Who knew making a fool of myself with something as basic as drinking water could rival a walk of shame?
But here I am, back at the scene of the crime, ready to face Adam—the unfairly attractive trainer with eyes that see right through my gym-intimidated soul.
“Morning, Carlie,” he greets me with that half-smirk of his, and I swear my heart does an involuntary cardio session.
Note to self:falling for your trainer is the new falling off the treadmill—embarrassing and likely to result in injury.
Don’t do it.
I muster a smile, one that I hope says,‘I’m a confident, put-together woman,’and not,‘I cataloged every muscle in your arm when you helped me up yesterday.’
For research purposes.Obviously.
“Morning, Adam. Ready for front-row seats to my next workout comedy special?”
Adam’s laugh is a low, easy sound that fills the space between the clanking of weights and the rhythmic whirring of treadmills. He extends the water bottle I left yesterday.
“Thanks. I’ll try to remember it this time,” I say, raising it in cheers.
“I have a feeling today is going to go better than yesterday. You got all of the first-day jitters out,” he says, gesturing toward a row of machines with a grace that suggests he’s more at home here than anywhere else. “Let’s start with a basic warm-up on the elliptical machines today.”
I nod, trying to hide my skepticism. “Okay.”
I follow him into a small room I hadn’t noticed before, filled with wall-to-wall elliptical machines. He points to one that’s open and I step up to it to place my water bottle in its holster.
I’m determined to look like I know what I’m doing today.
Adam leans against the machine next to me and his proximity is a little disconcerting, but not unwelcome. He’s close enough that I catch the clean, sharp scent of his aftershave mixed with a hint of something—citrus, maybe?
Tucking that thought into the recess of my mind, I hop on the elliptical machine with the grace and ease of a cat.
At least, that’s what I’m telling myself.
No one died and the machine didn’t inadvertently start on its own.Win.
I start pedaling, and Adam’s gaze fixes on the digital display, but not before I notice a quick sweep over my form. Professional, sure, but it lingers just a heartbeat too long on my mouth before he shifts his gaze.
And then, for just a fraction of a moment, his eyes drop to my neckline. The intensity of his look, fleeting as it is, makes me self-consciously tug at the collar of my shirt, pulling it up slightly.
Despite the warmth in the gym, a shiver runs down my spine as I ponder why he’d glance there.
Does he notice something off about my outfit? Or is he noticing the extrameI carry around—my love handles and double chin that could seriously rival a bakery’s best croissants?
Or maybe he’s thinking about how the elliptical under my less-than-svelte frame is getting a workout of its own.
I force the thoughts away, reminding myself that I’m here to work on me, not audition for the role of‘Girl Who Can’t Take a Compliment or a Trainer’s Glance.’
But the tiny gremlin of doubt doesn’t quite leave, settling instead in the pit of my stomach, doing its best impression of a lead weight. I suck in a sharp breath and try to force it back down.
“Keep the pace steady. The goal is to warm up the muscles and stretch them out a bit,” he advises, his voice firm but encouraging. “You’re doing great.”
I want to seriously snicker at the ‘doing great’ part—my thighs are already protesting, and I’ve barely begun—but I bite back the sarcasm. Instead, I focus on the burn in my muscles, the steady beat of my heart, and the man who somehow makes me want to push myself harder than I have in a long time.
Throughout the warm-up, Adam stays by my side, his attention occasionally drifting over the other gym-goers but always snapping back to me like a magnet. Each time his eyes meet mine, I feel a little jolt—like there’s something he wants to say.
“Okay, I think that’s enough. Your muscles should be fairly warm. Let’s add a little more resistance,” he says after a few minutes.
When I fumble with the settings, his hand brushes mine as he helps me adjust the resistance. His fingers are warm—the touch fleeting but electric.