“Okay, okay, I give up! Enough!” Caitlyn allowed the treadmill to spit her onto the floor like an olive pit, and she collapsed to the gym mats. “Cripes! You’re a machine! Uh, no offense.”

Dmitri smirked down at her from his own treadmill. Damn. There was that dimple again, flickering at her from his left cheek…and gone just as quickly. “Do you need some water? Possibly a transfusion?”

“Ha fucking ha. No need to be such a smug bastard about it.”

“Ah, but several people would tell you I am a smug bastard.” He hit the button to slow the machine down, and the speed dropped from one hundred kilometers to eighty. His face was lightly sheened with sweat, but the crumb wasn’t even out of breath. “I do apologize. I admit, I was curious…you’re the, uh, what’s the phrase? Newer model? I had doubts about my ability to keep up with you, frankly.”

She shook her head. “Well, lay them to rest, big guy. I can hit your speed, but I can’t keep it up as long as you can. Here I thought I was the only one in the world who could run as fast as a Ford Mustang.”

“Sorry,” he said smugly.

“Yeah, well, how are you behind the shampoo chair? Probably not too great. Yeah! It’s rinse, then repeat, by the way.”

He slowed to sixty kilometers. “You did quite well. You looked…impressive.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere. After I pass out on this floor for a few hours, I’ll make you buy me supper. You know,” she said boldly, “we’d make a helluva team.”

He looked straight at her. “I’ve had thoughts,” he said without a trace of a dimple, “in that direction myself.”

“Oooh, how…weird and unsettling. But in a nice way,” she added hastily. “So. When’s dinner in this joint?”