The words land clean.
No room left around them.
“I arranged a private coach. She’s the best in town. You can check her reviews later.”
I glance at her again, this time clocking the insane definition of her muscles. Toned and leaned, obliques that could cut glass, the center line of her abs one of those things some say are genetic. Hers maybe are too, but it’s definitely also the result of hard work.
Her arms are ropy, strong. She might not be jacked up like a gym bro, but I wouldn’t mess with her in a dark alley. She looks like she could plank for hours with one of those guys sitting on top of her without breaking a sweat.
“There’s a cancellation fee.” It’s the first thing that springs to mind.
I booked a class.
But now my class is here.
But I didn’t bookthisclass.
I’ve never heard of this person before.
What is even happening?
“I already handled it.” Of course he did. “This is a better option.”
It isn’t framed as a suggestion.
My mind glitches, almost as if a zap of electricity misfires, sending what feels like a shock through my synapses. “I’ll—be right back.” The need to run, to get away and process, outweighs my need to ask more questions. For now, at least.
“Take your time,” he says. “Beth will get set up.”
Beth.
Like it’s already done.
Like I’ve already agreed.
I move across the room, step into the bathroom and close the door.
My phone is in my hand before I sit down on the edge of the bathtub, the porcelain cool even through my leggings.
Beth Perkins. Master Pilates Instructor.
Five stars.
The reviews are ridiculous. Transformation photos. Impressive credentials. Testimonials that read like people owe her their lives.
I scroll slower.
This isn’t random.
This isn’t impulsive.
This was planned.
And he didn’t just replace my class—he upgraded it with precision.
My stomach tightens slightly.
Not resistance. Just… adjustment. Because this isn’t something to argue with.