Page 58 of Never Pucking Ending

“What?” I ask, frowning.

He shakes his head, snapping out of whatever thought he had. “Nothing. I didn’t realize you were in here.”

Has it been that long since I’ve worked out with him? I’ve been in here plenty of times. Although, it’s usually to give him chocolate and tell him whatever piece of gossip or update I couldn’t wait to share.

Damn. It has been a while.

I nervously brush a palm over my thigh. “Is that okay? You usually don’t use it until late at night. I can—”

He looks like he’s been hit. “What? No. You don’t need to go anywhere.” He scrapes a hand down his face. “Sorry. It’s been a long day, and I wasn’t expecting you in here. I checked your office and thought maybe you were hanging out in your room.”

Because that’s where I’ve been choosing to avoid him lately. I really need to stop being petty.

His eyes go back to my body, his throat bobbing. “You look good, Bells.”

My hand instinctively goes to my midriff exposed by the crop top. It isn’t an outfit I go out in public with. I’m not that self-conscious, but enough to know that I’d get a few unwanted stares if my tummy rolls were exposed.

“I had to work off the calories you’ve been feeding me,” I joke. “This is the second day in a row I’ve come in here. You should be proud.”

I’d heard him come home yesterday and spend his usual two hours in here, but I didn’t bother him. I simply waited until he was in the shower before I came down to use some of the weights before remembering just how much I hated lifting. Walking is where it’s at for me.

His gaze narrows slightly. “Why do you do that?” He gestures to my hand on my stomach with his chin. “Why are you hiding?”

Instantly, I drop my arm. “I’m not.”

He gives me that ‘don’t bullshit me’ look.

I blow out a breath. “Everybody has things they don’t love about themselves. Don’t look at me like that! Remember when we were in high school, and you told me you didn’t like the shape of your nose because you thought it looked too wide?”

Jesse’s lips flatten as if he’d forgotten about his self-consciousness over it. Whoops.

“Anyway,” I drawl out, “I always said it was fine, but you didn’t believe me. Well, that’s how I feel about my stomach right now. And it doesn’t help that I’m bloated. That always makes me feel worse about it. I know I carry most of my weight in my tummy and upper thighs. But I also know I can shed a few pounds if I tried, which is what I’m doing.”

His eyebrow twitches as he gives me a onceover that’s a little too thorough. “You don’t need to lose any weight.”

I roll my eyes. Of course he’d say that. “I do, but I appreciate you for saying that. Look, I’m not fishing for compliments. You don’t need to tell me that I look good or list any of my better qualities. I’m good with myself. I just need to make a few tweaks, that’s all.”

When he doesn’t say anything, I sigh. Why is he so stubborn?

“Consider yourself lucky,” I go on because I don’t always know when to shut up. “You basically got a free nose job. Not that I think you needed one anyway.”

His slow blink is followed by a stint of silence as he sets his protein shake down onto the windowsill. “I got my nose broken. Not sure that constitutes as ‘lucky’.”

I lift a shoulder. “Okay, poor use of the word. But you’ve never mentioned your nose since you had surgery done to fix it.”

The bump in it is gone, looking like any other straight nose. It’s cute as far as noses go, I guess. I kind of miss his old one though. Is that weird? I brush off the thought. “In hindsight, I could probably have surgery too. But then I’d have to form healthy habits to keep the weight off, and I don’t know if I have the energy to eat as much kale as you do.”

Why is he glaring at me? He likes kale. I’ve seen him put it in his smoothies and bake them into chips. It’s disgusting. “You’re not getting surgery.”

“Duh. I just said that.”

“You don’t need it,” he emphasizes.

I can’t help but laugh at the offense on his face, like I told him I was going to get boobs the size of Dolly Parton’s or something. “I know, Jesse. Why are you getting so worked up?”

He shakes his head, scraping a hand through his hair and grumbling something I can’t hear under his breath. “It doesn’t matter. How much longer do you have on that?”

I glance at the timer on the machine. “Ten minutes. I only do an hour. Then I have to jump in the shower and do a few other things to prep for my meeting.”