I take in his arms. They’re chiseled and defined. Then I look at how wide and thick his shoulders are as they stretch into an impressive, solid-as-stone chest.
He’s not big in a muscle-bound way but built in a you-know-you-want-me-to-take-my-shirt-off kind of way.
Which is true. One hundred percent. And that’s precisely what I’m afraid of—him.
But I can’t tell him that. I can’t say that I’m afraid and that I’ll actually physically shake if he touches me. Or that I might get so lost in the possibilities of me, him, and a weight bench that I drop a dumbbell on my face. And I’m definitely not telling him that the idea of running on a treadmill and having him watch my bits and pieces flop around is never going to happen.
I suck in a deep breath. “I’ll be honest with you.” Ish.
“Please do.”
“I’m not really sure I want to work out. I saw an ad online one night when I’d had too much wine as a coping mechanism for both my daughter getting her driver’s permit and my husband leaving me for a girl who could be my daughter if I’d gotten pregnant in high school—which I didn’t,” I add, just so he’s clear I’m in my late thirties. “Some people have a gene to love exercise, and I am not one of them. I like pizza and Coke and … and Fun Dip.”
He laughs, looking slightly bewildered. “Fun Dip? The colorful stuff you shove the stick of sugar into?”
“That. Yes.”
“Okay,” he says, amused. “Continue.”
“I’m … I’m done.”
I bite my lip and wait for him to laugh at me. To realize I’m a lost cause and to tell Brittni to keep me on the schedule for Carina or whomever she said.
But neither thing happens.
Instead, the amusement transforms into something else altogether.
“Brittni?” he says over his shoulder. “Could you grab a PT intake form out of the personal training room, please? I’ll watch the desk.”
“Oh, um, sure,” she says.
My heart pounds, pumping blood through my veins at a record pace. I sit my bag on the floor just in case I pass out from the heat in his gaze.
“Now give me the other half,” he says, his voice low.
“What are you talking about?”
“You said you’d be honest with me.”
I nod.
“You told me all the reasons you don’t want to work out.” He narrows his eyes. “Now give me the reasons you want to.”
I hate being put on the spot. Hate it. But there’s a warmth in his eyes, a decency, a give-a-fuckness to them that plows right through my defenses.
“I want to feel better,” I say. “I want me back.”
He nods.
“But I don’t want to run on a treadmill or do squats. I hate squats. Believe it or not, I used to do them. And I loathe steppers too … and a list of other moves and equipment that probably includes everything you have in here.”
Then I smile. Because I don’t know what else to do in response to that look on his handsome face.
“Thank you for being honest,” he says.
“Sure.”
He laughs quietly. “I’ll make you a deal. Train with me three times. I won’t make you do anything you hate. And if you still don’t want to come, I’ll not say a word.”
Ugh. Why does he have to be so nice?
“Nothing I hate? Like, I can say, ‘I don’t wanna do that’ and you’ll not smirk or make me feel guilty?”
“Not for the first three days. And I won’t even charge you.”
My common sense is screaming at me to leave—to not commit to this madness. It reminds me that I almost canceled when I thought it was with a girl, not the Unofficial Bachelor of the Year of Cherry Falls. Snapshots of possible outcomes—burn marks from falling on the treadmill, knee braces from being so out of shape, damp panties from both looking at Dane and from the little bit of pee that sometimes happens when I jump—filter through my mind with big, red warning lights.
But then he smiles, and it’s so contagious, so friendly that I would feel bad saying no.
Just agree and then cancel when you get home.
“Today will just be a tour of the facilities so you feel more comfortable,” he says. “I want you to like it here. I want you to feel comfortable here.”
“You do realize this is a gym, right?”
He laughs. This time it’s easy and reminds me of a laugh between friends.
I roll my eyes, fighting a smile. “Fine. Three days. That’s all you get. Then I’m outta here with my Fun Dip.”
His smile is wide and bright as he extends his hand. “Then it’s settled. I’m Dane McDaniels, your new personal trainer. It’s nice to meet you, Kaylee.”
A shock of energy travels through my palm and up my arm as he takes my hand in his. My gaze snaps to his. If he feels it, he remains unaffected.