Every Time I Fall (Orchid Valley 3)

He slowly drags his gaze over my off-shoulder T-shirt and jeans, all the way down to my sandals. “Damn.”

I laugh. I went with my typical wardrobe for today—deciding that each and every one of the other fifteen outfits I tried on made it look like I was trying too hard. “There is literally nothing special about this outfit.”

“I mean, I would’ve rather had you greet me in a skirt, but—”

I clear my throat, feeling my cheeks heat. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

Reaching out, he skims his thumb over my bare shoulder. “I like this nonetheless.” His tongue darts out to touch his bottom lip just before he lifts his gaze to mine. “Ready?”

“Depends. What are we doing?”

He winks at me and heads to his truck, jingling his keys in his hand the whole way.

Dean’s truck isn’t just an aesthetic choice. This truck takes a beating with his work, and he looks damn good driving it. I have to bite my lip and try not to stare as he makes his way down the road and turns on Main, parallel-parking in a busy area.

“You ready?” he asks, shutting off the engine.

“Ready as a girl can be when she has no idea what’s happening.”

“Trust me. You’ll like this.”

Dean hops out of his side and is at my door to help me before I get my door open. He helps me out of the truck before heading down the block, leaving me to scan the area and wonder where we’re going. We’re only a block from Smithy’s, but I’m pretty sure we would’ve just parked in the back if we were going there. There’s a Hispanic grocery store a couple of doors down—could he want to buy ingredients for us to make lunch together? Or there’s a wine-tasting bar for a local winery, and that doesn’t sound too bad either, but ten a.m. on a Thursday seems a little early for that.

My gaze flicks past the gym and to Bella’s Café. He would’ve told me if this was a brunch date, but—

It’s at the gym that Dean stops and pushes the door open for me.

I stop dead in my tracks. “Dean.”

He grins. “It’ll be fun—come on.”

Shit. I should’ve seen this coming. You let a beautiful, fit, sculpted guy know that you don’t have much self-confidence and that you want to feel more confident in the bedroom, and hello, personal trainer.

If I didn’t think Dean would be the type to do this—if I didn’t believe he’d push me into a workout plan or have me sign up for some diet? Well, that’s my fault, isn’t it? This whole world thinks we should aspire to be gym rats striving for a daily calorie deficit.

That’s just not who I am. Not that I haven’t tried before. The problem is I’ve tried so many times, and I’ve found I control my weight better when I’m not trying all the time. Nothing like a plan to start a diet on Monday to inspire a binge.

I shake my head. “I’m sorry.” My face is so hot. I’m so embarrassed.

Releasing the door and letting it fall closed, he folds his arms and cocks his head to the side. “You’ve never done this before?” Jesus, he’s smirking.

“I work out a lot, actually,” I say, sounding as defensive as I feel. Now my cheeks are hot and I’m straight-up offended. “I like yoga—at home—and I have friends I walk with several times every week. I don’t think people realize, but fat girls can be fit too, even if we don’t like to go to the gym to—”

“Abbi.” Dean’s eyes are so wide that you’d think he just saw the Easter Bunny in the flesh. He glances at the door behind him and shakes his head. “We’re not here for the gym. Jesus, if I wanted to work out with you, I would’ve had you wear workout clothes.” He steps closer and lowers his voice. “And I’d probably want to do it in my home gym so I wouldn’t have to keep my hands off you.”

“Oh.” I swallow. So I wouldn’t have to keep my hands off you. Well, suddenly working out with Dean doesn’t sound so bad. “Then what are we here for?”

He lifts a hand and taps the logo on the door—the one just below the name of the gym. Inner Peace Massage.

My eyes fly to his. “We’re here for a massage?”

“Yeah,” he says, looking me over. “I mean, I’d enjoy giving you one myself, but Rachel is the best in town. She used to work as a massage therapist for the Atlanta Falcons. She knows what’s up.” He steps closer, gripping my shoulders and squeezing. “You work so damn hard. You’re on your feet all day, and I thought it would be good for you to get some body work done.”

“Shit,” I say.