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In an effort to forget about my sweet tooth, I decide to try another workout, casually walking past a man sitting at the machine I previously attempted to use. He’s lifting his arms,
making grunts, then I realize how stupid I look since I didn’t use the machine that way, hence my abandonment earlier.
That’s it, I’m making the gym my bitch. I refuse to be a pawn in its sick and twisted game.
Spotting another machine by the corner, I make my way over and get comfortable, placing my towel on the chair. This one looks easy. All I have to do is pull the lever-looking thing and work on my arms.
I’m about five minutes in, and I am certain my limbs will need to be amputated tomorrow. Grabbing my towel, I stand, bumping into a man, accidentally resting my hands on his chest.
“Oh my God. I’m so sorry. I just wasn’t looking,” I apologize, out of breath.
He rests his hands on my shoulders, pushing me away but kindly and in a non-offensive way. Baring a grin, his expression is amusing rather than annoying.
“Hey, it's cool. My fault.” He pulls one of his earbuds out, “Lost in some Bon Jovi… you know, gym music.”
“‘Livin’ on a Prayer’?”
He laughs, cute dimples gracing his perfectly sculpted face. Gosh, he’s gorgeous. He reminds me of someone, but I can’t figure out who.
“‘Keep the Faith,’” he answers. “But I’ll do some sets to ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’ occasionally.”
My eyes wander toward his chest, surrounded by his toned arms. His tank is white, dripping in sweat but not in the gross way that makes you scrunch your nose. No, more like the I-want-my- milkshake-to-bring-you-to-my-yard type sweat.
He extends his hand. “I’m Julian… Julian Baker.”
“Charlie Mason.” I shake his hand, relishing in how masculine his hands are and why they do something to me I haven’t felt in a long time.
“So, the machine. Are you done?”
I turn around, unwillingly, then realize my unwarranted lust over this man is pathetic since he only wants the machine.
“Um, yeah, go for it. I’ve wiped it down and everything, so like you don’t have to worry about sweat or rashes. Wait, is a sweat rash why we’re supposed to wipe it down, or can you catch like herpes?” The words are like verbal diarrhea, and my temperature rises from sheer embarrassment. “Look, I don’t know anything about herpes, so can we forget I ever mentioned that?”
Slight creases form around Julian’s hazel-colored eyes. His smile, warm and friendly, turns into a small laugh.
“I trust you, but thanks for the lesson on body rashes.”
“I’m mortified,” I admit, laughing at my own stupidity. “It was nice meeting you. Maybe we can do this again sometime… the awkward rash talk. Have fun.”
My attempt to walk away is to pick up any dignity that’s left behind.
“Wait,” Julian calls.
I turn around to face him, waiting for him to tell me how stupid I was back then.
“Maybe we could do this again, but somewhere else like over coffee. And we could leave the rash talk behind, only if it’s okay with you?”
His flirty grin is hard to ignore, my cheeks rising slowly into a joyous smile. Maybe this gym business isn’t so bad. Kill two birds with one stone—workout and meet a gorgeous man.
“Sure.” I motion for him to follow me to the counter where I steal a pen from the receptionist. I grab Julian’s arm, writing my number across it.
“I’ll call.” He smiles, flashing that grin one more time for me. “And you better answer.”
“Oh, I will,” I respond with a flirtatious wink, letting go of his arm. “See you later, Julian.”
CHARLIE
The oddest thing about me is that I love Monday mornings. I don’t suffer from the so-called ‘Mondayitis’ like everyone else I know. There’s something about a new week, a fresh start, which excites me. The possibilities are endless.
