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She stepped onto a treadmill, and after a brief study, programmed it for the allotted fifteen minutes at a moderate incline and speed. With the music from her phone singing through her earbuds, she felt righteous.
The rise and fall of the terrain outside the windows gave her a view of a few shrubs thinking about waking up for spring, and some brave daffodils and tulips in tight buds.
Pleasant, she decided. She could do this, even enjoy this. After all, now that she’d established a routine, she missed her weekday biking. Not the same, of course, as she just took this brisk kind of walk and stayed in one place. Maybe by summer, she’d hunt up a good secondhand bike, try out the hilly roads. She could even bike into town now and again.
She had more time now than she’d had before she’d moved. The idea she’d toyed with of getting a second part-time day job just didn’t work. With that she couldn’t cover any day shifts at Après if necessary, or help out at the café if her ladies needed her.
Still, even with the car payments, her budget worked and allowed her to start slowly building her savings again.
Six months, she decided. She’d take six months, then let herself start planning some long-term goals again.
It surprised her how quickly and easily the fifteen minutes passed. She gave herself a mental I-worked-out pat on the back and stepped off.
She spotted Jen, fit and fabulous in a red workout tank and tights with red and black swirls, which made Morgan immediately feel unfit and non-fabulous in her old black yoga pants.
She stood talking to a man in the weight section while he did curls. It took her a minute to work her way up long, strong legs in black gym shorts, a sleeveless gray shirt already showing a line of sweat, and the ripple of muscles to focus on his face.
Her initial wonder as to why sweat looked so damn sexy on some people turned to a jolt.
Who knew Miles was built like that?
And why, dear God, why did he have to sweat in the gym when she wore old yoga pants, a stretched-out sports bra, and an ancient T-shirt?
Obviously, she couldn’t go over there, so she looked around for something to do that would look like she knew what to do.
She’d decided most of the machines looked like torture devices, when Jen hailed her.
“Morgan!” Jen lifted a hand, curled fingers in a come-ahead.
Oh well, Morgan thought as she started over. Miles shifted the weight to his other hand, kept curling.
“Sorry, I had a question for Miles.”
“That’s okay. No problem.”
“You did your fifteen?”
“Yes.”
“How far did you get?”
“Far? Oh, almost a mile, I guess.”
“We’ll bump that up next time. Let’s get started. Thanks, Miles.”
He said, “Uh-huh,” and kept curling.
“I use this room for PT when the gym’s crowded,” she began. “Or for one-on-one yoga sessions.”
Small, it had one wall of mirrors, shelves holding stability balls, medicine balls, bands, mats. A rack of free weights tucked into a corner.
“So, what do you do if you’re attacked?”
“Punch him in the face?”
“Throat’s better.”
“Really?”
