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It had been more than a month since my bizarre encounter with Chase Parker, yet suddenly I found myself rethinking alcohol vs. exercise because the man wore an Iron Horse Gym T-shirt in his Facebook photo.
“You know what? You’re right. I should exercise to help me relax. After all, I can get shitfaced later if it doesn’t work.”
“Now you’re talking.”
“I’ll meet you there. How does an hour sound?”
“See you then.”
I seriously should’ve had my head examined. I blowdried my hair and put on my sexiest exercise gear to go work out with a great guy I’d recently started dating, yet none of my efforts were really for him. Instead, I had far-fetched hopes of seeing a guy who owned a T-shirt with the gym name on it—a guy who thought I was a bitch and dated statuesque blondes with excessive cleavage, not five-foot-one, B-cup women with hips, even if I did have a tiny waist.
Forty minutes on the elliptical, and I was totally regretting my drinking-vs.-exercise choice. Bryant was lifting weights on the other side of the gym, and I should have been happy that a nice guy had invited me to come work out. Instead, I was out of breath, disappointed, and thirsty. Glad I chilled two bottles of wine.
When he was done, Bryant came over and asked if I wanted to go for a swim. I hadn’t brought a suit, but I told him I’d keep him company in the pool area. While he went to change and rinse off, I walked on the treadmill to cool down. The slow speed allowed me to catch up on a backlog of emails on my phone. One of them was from a recruiting firm indicating that they’d found me the perfect job overseas—in the Middle East—and asking if I was interested in doing a video conference with the company. I thought the email was funny because there were so many misspelled words and grammar errors.
After Bryant changed, we walked to the pool area together. I read him the email as he opened the door. “It actually says in the qualification requirements, ‘Must be sober, sane, and not overly dramatic’. Think they have a PMS problem in Yemen?” Looking down at my phone as I walked, I crashed straight into someone.
“Sorry, I wasn’t looking where—”
I froze.
The sight of Chase standing there was almost enough to knock me over. I’d secretly hoped to see him, yet never thought I actually would. What are the chances? I did a double take, sure I was seeing things. But it was him all right, in the flesh. And what flesh it is. Standing there shirtless and wet—wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung swim trunks—he had me stuttering. Literally.
“Ch…Ch…Ch—” I couldn’t get the word out.
Of course, Chase didn’t miss a beat. He smirked and leaned in. “You do a cute train impression, Buttercup.”
He remembers me.
I shook my head, attempting to snap myself out of it. But it was no use. He was so tall, and I was so short, I had no choice but to stare at his body. Water trickled down his abs. I was mesmerized watching it speed up and slow down as it crossed the rippled lines of his six-pack. Damn.
I cleared my throat and finally spoke. “Chase.”
I was pretty freaking proud of myself for getting that much out. He had a towel slung around his neck and lifted it to dry off his dripping hair, revealing even more flesh. His pectoral muscles were carved and perfect. And—oh, my God…is that… Holy shit. It is. His nipples were cold and erect, and one of them was….was…pierced.
“Good to see you, Reese. We don’t see each other for ten years, and now we’ve run into each other twice in a month’s time.”
It took me a minute to realize he was referring to our fake middle school years. His wit snapped me out of my haze.
“Yes. Aren’t I lucky?”
“I know you,” Bryant said.
I’d completely forgotten he was standing next to me. Hell, I’d forgotten anyone else on Earth existed for a minute. I furrowed my brow. Did the two of them actually know each other?
“You’re Reese’s cousin. The model.”
Shit! Shit! Shit! I wanted to crawl into a hole and die.
However, Chase (being Chase) went right along with it. He looked at me curiously as he spoke to Bryant. “That’s right. I’m cousin Chase. Aunt Bea’s youngest nephew. And you are?”
Bryant extended his hand, and Chase clasped it. “Bryant Chesney.” Then he turned to me. “I thought your mom’s name was Rosemarie? Same as my mom’s.”
Chase cut in smoothly. “It is. But some of us call her Bea. Nickname. She’s allergic to bees. Got stung at a family barbecue once. Her face swelled up, and the kids all called her Bea after that.”
Seriously, the man has to be a professional liar. He was so damn good at it, and he seemed to be turning me into one, too.
