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“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.” Constance drew a deep breath, lifted her gaze straight ahead, her muscles steeling with determination.
“Okay. Let’s go again. Be patient. Don’t rush that second pull.”
Her first three tries, Constance was overthinking all the pieces. Were her shoulders over the bar? Were her hips too high? Was she looking up? Was she pulling early?
Then, a new song popped on. “Here Comes the Hotstepper,” by Ini Kamoze. Constance recognized it from one of her running playlists. For some reason, her determination deepened.
When she finished the lift, the bar was overhead and her body deep in a squat, yet she had no idea how she got there. Rhett clapped his big hands together and let out a whoop, which was the loudest noise of approval she’d ever heard him make. “You know what, Stanzi? You’re actually pretty good at this. You sure you’re just a runner?” Rhett winked at her.
“Well,” she said, before she realized his question was rhetorical. “I was a cheerleader in high school.”
A crease appeared between Rhett’s eyebrows. “Really? Don’t seem the type.”
“My sister wanted to be a cheerleader. She wanted to do this summer cheerleader camp in sixth grade. The high school cheerleaders were camp leaders. I was a sophomore in high school. So my father made me become a cheerleader so that I could watch over my sister in the camp.” Constance rolled her eyes. Not until she said it out loud did the extent of her forced mothering sink in.
“Wow.” Rhett laughed. “And I thought I had it tough with my baby sister.”
“You didn’t have to become a cheerleader?” Constance smiled.
“Ha,” he laughed. “I tried. They told me I was too big.”
Constance giggled and passed over her PVC. “This might be why I’m good at snatch. I was always tossing the smaller girls up on somebody’s shoulders.”
“You know what?” Rhett grabbed the PVC and switched it out for a light barbell. “You might be on to something. Here. Snatch this.”
“My mom died when I was nine.” Stanzi took a bite of her turkey. They each had a plate of food at the desk in the office. When Rhett had grabbed one of the two drumsticks she’d brought, along with some sliced white meat, Stanzi had grabbed the other. “My sister was five. I pretty much raised her after that. My father tried, but he worked, and he was old-fashioned.”
“I did a lot of caring for my sister, too. But nothing to that extreme. Both my parents are still alive.”
“Do they live far away?”
Rhett took his time chewing and savoring the food. The turkey was moist and rich, the mashed potatoes fluffy, the stuffing both crisp and creamy and the green beans nothing like that awful casserole people served. These beans were bright green, with just the right amount of crunch and tossed in some kind of balsamic sesame-seed dressing and a shake of feta cheese. “Um.” Rhett tried to remember the question. “I’m sorry. Did I tell you how good this food is? Like, really damn good.”
Stanzi stifled a laugh with her napkin. “Like, twelve times. But you can tell me as much as you want. I love to cook, but have nobody to cook for these days. My sis is all I have and she’s a busy lady.”
Rhett took the time to savor another bite of each item on his plate. “You can cook for me whenever you want.” He caught himself before he said more, hoping he hadn’t overstepped. It was damn hard, though. To add to the growing list of things Rhett liked about her, she could cook as good as his father and wasn’t afraid to eat it, either. Plus, she was a natural at the most difficult lift to execute properly. It wasn’t every day you met someone good at snatch, especially right off the bat.
“My parents,” he said, her question just now sinking in and providing a good topic change. He needed to be careful, keep things professional. “They live in North Carolina. The Outer Banks. So, no. Not too far away. Five-hour drive.”
“Your parents live at the beach?” Stanzi arched one eyebrow. “And you stayed here for Thanksgiving?”
“You can’t swim right now,” he countered. “It’s too windy and cold.”
“You could walk on the beach,” she countered back. “A long, windy walk in a hoodie after a rich Thanksgiving meal.” Her voice sounded dreamy.
“That’s exactly what my family does. Or we sit on the deck, which faces the ocean, and drink wine or whiskey and eat pie.”
“You’re not helping your case.” Stanzi took a huge bite of her turkey leg, Viking-style. “Instead, you’re sitting here with me, in an office you see every day.”
“Eh.” He eyed her messy red hair. “I could do worse.”
Her cheeks turned pink. She cleared her throat. “Are you at least going down for Christmas? Or...do you celebrate Christmas?”
