was still at the desk. I was still behind it. For a second nobody spoke. Clara looked at him. Then at me. Then at the empty waiting room. “You’re both still here,” she said. “Closing up,” I said too fast. “Charts. The system glitched on the last two.” Jake didn’t help. He just stood there with his hands off the counter now, like that fixed anything. Clara set her bag down on a chair. “I thought you left an hour ago.” “I did,” Jake said. “Came back.” “For what?” I answered before he could. “Insurance question. One of the afternoon patients. I texted him because I couldn’t reach the file.” It was thin. Clara’s eyes said she knew it was thin. She didn’t call it a lie. She only smiled the careful smile she used with difficult patients. “Well. You’re both upright. That’s something.” She glanced at the dark
My Husband’s Brother, My Filthy Trainer 135
MIA The clinic lights were already dimmed, only the hallway lamp glowing soft and low. I’d filed the last patient chart, locked the medicine cabinet exactly the way Clara had shown me, straightened the magazines on the coffee table until they were perfectly aligned. The waiting room was empty. The only sound left was the low hum of the staff fridge down the hall. My shift had ended an hour ago. My room was twenty steps away — a bed, a door that locked, silence. I could have gone there. Instead I sat at the front desk, clicking through empty screens, closing windows I’d already closed, because busy hands felt safer than lying awake in that quiet room. The bell above the door chimed. I looked up. My heart gave a sharp, painful lurch. Jake. He didn’t step all the way inside. Didn’t glance down the hall toward where I slept. He stopped right at the counter, hands in his jacket pockets, like he was just another patient who’d arrived after hours. His hair was damp at the edges,
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