Elijah Vega.
“Hmm.” I grunt and push the last set of weights above my head, letting them clatter back into place. My body is soaked with sweat. Literally, every muscle is stretched and burnt. I breathe, letting that rich sense of exertion settle over me like a crown. One hour in, and my chest already looks pumped.
I hear laughter behind me as mother’s heels taps across the marble floor of the gym. It’s been what, two days since she arrived from Paris.
“Is that my son?” she beams like she’s found some lost treasure.
I wipe the sweat off my chest. “I’m drenched. Don’t hug me, Mom.”
But she cups my face in her hands like I’m six years old again. “You are my sweaty son, then. Muah.” She plants a kiss on my lips like I didn’t just bench press the weight of a motorcycle.
“Mom—”
“What? D
