Page 11 of Mr. Red

Did I just saycoming feels healthy? Shit!

My eyes widen, but I keep my head down staring at the paper in front of me. My face is burning, so I’m sure it’s redder than Santa’s suit.

He responds with a deep, even tone, “I agree, comingdoesfeel healthy.”

He’s talking to me about coming. My eyes move to his lips, I lean closer into him, and wonder what he’ll say next.

I catch myself and sit up straight. I can’t do this with a client. I need to get us back to a professional vibe, and quick.

“My goal is to let my body experience new things,” he continues, while I try to keep my composure. “I like to keep exercise new to stay in the best shape, you see. Exercise in general is calming and helps me stay focused.”

“What were you mainly doing before stepping into this gym? Weightlifting? Kickboxing? Cycling perhaps?”

He grins. “All of the above. Yoga is new. I happened to attend a great class recently.”

“Right.” I bite my bottom lip, then remember he’s the enemy. “Do you think you need glasses while you’re cycling?”

“Why? Are you an eye doctor?”

“No.” I shift in my seat.

“Strange to be asking about my eye health.”

Buttsucker.“Anyway, classes can be a nice way to switch things up. Why do you need a personal trainer ifyou’ve already been weightlifting?” I ask. It’s obvious he knows how to stay fit. Why does he need a trainer?

“I think a trainer will be able to teach my body new things. New movements.”

“Uh-huh,” is all I can muster. “Okay, just need to get a few measurements. We can see results more clearly this way instead of by weight.”

“Tell me what you need.”

Oh, I will.

Scarlett! Keep it in your pants! You hate him.

“Hold out your arm.”

He does. It looks like he’s hiding a softball in his bicep. Every muscle in his forearm is perfectly defined. I follow them to his hand. It doesn’t look soft. He probably uses his hands outside while he’s shirtless to chop wood or some shit.

Great. I’m thinking about him shirtless now.

Focus!

“Go ahead and stand.” He does as he’s told. “Hold out your arms in a T, please. I have to measure your chest.”

He lifts his arms up and I catch his shallow breathing. Maybe he’s just as nervous as I am. I don’t know why. He has the confidence of an elephant remembering.

I step closer to him, needing to get my measurement. Everything is drawing me into him—his scent, his body, his stupid grin. It’s making me envision his arms wrapped around me.

Scarlett!

I get my measurement and pull away. Now I have to get around his waist.

You can do this! You do it all the time. Be professional.

“This is the final one,” I explain, thankful to hear it myself. He doesn’t say anything, just keeps an impassivelook on his face. I don’t miss the vein beating rapidly in his neck, though.

I hold my breath and reach around his waist with the measuring tape. He’s staring down at me, which is hard to do since I’m five foot nine. If he pulled me in for a kiss, I don’t think I could resist. In fact, I’m hoping he’ll pick me up, throw me on the table, and have his way with me.

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