Sweat, Sass, and Shirtless Distractions
1431 Words
The gravel crunches under Harley’s boots as she steps out of the Tahoe, the early morning air crisp and biting. She pulls her sleeves down, fighting the tight coil of anxiety that’s been slowly wrapping around her ribs since the moment she woke up.
She tells herself it’s nothing. Just nerves. Just routine.
She’s lying to herself, and she knows it.
Beau rounds the front of the truck just as a familiar voice cuts through the air.
“Well damn,” Jr calls out, jogging across the lot with a clipboard in one hand and a half-eaten protein bar in the other. “Didn’t think I’d see your pretty face out here this early, sweetheart.”
Harley forces a smile, quick and sharp.
Jr slows to a swagger by the driver’s side and leans against the door with all the charm of a man who flirts for sport. “You know, if you’re getting bored over in evidence, I could always put in a good word to transfer you to training. We’d have a hell of a time.”
Beau shuts his door with a little more force than necessary.
Harley doesn’t even look at him, too focused on keeping her expression casual. “You just want me in reach so someone else can be on the mats.”
Jr grins. “Damn right I do.”
Beau finally steps forward. Calm. Collected. But his eyes are colder than they were a second ago.
“I’m Lieutenant Winters,” he says, voice low and even, extending a hand.
Jr shakes it, eyebrows flicking up. “Right. New brass from Montana. You’re doing your fitness test today?”
“Yep,” Beau replies. “Figured I’d warm up while Harley sets the timer.”
“Oh, she’s timing you? Damn, you’re in for it, man,” Jr jokes, clapping Harley lightly on the shoulder. “She’s brutal with a stopwatch.”
“Good,” Beau says, peeling off his department polo without another word.
Harley turns her head, but not fast enough.
Black BDUs. Tactical belt riding low on lean hips. No shirt.
Just sweat-slick skin and a back cut like it was sculpted from war and rodeo grit. His shoulders flex as he tosses the shirt onto the hood of the Tahoe, and Harley immediately regrets everything about her existence.
Jr whistles. “s**t. You’re one of those guys.”
Beau doesn’t flinch. “One of what?”
“The kind who’s gonna make the rest of us look like mashed potatoes out there,” Jr mutters, pulling out his stopwatch.
Harley clears her throat and turns to hide the way her pulse just jumped. “I’ll get the cones.”
Her hands are shaking.
Not from nerves.
Not just from nerves.
From the heat rolling off that man like danger wrapped in discipline.
And from the way—when she glanced back for half a second—he was already watching her.
Like he saw the tremor.
And cataloged it.
Beau steps onto the gravel-lined start line like he owns the earth beneath it. Calm. Controlled. That black duty belt hugs his hips low, the matte steel of his handcuffs glinting in the morning sun. His skin gleams, sun-warmed and dusted with sweat already, and the black BDUs ride low across his lean waist, every line of muscle carved into sharp relief.
Harley plants the last cone and straightens, forcing her eyes to stay above his shoulders—and failing.
When she glances up, he’s already watching her.
That same quiet smirk curling the corner of his mouth.
“You sure you’re ready to see me sweat, darlin’?” he asks, voice low, gravel-dusted. “You looked a little stunned back there.”
Harley blinks. “You’re shirtless, not sacred.”
His grin widens. “Didn’t say it was about the shirt. Just figured I should warn you, it gets worse once I start moving.”
She scoffs, biting back the urge to blush. “Try not to trip over your own ego, Winters.”
“No promises,” he tosses back. “But I’ll go easy on your stopwatch.”
She narrows her eyes. “You better not. If I’m up early and freezing my ass off, you better run like the gates of hell are behind you.”
He tilts his head, giving her a slow once-over that feels more like a claim than a compliment. “I’ve had worse chasing me. But nothing nearly as pretty.”
Harley doesn’t flinch.
But her stomach flips, traitorously.
She clicks the timer. “Three. Two. Go.”
Beau launches forward like he’s got a fuse lit behind him.
It’s not flashy. It’s not wild. It’s precise. Every stride long and grounded. His boots eat up the pavement, muscles shifting under his skin like machinery designed for damage. By the end of the 300-meter sprint, he’s already glistening, jaw tight, chest rising in a steady rhythm as she calls the time.
“Thirty-one seconds,” she says, eyebrows lifting. “You trying to impress me or Jr?”
Beau walks it off, tossing her a grin. “Which one’s watching me like I’m a steak on sale?”
“Touché,” she mutters, heat crawling up her neck.
Next come the push-ups.
Beau drops low, arms locking into a perfect plank, back flat, shoulders loaded like a coiled spring.
“Ready?” she asks.
He doesn’t answer.
Just starts.
Slow. Controlled. Power etched into every downward drive of his body.
By thirty seconds, she’s lost count.
By sixty?
She’s not even pretending to count anymore.
“Keep staring,” he says mid-rep, not even winded. “I’ll start charging rent.”
Harley crosses her arms, ignoring the twist in her gut. “Tell me when you hit two hundred.”
“Worried I’ll overdo it?”
“Worried you’ll pass out and I’ll have to call dispatch. Would hate to see your ego bruised and your knees.”
He laughs, low and unbothered. “You’re feisty. I like that.”
“I’m not here for you to like,” she shoots back.
Beau pushes off the mat and straightens, sweat trailing down his spine. “Too late.”
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t walk away.
Because God help her, she’s curious.
Next: sit-ups.
Jr wanders over again, conveniently busy with his clipboard, while Harley kneels to spot him.
Beau drops to the ground, knees bent, eyes never leaving hers.
“You holding me down?” he murmurs.
“Only because protocol says I can’t step on your face.”
Beau smirks. “Bet you'd look good doing it.”
She clenches her jaw and shoves her hands down over the tops of his boots.
“Ready when you are, Lieutenant.”
And when he starts?
Every flex of his abs just dares her not to look.
By the time he stands from his final run, sweaty, winded, and entirely too pleased with himself, Harley is biting the inside of her cheek hard enough to leave a dent.
He wipes his brow with his discarded shirt and tosses her a wink. “So… did I pass?”
She throws the stopwatch into her pocket. “You passed. Still obnoxious. But passable.”
He steps closer, close enough that she feels the heat rolling off him again.
“I’ll take that,” he murmurs. “But for the record? You’re harder to impress than Colton said you’d be.”
Her eyes snap to his. “Colton said that?”
Beau nods slowly. “Said you were all bite. Didn’t mention the legs, though. Or the mouth.”
Her lips part, words loading fast, but she’s unsure if she wants to slap him or smile.
Before she can decide?
Jr calls across the lot, “Hey, you two want to stop eye-f*****g and actually join the rest of us?”
Beau doesn’t even flinch.
Just tosses Harley a crooked grin and drawls, “Later, darlin’.”
Then he turns, slow and easy, and walks toward the mat room like he knows she’s watching every damn step, thankfully putting his shirt back on.
Because she is.
And she hates that he knows it, following in behind him.
Her gaze flicked to him, sharp. But he didn’t press. Just turned back to Jr and asked, “What’s the first drill?”
Jr flipped his clipboard. “Resistant subject, prone position. Let’s give the kids a show.”
Beau nodded once. “Let’s.”
And Harley had never hated the sound of her own heartbeat more.
- Writer
