Dad Bod (Under Construction 1)

>>Let’s meet at the pier instead of Dumb Belles.

I check my watch and realize I only have twenty minutes to make it to the pier in time.

>Shouldn’t I be the one making these decisions?

>>See you at the pier at 4.

He obviously knows my schedule well enough to know I have a short break between clients before his session each day, or I wouldn’t be able to meet him. Makes me wonder exactly what else he knows about me.

I strap my phone to my arm and toss a bottle of water and some cash into my fanny pack—yes, my fanny pack. It’s convenient, although gaudy, and that’s what matters.

“Goin’ out?” Bryn asks as I round the corner into the lobby.

“Yeah, Madden asked me to meet him at the beach for his session today,” I reply, stretching my hamstrings.

“Ooooh, a romantic jog along the beach. He’s getting smooth.” Bryn bats her lashes at me.

“Erhm, yeah. Don’t do that.” I point in her direction, and she laughs. “I’ll be back in time for my next appointment.”

“If not, I’ll search the clothing trail to under the pier.” She winks as I flip her the bird, backing out the door.

Earbuds in and Post Malone blasting at an ear-piercin’ decibel to drown out the environment around me, I hit the pavement at a steady pace and cut right onto Butler Avenue. Dumb Belles is conveniently located only four short blocks from the Tybee Island beachfront, and it’s a nice little jog to the pier. I maintain my breathing, my heart rate increasin’ with the pace of my run. I dodge around the few late fall travelers who are perusing the boardwalk and cross onto wooden planks of the Tybee Island Pier, right into Madden’s arms.

Not intentionally on my part, of course.

As I breach the top of the landing, my footfalls thudding against the wood, Madden reaches out and wraps his arms around my waist.

He wraps me up against his chest, bare and coated in a sheen of sweat. He winks before setting my feet to the ground, laughing. I pull my earbuds out and drop them in my fanny pack—see, convenient, and catch the tail end of Mad’s conversation. “Always bustin’ my damn balls.”

“What was that? I had earbuds in and didn’t hear you.”

“I said—you’ve done wore yourself down before I had the chance to, Jo. You ain’t playin’ fair here, Healthy Lady.”

I don’t miss the way his eyes trail down my body and the double entendre. He’s brazen, that’s for damn sure. I secretly love flirty Madden, even though it is wrong on so many levels.

Hands on my hips, I cock my brow as I drag in a cleansing breath before rippin’ his ass a new one. All in good fun, of course, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“You think you’re cute, tryin’ to escape your weigh-in, don’t ya! Well guess, what, sweetheart”—I jut my hip to the side with even more attitude—“we’ll do today’s session your way. But you’re still goin’ back to Dumb Belles to weigh in.”

As he opens his mouth to groan, I put my hand over his lips—thick and full and deliciously rough—and shush him. “Don’t. I gave in on the weekly weigh-ins; hell, at this point I’ve gotten you on the scale once since you started training six months ago, but I need to know the numbers to adjust your diet and your workout regimen. It’s important.”

“What if I don’t show?” He shrugs, uncaring.

“Oh, you’re haulin’ my sweaty ass back to the gym, Davenport. After runnin’ four blocks here then two miles on the beach, I’m gonna be dead on my feet.”

“Fuck.” He laces his fingers over his head and turns away from me, but I ain’t done yet.

I jet around him and race down the dunes, shouting over my shoulder, “Loser does fifty push-ups!”

I turn my focus toward the shoreline and pump my legs through the sand, diggin’ deep for better traction, but I keep my pace solid. This ain’t a marathon, and I ain’t attemptin’ to push Madden over his limits. This is merely a challenge.

“Better catch up, Jo!” he chides as I dart to the left to miss truckin’ over top of a little boy building a sandcastle.

“The fuck,” I mutter and pump my legs harder. I’ve nearly caught up to him as we hit the one-mile mark and cut back toward the pier, and I jog behind him in his blind spot. My heart pounds angrily in my throat, and I know Madden is tiring as I gain speed and close the distance between us. Suddenly he slows and bends at the waist, and I pump the brakes, concerned he’s overdone it.

“Mad!” I scream as I approach. He pants profusely, trying to suck air into his lungs. His face is blood red and panicked. Fear grips me as I try to open my fanny pack with shaky hands to pull out the water to cool his core temperature down when…

“What the ever-lovin’ fuck!” I shout as I'm hauled up into the air, my abdomen meeting the hardness of his shoulder. He surges forward, running the last quarter mile packin’ an extra one-hundred-fifty pounds of lean muscle over his shoulder.