We both know that’s never going to happen.
“I watched that movie you mentioned.” Sweat’s already trickling down my forehead. Why am I at the gym again? Whose bright idea was this?
I’ve only had a few sessions with Phil, but each time, movies come up. He’s a big movie buff. He told me his girlfriend found this one on a streaming site and suggested I watch it.
“Which one?”
“Love at First Sight.”
“You like it?”
“Made me cry.” If my arms worked right now I’d smack him, but considering I’ve just done a bazillion step-ups onto a bench with three million pound kettlebells in my hands, I’m not sure I even have arms.
Also, that may be a slight exaggeration. They were twenty pounds each, but they most definitely felt like three million. My burning shoulders and forearms can attest to the fact.
“I haven’t seen it.” He’s already lost count of how many step-ups I’ve done. I might not know him well yet, but I know he can’t fucking count, and I need to pay particular attention to my number of reps.
“You should watch it, grab the tissues though.”
Phil strikes me as a sensitive soul. I tend not to cry at much of anything, so I’m a terrible judge of whether something’s emotional or not.
“WatchedNo Hard Feelings,too. Love Jennifer Lawrence so much.”
“Wasn’t it great?” Phil’s clearly lost count of the reps. Not that I blame him, the movie in question has a full frontal nudity scene when Jennifer Lawrence runs out of theocean onto the beach to chase some kids who stole her clothes.
Damnit, now I’ve lost count, too.
When I finally finish my last set of step ups, I’ve gone over my time by a few minutes. There’s something about this gym that doesn’t feel like a gym. It’s a wide open loft, there is equipment lining the perimeter and a wide open space in the middle the instructors use for spin classes, circuits, and various other activities.
Loud music and bright purple and blue lights make it feel less like a clinical, same-old gym, and more like somewhere fun. My muscles don’t currently agree, but I always leave in a better mood than when I arrive.
“You have someone else coming in?”
Phil slaps his palms together and rubs them. “Conveyor belt of pain.” The glee in his eyes cracks me up. The guy’s a sadist. For sure.
When I turn to cross the space to get my jacket and bag from the front desk area, my eyes land on familiar bright blue eyes and my stomach plummets. Raffi Shaw stands staring back at me.
Can’t even pretend I didn’t see him, he’s lookingrightat me. He’s standing next to someone who could also be a hockey player, but without his name emblazoned across his shoulders, I don’t know who he is.
“Raffi.” Phil waves across the room to the man who sucked every bit of oxygen out of it. “You’re up. See you Wednesday, Tori.”
Raffi nods, but holds up two fingers at our personal trainer. “Can we talk?”
If my stomach wasn’t through the floor already, it would be twisting up in knots.
He waits for me to grab my stuff and follows me out onto the landing outsidethe door.
“You workout here?”
His brows flinch. “What? No. Why would you say that?”
“This gym isn’t near campus. You have no reason to be here.”
“Neither do you.” He points at me, the corners of his lips threatening to turn up into a smile.
I’m not telling him I live near here. He doesn’t need to know that. “I heard Phil was a great trainer.” And I got an intro package for classes at an absolute steal so there were no more excuses not to get my ass to the gym.
“Me too.” He scrubs the back of his neck, eyes cast to the floor between our feet. “I gave Eloise my number. We should talk.” His eyes are swimming with emotions I can’t read and imploring me not to lose my shit at him.
