On the way out of the locker room, I was stopped by a woman who often shopped at Hooks and Grannies.
“Oh, look at you, little miss thing. At the gym. Is that how you got all skinny?” she asked. Why did her question feel like an insult and an accusation, all wrapped up in a backhanded compliment?
I couldn’t fight the anxiety that swept over me. It was already so high just being here, and these were the sort of comments that sent me right back in time. I had no idea what to say.
“I-I’m not—I’m just—”Breathe. Speak. Anything!
“There you are,” Pace said. He was at my side with a gentle hand on my hip.
I let him take me away without even pretending to be polite. The last thing I noticed was the woman’s gaze shooting to where he led me away.
“I thought people were way too comfortable making comments about my body. Damn,” he said.
I felt validated that he too thought the comment was gross. I made a sound of agreement, but my nerves were totally fried already. I didn’t know how I was going to get through this.
The shame was deafening, louder than the blaring club music that pulsed from the speakers. Stronger than the smell of disinfectant and body odor.
“Hey.” Pace pulled me off to the side of the gym in a quieter enclave. He bent over me, voice low so nobody else would hear, even as his brow drew together with concern. “Did you still want to do this? We don’t have to, you know. If you want to leave at any time, we can.”
His hand still rested gently against my wrist from where he’d led me away. I focused on that soft touch, on the way the sounds around us quieted when he looked so intensely at me. I took a slow breath in and out. He was already getting to read my anxiety so well, it made me a strange combination of appreciative and ashamed. I could do this. He was here, and I could do this.
It was already almost October, and I hadn’t made nearly enough progress. I thought of my to-do list being shared with the town. I could manage a little one-on-one time with Pace. Even if that was torture in a different, spicier way.
“No. I know. I’m okay. Thank you.” I cleared my throat as I adjusted my heavy hair in its ponytail. Pace watched me closely. “Teach me to use these medieval torture devices.”
“Happily.” He nudged my shoulder as we walked through the gym toward the opposite wall of equipment, past the stair steppers and treadmills. I missed his hand on my hip.
The gym wasn’t packed this time of day as predicted. Less than a dozen people, but I felt their eyes on me. The questioning of such an odd couple.
I pushed the thoughts out and focused on Pace and his patient instructions. Every new machine was a new reason for him to guide me—I was glad to report casual touches were back in action, even if there was nothing casual about them to me. Every time I would start to feel self-conscious or glance around in fear of being judged, it was like he sensed it. With my permission, he would calmly guide me into a better position or move to block me from the view of others. It all seemed so instinctual for him, and it made me feel so taken care of in ways I never knew I needed.
After about five different machines and more swearing than I wanted to admit, Pace suggested a water break.
“I gotta fill my bottle. I’ll be right back,” he said.
As he left, I went to the rack of free weights along the wall, debating if picking up the lightest option would make me look like a huge loser.
A nondescript man, maybe my age but with a gut that spoke of many nights at the bar and a face that had never seen sunscreen, kept looking at me. I felt him watching me, and I made the unfortunate mistake of meeting his eyes in the mirrors that surrounded the floor. He must have taken that brief eye contact as an excuse to make his way to me. I felt a presence move up too close. I didn’t know this man or how he knew me, but hearing him say my name made my skin crawl.
He looked me up and down and said, “Damn, Kincaid, you’ve filled out nicely.” He widened his stance, looking like heintended to stay there for a while. “I can help if you want.” He lifted his chin in the direction of the free weights.
I wanted to ask how he even knew me. I wanted to tell him to go away. I thought of a dozen things I wanted to say, and yet all I could do was freeze and smile. I felt sick. Smiling was a defense mechanism, a nervous response. I wanted to glare and say something sassy and off-putting, but years of dealing with entitled men made fawning reflexive.
How could I let one slimeball of a man make me feel so small with just a look?
I hadn’t had a chance to find my footing when I felt another person approaching.
Pace came to my side and quietly, as though he’d done it a hundred times, slid his arm around my waist. His fingertips gripped just above my hip, shooting sparks up and down my spine before he loosened his touch. It was like an I’ve-got-you gesture, and that more than anything made me freeze.
“How’s your wife, O’Neil?” Pace asked the other man.
Was it possessive? Yes. Was it possibly slightly archaic? For sure. Did I wish that I didn’t need one man to assist with ridding me of another? Of course.
But damn, if I didn’t love every fucking second of it.
O’Neil grumbled something and walked off.
Once it was just us two again, Pace dropped his arm and scratched the back of his neck. “Sorry. Hope I didn’t overstep. That guy is such a sleazebag. I’d feel bad for his wife, but based on how she acted when she ran into me at Bookers, I imagine they have some sort of arrangement.”
