Page 3 of Texting the Wrong Bikers

Dani grins wickedly. “The gym guy,” she repeats smugly. “Tyler.”

I roll my eyes, but heat creeps into my face anyway. Dani’s talking about Tyler Dawson. A personal trainer at my gym, the one Dani convinced me to join in the hopes of getting my post-divorce revenge body. Tyler, with his too-white smile, too-tight shirts, and arms like he was grown in a protein-powder lab. He’s objectively ridiculous. Unfortunately, he is also objectively hot.

Dani gasps suddenly. “Wait.” She clicks her fingers while she thinks. I make the mistake of looking guilty. “Oh my God, you have his number. He gave you his business card, didn’t he?”

I bite my lip.

“Didn’t he?”

“He gave it to me a couple of weeks ago,” I reluctantly admit.

Dani lets out the loudest, most offended sound I’ve ever heard. “And you did nothing?”

“It wasn’t a big deal.” I shrug. “He’s a personal trainer; it’s a business card. He was offering to train me.”

She shakes her head. “He only offers to train the hotties. He literally wants to sleep with you.”

I choke. “Dani!”

She flicks her wrist dismissively. “Oh, please. That man practically dry humps the air every time you walk past him.”

I laugh so hard that wine nearly comes out of my nose.

“He’s waiting for you to text him,” she continues. “You realize that, right?”

I bury my face in my hands. “He was probably just being friendly.”

“Sadie. The man touched your waist and said, ‘let me know if you ever want private sessions’ that’s more than a casual interest in a client.”

I hesitate. “I don’t know…”

“What have you got to lose? He’s hot, in a very human motivational podcast kind of way, and he’s interested. You don’t need to find Mr. Right, you just need to get back out there. He’s the perfect rebound guy.”

I bite my lip, unable to believe she’s actually wearing me down. “I guess…”

“Although,” she adds thoughtfully, “his eyes are slightly too close together.”

I look up immediately, horrified laughter bubbling out of me. “What?”

“Now you’ll never unsee it,” she cackles.

I throw a cushion at her, which she still manages to catch. “You’re awful.”

I’m still laughing when she grabs my phone off the coffee table and throws it into my lap. “Text him.”

My stomach flips instantly. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

“What would I even say?”

She shrugs. “Something flirty.” As if it’s that easy.

I groan. “I don’t know how to flirt anymore.”

“That’s because you’ve been spiritually dead since 2019,” she chuckles, dodging as I throw another cushion, which sails past her head.

Dani tops off both our wine glasses. Rain crashes harder outside now, thunder rumbling low and heavy across the sky. The room feels warm and soft and safe, my cheeks flushed from wine and laughter. For the first time in months, maybe years, I don’t feel quite so hollow.