I snap my head back toward the runner.

It looks like Byron.

But it can’t be. It doesn’t make sense. My mind is so full of him, it’s embarrassing.

Whoever it is faces away from us, so I can’t see his face. He’s shirtless, his muscular back shifting and bunching with each step. He’s built like a Greek god. From what I’ve seen of Byron, there’s no doubt he works out—but this guy has the body of an Olympic athlete.

I turn back to Hazel and she catches my eye, following my gaze to the runner in the corner. The runner who absolutely can’t be Byron.

“Let’s go,” Hazel says, her voice hushed. “We don’t want to interrupt.”

She scurries out of the gym and we follow her.

“Was that a member?” Eden asks as we exit the gym and take the steps down to the basement level.

“We’re not open to members yet,” Hazel says. “The launch is February fifteenth.”

“So staff can use the facilities until then?” Eden asks.

“Certainly not. I’m sure you know that use of any of the facilities by staff is strictly prohibited. That was one of the first things we covered yesterday.”

“So who’s that guy?” Eden asks. She needs to drop it. Hazel is clearly getting more and more irritated. It really doesn’t matter who the guy is, does it? Unless it’s Byron, in which case, it matters a lot.

“That’s Mr. Miller,” Hazel says, her voice hushed like we’re supposed to know who Mr. Miller is. Clearing her throat, she resumes the tour. “This is the basketball court.” She opens the double doors onto the full-sized court. I’m sure if I were a basketball fan, I’d be impressed. Given I’m not, I try to seem impressed. “There’s a viewing gallery above that you can access from the hallway adjacent to the gym. You may well get food requests up there, although we expect most to be fulfilled by Eat Well.”

I stare up at the viewing gallery, wondering if Mr. Miller is still running. It’s impossible to make out any of the equipment from where we’re standing.

“Next is the racquetball courts.”

Eden rolls her eyes at me. “Will there be maps?” she asks.

“It’s a good question,” Hazel says, her tone returned to normal. “It’s something we’re working on.”

We’re waiting for an elevator by the entrance to the gym after finishing our tour of the facilities on this level, when the glass door of the gym opens. We all look around to see the shirtless guy with gray shorts coming toward us, a towel around his neck, his chiseled torso shimmering with sweat.

When my gaze finally lands on his face, I find myself looking straight at Byron.