This can’t be right.
My brain kicks into overdrive, ricocheting between possible explanations. Maybe this is one of those bizarre social experiments, and somewhere someone is watching to see if I’ll respond.
I glance around conspiratorially.
Or perhaps Adam lost a bet with the beefy Jillian chick, and the dare was to text the most grace-challenged person at the gym because I’m sure she noticed. She was watching me as much as I was stealing glances at her in the hopes she didn’t witness my demise.
I can almost picture the other trainers drawing straws, and Adam, with his luck just slightly better than mine, drawing the short one.
Or maybe, in a plot twist worthy of my novels, he’s actually an undercover prince forced to work in a gym to escape the paparazzi, and I am the unwitting civilian who’s stumbled into his story.
Right,and next, I’ll be fleeing from villainous henchmen in a high-speed Vespa chase through the city.
The blush that I’d managed to tamp down flares up again with the force of a supernova. There’s something seriously wrong with my brain.
I type out a response with fingers that suddenly feel like they belong to someone else—a parallel universe version of me who can actually talk to men without turning into a walking cautionary tale.
Hi Adam, all good here. Just a typical day in the life of a human disaster. Thanks for checking in, and I’ll retrieve the water bottle tomorrow, if that’s okay. Embarrassment should be less lethal by then. Hold it for me?
I hit send before I can concoct another wild scenario—like Adam being a secret agent who mistook my water bottle for a gadget-filled counterpart.
The thought makes me chuckle.
As if anyone would trust me with gadgetry more complicated than a pen. I’d probably accidentally activate a laser in the middle of a crowded street or something.
The woman behind the shake counter calls my name, and I collect my goddess drink that looks like irradiated sludge.
One sip and my taste buds immediately regret the decision not to go to the bakery. The tang of the lemon does little to mask the taste of liquefied lawn, despite half-expecting to sprout a peacock feather or throw a lightning bolt once I’ve swallowed.
The girl behind the counter eyes me expectantly as if waiting for me to transform into an Olympian deity right before her eyes.
I force a smile. “Mmmm, so good.”
Apparently appeased, she nods and turns to make the next drink.
I find a seat near the window, pulling out my notebook from my gym bag. It’s time to process everything—the good, the bad,and the Adam.
My pen hovers over the paper as I contemplate where to start.
Rather than focusing on the disaster that was my gym experience, my mind drifts back to Friday night. The next-level sexiness and seduction that had played between me and the mystery man from Nocté.
I flip to a new page and begin to write a new scene, one where my heroine meets her hero in a sexy nightclub. The words flow from my pen like they’ve been waiting for just this moment.
It’s strange how life works—I leave the gym thinking my day can’t get any worse, and then a series of stumbles lead me to the perfect scene. Maybe it’s the universe’s way of telling me to keep at it, no matter how many bushes I end up making out with.
As if on cue, a hydrangea petal flutters from my hair and lands on the notebook. I shake my head, and brush it aside.
An hour passes before I lift my gaze to see the sun casting its golden glow across the city streets. Gone are the early morning shadows.
On the upside, I’ve filled pages with witty banter and heart-racing moments, and for the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. At least, with my current work in progress.
Life, now that’s another story.Literally.
My phone buzzes with a new message, snapping me back to reality.
It’s from Adam.
I thought you should know, your courage today was inspiring. Not everyone would get back up after that many falls. Looking forward to our next session. And don’t worry, your water bottle is safe with me.