Declan frowns as he digs through a

Declan frowns as he digs through a box of shirts in his office. It’s the only expression I’ve seen him wear, and I don’t know him well enough to know if I should take the furrowed brows and tight lips personally or not. Maybe he’s a big ball of sunshine around everyone else, but I kinda doubt it.
He sighs. “I don’t have any smalls,” he says, handing me a black t-shirt from the box. “I’ll have to order you some.”
“Thank you.” I spread it out, taking in the gym’s logo on the back as he sets the box back on top of a filing cabinet. 
I pull it on over my tank top, then tug my ponytail out of the back of the shirt. The men’s large dwarfs me, so I gather the excess fabric off to the side, tying it in a knot. When I look back up, Declan blinks and looks away quickly.
The space between his brows wrinkles as he frowns yet again and pretends to look at some papers on his desk. It’s got me self-consciously trying to tug down the hem of the knotted-up shirt, which I now realize is riding a little high and pulling up the bottom of my tank top with it. 
He clears his throat. “We’re open six days a week, from six AM till eight PM, and closed on Sundays. The only Saturdays I need you to work are the third Saturdays, every month.” He finally looks back at me. “Okay?”
I nod. “Not a problem.” What little social life I had is non-existent now, but I’m not about to tell him that, because he (a) doesn’t care, and (b) doesn’t need to know. No use broadcasting that I’m a friendless loser, right? 
Right. 
“Good.” He looks as close to pleased as I imagine his surly attitude will let him get and motions for me to follow him out of his office. As we walk through the gym, he says, “Your job serves two purposes. First, I need someone to pick up around here. Things like vacuuming, putting back the occasional piece of equipment that’s left in the wrong spot, and—probably the most important part of your job—towels.” 
He leads me down the hallway to the locker room and off to the side is a door marked Laundry. Pushing it open, he flips on the lights. On one side of the room sits two industrial-sized washing machines, and on the other side are two equally huge dryers. A big metal table sits in the middle of the room, ostensibly for folding.
“Ninety percent of your job’s gonna be keeping the towels in the locker room stocked. It’s a never-ending pile of laundry that needs to be washed, dried, folded, and put away. Pretty simple, but it gets repetitive really fast. Any questions so far?”
I shake my head. “I’m a maid, basically.”
Declan’s lips turn up into the closest thing I’ve seen him do that resembles a smile. It’s beautiful and distracting—two things I definitely don’t need right now. “Basically.”
“What’s the second part of my job?”
He exhales. “Locking up at night. Ever since the old manager retired a few weeks ago, I’ve been working double shifts from open to close, six days a week, and I’m really fuckin’ tired of it,” he says, lightly chuckling. “I need you to work from twelve to eight, with an hour for lunch, Monday through Friday. Think you can handle that?”
“Yeah, I just, um. . . You want me to close by myself? I’ve never been in charge of anything like that.”
“All you need to do is stock clean towels in the locker room, turn off the lights, and make sure the doors are locked when you leave. These guys come in, do their thing, and go. I promise they won’t need your help with anything, but I still need someone here while the place is open. And hey, if you need any help, my apartment’s right upstairs. Okay?”
I nod again, placated by his response, when it dawns on me what this means. I’ll have the entire gym to myself, conceivably for hours every night after closing. I can take showers. Wash clothes. You know, things most people don’t think twice about.
Declan reaches into his pocket, pulling out and handing to me a set of keys. “I won’t make you close tonight, but you think you’ll be ready tomorrow?”
“Absolutely.” I told Declan he wouldn’t regret hiring me and I want to keep my word. I also want to keep this job, ’cause it turns out it’s got some pretty sweet perks.
A guy dripping with sweat walks by on his way to the locker room. He nods to Declan in that signature, silent way guys say “hi” and wipes his face with a hand towel, then tosses it into the nearby laundry bin. 
Declan rolls it over to me, and I stare at the growing pile of white terrycloth. I can smell it from here, all stale man-sweat, and my lip curls.
“Looks like you’re up,” he says, giving me a pat on the back.
I watch him walk away, his big, inked arms swinging by his sides. The white cotton of his plain t-shirt hugs his back like a second skin, stretching over those impossibly broad shoulders. His gait’s surprisingly graceful for someone so huge.
I push the thoughts from my head and turn to the cart. Groaning, I grab a handful of towels and shove them into the gigantic front-load washing machine. Ugh, they’re damp. 
“Gross,” I mutter under my breath.
It’s a small price to pay, though, considering the benefits. So yeah, I can totally handle some stank-ass towels now if that means I won’t have stank-ass body parts later.
I finish loading the towels into the machine. Since it’s only half-full, I push the cart back into the gym to collect more.
My steps come to a halt when I see Declan back in the ring, sparring with the guy from yesterday. His black shorts hang low on his hips, sitting below that tantalizing “V” all super-cut guys seem to have. My gaze goes up to his washboard abs and hard pecs as he throws a quick one-two punch, the muscles bunching and relaxing under his skin. He leans back when the guy takes a swing, narrowly dodging his punch, and then left hooks the guy in the gut, dropping him to the floor. 
This all happens within what seems like a split-second.
My mouth’s agape, and for the life of me, I can’t look away. The way his muscles flex with every movement, the rivulets of sweat clinging to his skin, his confidence—it’s all so virile.
He turns and locks eyes with me. Chest heaving, sweat dots his brow as green embers sear into me, pinning me in place. I should be embarrassed I’m openly staring at him, but I’m not. At least not right now. Later I probably will be.
Okay, that’s a lie. Later I’ll be searching for a rock to crawl under, because I’ll be mortified.
But right now I don’t care, because right now I swear he’s got the same look on his face that I’ve got to be wearing on mine. It starts with “want” and ends with “you,” but there’s a whole lot of mental undressing in the middle.
He holds my gaze until his head’s wrenched away by a flying fist, which makes him stumble back. Surprise flits across his face as he touches his bloody lip. It’s replaced with a scowl just as quickly and he comes out swinging, his fist connecting to his opponent’s nose.
I blink, the spell broken as I drop my eyes to the huge black and gray tattoo on his back. It’s a pair of hands clutching a rosary, clasped together like they’re praying. The detail and shading are amazing. It looks more like a photo than anything that could’ve been drawn by hand. Someone had obviously spent hours etching that into his flawless skin. Each pass and stroke of the needle had to have been meticulous and reverent, and the artist’s passion for their work is apparent.
Beneath the hands, in elegant script, is Mickey the Great, and there are two dates—a date of birth, and a date of death. 
The name seems familiar, and it takes me a second to realize where I know it from. It's the boxer from the newspapers in the lobby.