I feel some of my tension seep out. I feel relief that this hasn’t turned into a scolding or a conversation about how reckless I am. And with my hands propped on my hips, I offer her a stiff nod.
One she returns before putting me to work until my abs burn.
Twenty minutes later, I wheeze, “I’m tapping out.” I flop back on the mat, absolutely brutalized by the petite powerhouse who just tried to murder me with her “specialized workout.”
Specialized to kill me.
“Okay, let’s stretch,” is how she responds as she tosses a mat down and kneels beside me. When I glance up at her, a faint smile touches her lips, and her eyes dart around my face.
“Why do you look so pleased with yourself? I can see that evil little smile,” I pant out, still trying and failing to catch my breath.
She just laughs, reaching for some long piece of foam that she brought over earlier. “It’s a satisfied smile. That was fun.”
“You like to torture men for kicks. Got it.”
She pats me on the shoulder. “Only the ones who deserve it.”
I huff out a laugh. Because I probably do deserve it.
“Okay, sit up. I’m going to slide this under your back and let you lie on it for a bit. Open up the shoulders, stretch out the chest.”
I’m pushed up to sitting before she even finishes her sentence and find myself face-to-face with her. Closer than I should be, eyes glued to the way her lips move and the flashes of white teeth behind them as she chatters away.
She has no idea how distracting she is.
When she reaches around me with the foam roller, I catch a whiff of cherries and the salty tang of sweat.
“ . . . and then you’ll let your shoulders drop to the floor.”
I missed most of what she was saying, but she’s oblivious. Her small palm lands carelessly in the middle of my chest and presses me back down to the floor.
I think about how bad a chicken farm smells to keep from getting hard. And once I’m lying flat, spine propped over the rounded foam piece, I force myself to focus on the banks of lights above me and the clanking of machinery around me rather than the way she looks hovering over me and the quiet way she murmurs, “Good job.”
She counts under her breath, and I let my eyes close, trying to relax onto the roller, letting myself soften into the stretch across my back and chest. The pain slowly easing when her touch moves to the front of my shoulder, gently pressing down, deepening the stretch.
“How does that feel?” Summer’s voice is curious.
I peer up at her, taking in the earnest expression on her face. The damp hairs at the base of her neck just below her ear. She really is fucking lovely.
And all her attention is on me.
“Really good,” I reply, my voice all gravel. Then I risk looking her in the eye as I husk a deep, “Thank you.”
She brightens, a soft, satisfied smile gracing her features. “You’re welcome. Any time.”
And just like that, I think I have my first gym crush.
10
Summer
Dad: How many interviews have you set up for this weekend?
Summer: Two.
Dad: Good. You need to tell him what he’ll need to say. He’s refusing to play this off as a joke, so he needs to at least seem remorseful.
Summer: For punching a guy or for having a beverage preference?
Dad: Both. We could have him go out and order a glass of milk and call someone to snap photos.
Summer: No. We’re not doing that. Don’t even suggest it.
Dad: Why?
Summer: Because he doesn’t like it.
“How’s the hot cowboy?” Willa asks, sounding somewhat distracted on the other end of the line.
“Good. Fine,” I say, leaning on top of my leather duffel bag to close everything into it. I thought it would be perfect for our weekends away, but I don’t pack light.
“Actually?” She sounds surprised, and I suppose after our last conversation, that makes sense.
“Yeah. I think we came to some sort of truce earlier this week. My days have involved working out every morning and then making travel arrangements and sending interview requests for the cities we’re heading to. I’m thinking if I can curate some of these news stories for him, they might be more favorable.”
I resolve not to mention that I almost climbed on top of him at the gym yesterday. That he looked good enough to eat and that he finally treated me like he might not totally hate me.
“Huh. And he’s staying out of trouble?”
“Wils, he’s not a dog who keeps getting out of the yard. He mostly sleeps, reads, and helps his dad and brothers around the ranch. He’s not an idiot, and there’s only so much to do out here. I’m not going to ride his ass unnecessarily.”