Since my father raised me to be responsible about money and commitments, I will attend my self-defense class this afternoon. My dad’s rules are simple. Don’t ever buy something unless you intend to use it more than ten times in a year. Don’t fall for quick money-making schemes, and never make a commitment you aren’t planning to keep. If I hadn’t already paid for the self-defense lessons at Colt’s gym, I may have attempted to back out of our agreement. But since my hard-earned money has already been handed over, I’ll honor my commitment.
And if I'm being honest, I’m willing to give anything a shot if it will help ease the constant dull ache in my chest.
“Blaire,” Lacey snickers when I throw a super baggy shirt over my head, swamping the scandalously skimpy gym attire.
“I don’t want to get arrested for public indecency,” I argue before snagging my car keys off the coffee table.
She laughs but doesn’t refute my claim. She knows as well as I do this outfit can’t really be called an outfit. I swear my swimsuit has more material in it.
“Wish me luck.” I press a kiss to Lacey’s cheek.
She returns my gesture. “You won’t need it.”
Nervous butterflies takeflight in my stomach the instant I pull open the heavy glass door of M.S. Gym. The smell of sweat mingles through my nose as blood-pumping music filters into my ears. There's so much testosterone thickening the air, the environment has an invigorating feel to it.
A small smile cracks onto my lips when I spot Colt in the corner of the room. He waves a greeting before finalizing his conversation with a blond gentleman working out on a leg press machine. I swing my eyes around the space, taking in the state of the art gym. It's over two levels and nearly every piece of equipment has a body attached to it. Whoever owns this gym must be pleased by the high attendance rate on a late Sunday afternoon.
My hand automatically darts up to smooth the frazzled pieces of my hair when Colt paces towards me. Colt is no doubt attractive—not as appealing as Rico, but who is?—but that’s not why I’m fluffing my hair like a woman fishing for a compliment. I’ve seen Colt shirtless numerous times, but not normally when I’m suffering the severe effects of a hangover. I look like I’ve been dragged a quarter mile under a bus. Colt looks like he’s just returned from being photographed for the cover of Men’s Fitness Magazine.
I snort. He probably has.
“Hey, baby girl, you ready?”
Colt swoops down to place a kiss on my cheek. Even his breath smells fresh. Not wanting to kill him with my skanky roadkill breath, I nod.
“Alright, let’s get this show started.”
He places his hand on the curve of my back and guides me through the gym. Numerous women’s eyes track his every move, no doubt admiring the way the muscles in his cut arms flex with every stride he takes. My disheveled appearance becomes even more apparent when I take in my female counterparts gawking at me in surprise. They are working out in body-hugging gym clothes, perfectly up-swept hair, and a full face of makeup. I don’t have a speck of makeup on my face, my shirt is three sizes too big, and my hair is limp since it's still carrying the effects of the sweat-infused club last night. I look as wretched on the outside as I feel on the inside.
When he walks us into a room at the side of the gym, my heart rate kicks into overdrive.
“Where is everyone?” I swivel around to face him.
He closes the thick glass door, blocking out the endorphin-pumping music blaring through the gym before shifting on his feet to face me.
His brows raise into his hairline. “Everyone?”
“For the defense class.” My voice is as unsure as my facial expression.
Colt smiles a boyish grin that makes my pulse surge a little faster. My reaction can’t be helped. Even hungover and nursing a broken heart, Colt has a wonderful smile.
“Everyone who needs to be here, is here, baby girl.”
I swallow, harshly. “Umm. . . are you sure? There are only two people here. Me and you.” I roll my eyes at the dimness of my voice. Squaring my shoulders, I straighten my spine and stand taller. “I thought I agreed to a self-defense class?”
“You did,” Colt confirms.
I wave my hand over the vacant room that's clearly void of any other gym patrons. My hand gesture freezes halfway when he mutters, “You requested one-on-one defense classes, Blaire.”
I drop my hand to my side. “I did?”
“Yes, you did.” He moves to a set of protective mats housed on shelves near the glass-paned window at the front of the gym. “And since you're a goodfriendof mine, I wanted to ensure you got the best instructor.”
He puts on a set of square black pads before spinning around to face me. “That means you get me all to yourself, baby girl, for an hour, three times a week, for a whole month.”
My mouth falls open. I should have listen to the pleas of my brain. Shots are never a good idea. No matter how heartbroken you are.
As Colt walks back towards me, his eyes absorb my baggy shirt hanging halfway to my knee. “Didn’t have any gym clothes to wear?”
