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“Squats,” I mutter under my breath. “I’ll start with squats.”
Finding a relatively quiet corner, I spread my legs shoulder width apart and lower myself into a squat before pushing up and squeezing my ass the way Blake taught me. Over and over again, I repeat the movement, mentally counting to ten. Next, I switch to stationary lunges, my left leg first, then my right. Once I finish the lunges, I start another set of squats while I attempt to ignore how out of place I feel.
But the worst part? I’m actually starting to like exercising. Not one hundred percent in love with it. I’m not crazy like Blakely and Mia. But enough. Enough to appreciate what my body can do. Enough to recognize I’m growing stronger. Enough to understand this is good for me.
Mentally. Physically. Emotionally.
Sure, it’d be nice if I couldn’t feel the stares from everyone around me. But, hey. It is what it is.
I’m continuing my reps, refusing to try anything fancy without Blakely here to guide me when a throat clears behind me.
“Uh, hey, Kate,” the low voice mutters.
I glance over my shoulder, nearly dropping my weights. It’s Macklin. In a white T-shirt stretched across his very toned torso and a pair of joggers hanging low on his hips. The guy looks as good as my dreams make him out to be. Which is weird and wildly inappropriate on so many levels.
Unfortunately, my buffer’s missing.
Way to ditch me in my time of need, Blakely.
Rocking back on my heels, I force a smile, pray my face isn’t on fire, and say, “Oh. Hey, Macklin.”
“Hey. How’s, uh”––he squeezes the back of his neck, looking awkward as hell––“weightlifting going?”
“It’s…fine?” I answer, looking down at the dumbbells in my hands.
Seriously? That’s why he walked up to me? To ask how my weightlifting is going?
The awkward silence grows thicker, and I click my tongue against the roof of my mouth, waiting for him to say something. Like maybe why he came over here in the first place. But he doesn’t. He only stands there looking around the room, avoiding anything and everything to do with me.
“Ooookay,” I mutter, resting the weights onto my shoulders, preparing for another round of squats because really? Why is he talking to me? And why does this entire interaction feel so much more awkward than every single, already terrible conversation we’ve had?
Choosing not to overanalyze this encounter until I’m alone in my own room and can overthink to my heart’s content, I adjust my stance a bit more and lower myself into a squat.
“Wait,” Mack urges.
I stand up again and drop the weights back to my sides. “What do you want, Mack?”
Clearing his throat once more, he steps closer and drops his voice low. “Your leggings…”
I look down at the black fabric stretched across my lower half. “What about them?”
“They’re, uh, they’re see-through.”
Convinced I’ve heard him wrong, I blink slowly. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Your leggings,” he repeats, motioning to them. “They’re see-through. When you bend over, you can see everything.”
My jaw drops. “What?” I shake my head, convinced I’m having yet another dream––though this one is much less appealing––involving the infamous Macklin Taylor.
“I said––”
“You can seeeverything?” My voice cracks as the words leave through gritted teeth.
The bastard has the decency to look ashamed and confirms, “Everything.”
My palms grow sweaty as I fight off a panic attack.
I bend down to drop my weights, but he stops me. “Don’t.”
