She’ll be in for as much of a shock as I was when I fill her in that I was paired with a personal trainer who looks like he stepped right out of one of my steamy scenes.
At least he wasn’t one of those muscle-bound, brain-addled alphaholes.
In fact, he was way too sweet—and hot—to be anything but dreamy.
I decide not to check my message just yet. If I do, I’ll likely walk into a lamp post or something and I need my wits about me if I’m gonna make this new version of Carlie come to fruition.
As I stride down the sidewalk, I try to shake off the embarrassing first day—the trip on the treadmill, the unfortunate incident with the water bottle, and the way my voice cracked when I first said hello to Adam—not Ada.
If clumsiness is an art, I’m the friggin’ Picasso of it. Or would that be the Polluck of it?
Yeah, Jackson Polluck’s more my jam.
But it’s not just the mishaps that keep replaying in my head—it’s him.
The way his shirt stretched over his muscles, how his lips twitched into a lopsided smile that looked like it was just for me—even when I was making a complete fool of myself.
He’s like that guy from Club Nocté, only ... tangible, real, and able to make me blush without even trying.
Especially when I think of my idiocy on full display.
I mean, all the mishaps aside, my attempt athellocame out more like a haunted house soundtrack—part creaky door, part startled cat.
I was soooo not expecting an Adam.
While he looked like he’d been photoshopped in real life, my brain,ever so helpful,supplied nothing but elevator music.
I run my hand over my face.
As I reach the corner, a breeze picks up, and I get a whiff of the lake—fresh and cool and somehow full of possibilities. I never thought I’d feel that way again.
Not after …
Shaking my head, I drop that line of thought.
Instead, the past few days have made me think more about my novels—of the wild, adventurous romances I pen down for my readers.
Only now, the line between my fictional escapades and my real-life choices seem to blur a bit. Between that one incredibly sexy night to—hell, even to this day with Adam, I feel like something is stirring.
Is it the sunshine or is it him making me feel like the heroine in my own story?
Ridiculous.
My stomach growls, a rude interruption to my daydreaming. I haven’t eaten anything today—unless you count swallowing my pride. There was plenty of that.
Maybe a stop at my favorite bakery will cure the blush that I can’t seem to shake—or at the very least, provide a sugar-laced consolation.
I pull up short.
No, Carlie. For crying out loud, that’s what got you into this mess. Go to the fancy protein shake place. It’s time to act like you love the taste of green powder.
Adjusting my direction, I’m almost to the protein place when my foot decides to tango with the other, and like the most awkward dance partners, they step on each other’s toes.
My arms flail in a desperate attempt to find balance, of which I have none. And just like that, I’m wrapped up in the leafy arms of a hydrangea bush outside one of the downtown businesses. The blossoms whisper what I imagine to be floral expletives in my ear.
“Looks like you could use a hand,” comes a voice, wreathed in the kind of mirth that suggests its owner has seen a thing or two.
I look up, ready to find a bemused bystander with a phone out, capturing my downfall for internet immortality.