The perfect cover.
“Mm. Well, you won’t disturb me. There is plenty of space,” he gestures around.
“Weights or cardio?” he asks.
“Um, a warmup first, then weights.” I speak with confidence as I walk over to the mats where I’ve done stretches before. It’s not like it’s my first time in his gym, but I’ve never been here with him here, too, and the space feels a hundred times smaller now.
It’s strange how I've been in gyms all over the place. Different faces, different equipment. It never really mattered to me; I would just dive in and enjoy it. But this, right now, is the first time I have ever felt self-conscious about it.
I can feel his eyes burning into my back as I bend down to start my usual stretch routine.
My movements are stiff and awkward.
Nothing I do takes away from the fact that he is in the same room as me, shirtless, sweating, looking far too manly…and I am struggling to act normal about it.
I stand up and realize he has wandered closer, bringing his chosen weights to the mirror to work out next to me in the stretching area.
My cheeks burn hotter and I become even more awkward.
“You make that look easy,” he says, confirming that he is watching my every move as I lower myself down to move into the splits.
“Everything is easy when you do it enough times,” I reply.
I close my eyes, trying to block him out as I finish my routine. It’s not working. He’s larger than life, and every time I speak a peek at him, he’s still watching and cheekily grins at me.
When my stretches are done, I let out a little huff of annoyance. If I could escape this horrible moment, I would run right out of this gym and hide, but then he would know he has some kind of power of me or that I never had any intention of working out in the first place.
Ugh.
Just do thirty minutes of weights and then you can escape.
Too focused on my self-consciousness, I trip over the weight he left on the floor near the stretch area, and I fall flat on my face.
In all my years of working out, in all the moments in all the hours, I have never embarrassed myself quite like this.
Groaning in pain, I roll from my stomach to my back, wondering which part of me hurts more. My wrist, my knees, my twisted ankle, or my ego.
My cheeks are so red-hot now, my face is burning.
Anton is at my side in a matter of seconds, kneeling next to me. He wraps his hand around my waist and pulls me into a sitting position.
“Are you okay? That was a really hard fall!” he says, running his hands over me to check that I'm okay. But his touch is doing other things to me, and I desperately need to escape.
“No, I’m fine, totally fine,” I groan, shifting so I can stand up.
But as soon as I put weight on my ankle, I wince and sit back down again.
“Just stay put,” he demands. “Give yourself a second. There isn’t anywhere to rush off to. I think you fell harder than you realize,” he says sternly. To my horror, he lifts my ankle in his hands and sets it on his lap, then gently starts to massage and carefully rotate it.
It feels incredible.
I groan in relief, then snap my lips closed, horrified at how erotic it sounded.
Anton is smiling, his eyes narrowed, andthankfully,he’s looking down at my ankle. But it’s clear from his expression that he heard my inappropriate moan loud and clear.
“Feel okay?” he asks, knowing damn well it does.
“Yep!” I snap, holding my breath now to stop myself from making any more embarrassing sounds.
