Page 29 of All of You

That was Kendra in my dreams. Kendra in real life was a warlord over my body—and I could admit it yielded amazing results, but not without a price.

I didn’t eat freely. Every bite to grace my mouth was choreographed for months before a tour. Often frustrating and irritating, but it also created the image, let me wear the costumes, and created that celebrity look that didn’t just happen by stumbling into it.

The dumbest thing about it? I paid her to do it.

Off-seasons—times when I wasn’t about to go on tour—were gentler. But it proved hard switching out of it—I got nervous about how to handle eating or organizing my day without the rules. It was something I was working on, and Kendra had glared me into submitting to relaxing my eating a bit after this mini-tour over the holidays.

It would be good to do—for my body, my mind, everything. But I also knew myself. I was all or nothing, and I wouldn’t be happy with nothing, hence the marked tendency to stay at all. And the burnout factor on that setting was high.

But for now, I could focus on getting my burn as Kendra liked to say. I followed her as she moved through our warm up yoga, then into a full Pilates workout. After that, she had me knocking out push-ups, a brutal ab routine, and finally a cool down walk on the treadmill.

“Whit? Ben’s here,” Nikki said, peeking into the workout room from the hallway.

“Oh, good. Send him in?” I hadn’t planned to see him until after showering, but Kendra had pushed me for a longer workout since the holiday and then the tour were coming up, and I hated to refuse her.

I saw him before he saw me and wiped my face with a towel while Kendra made some notes. “Ben! In here!”

He entered the home gym where I’d just burned off a billion calories, and his gaze swept over me, then jumped to my face.

“Hey.” His voice sounded a bit rough.

“Sorry—I’m a mess. This is Kendra, my trainer.”

Kendra waved, and he greeted her with a nod and tight smile. I took the minute to appreciate him in front of me. He wore stylish, slim but not skinny jeans, and a nicely fitted button-down shirt. We were keeping it casual tonight, and he’d done well.

“How was your week?” I asked, running the towel down my neck. His gaze followed the movement, then snapped back to meet my eyes.

He cleared his throat, his brow furrowed. “Uh, good. Yeah. Week was good.”

Ben

The thing about Whit Grantham? She knows she’s gorgeous. That’s as it should be—why should a beautiful woman have to not realize it? She might as well be confident.

I suspected she was fully aware of the effect she had on men. On me.

And seeing her there, cheeks flushed, hair a little wild, body bright from exertion…

That body.

Sorry. Call me a jerk, but was I not supposed to notice? I’d done my best to avoid really looking at her in person… at least, I hadn’t done it how I’d wanted to. She wasn’t mine in that way, even if we were pretending she was. But I was supposed to walk into her home gym and find her in yoga pants and a strappy sports bra and nothing else and not notice?

Yeah. Right.

But I was trying to be a good guy here. Hence my averting my eyes, only to find myself staring at her spectacular rear view in the mirror behind her. Or the intricate and not-all-that-substantial straps crisscrossing over her shoulder blades. Or the open expanse of her back and the smooth line of her spine running in the middle.

I was essentially surrounded, and she seemed oblivious to the fact that she was assaulting my senses in an undeniable way.

“I’m just finishing up here. Want to wait for me in the kitchen? I can be ready in… half hour?” She tossed the towel into a basket by the door. “See ya Monday, Kendra.”

“Yep!” Kendra shouted from behind us. The trainer looked like she’d been carved out of ebony stone—just absolutely what I imagined a celebrity trainer to look like.

“No problem. I’m sorry I’m in your space early,” I said, though I was certain she’d said five.

She turned to me at the intersection of hallways—her room was to the right, the kitchen back to the left. “No, that’s all my fault. I was running late all day. I’m sorry to say that, other than showtimes and hard deadlines, I’m often on the late side.”

She bit her lip and gave me a look that was supposed to be apologetic—it probably did, except my focus still rested on absorbing her words and keeping my eyes on her face.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m habitually punctual, but I grew up with a sister whose on time was fifteen minutes late.”

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