in which a shy florist falls in love with a flirty mafia boss.
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gwendolyn westbrook has spent her life filled with schoolwork and stress. taking care of flowers was her way to relax. she'd never experienced the feeling of love- let alon...
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"harder!"
"please, i—"
"the enemy won't hold back, gwendolyn. swing harder, c'mon!" shouted miles.
"i can't. please, i need to rest." panted gwen, clutching onto her stomach. "my arms are going to fall off."
"hm, a five minute break is all your getting."
it turned out that miles had decided to stay with them to help gwendolyn train. just from the look of his downturned lips and furrowed brows, he was deadly serious about the training.
gwendolyn attempted to lighten up the mood by (painfully) asking ice-breakers to him, yet the ice barely melted.
"so, uh... what's your favorite color?"
silence.
"okay, um... what's the best food you've ever eaten?"
more silence.
"oh, uh, that's cool... do you have any pets?"
even more silence.
you know what, gwendolyn thought. let me just stop.
every second miles didn't say a word, the urge to fall into a hole grew stronger for gwen.
"let's just start," he muttered.
and with that, miles made gwendolyn work—hard.
lifting weights (twenty times, each arm separately), endless sets of curl and push-ups, and punching a plastic dummy over and over.
"uh, miles?" he responded with a grunt. "how long has this been going on for?"
"your training? about twenty minutes."
"and when are we supposed to end?"
"you have another twenty minutes to go, gwendolyn," miles deadpanned.
"oh." she felt her heart drop. "can't it be a little bit shorter? just a little."
miles brown eyes glared down at her. "we needs the full forty minutes, having good self-defense is essestantal for your protection, gwendolyn."
