My heart hammers a frenzied beat against my ribs.
It couldn’t be her.
The odds would be laughable—astronomical, even.
Dylan would laugh himself silly if I told him my heart nearly stopped beating. He’d tell me I was insane—and maybe I am.
But as the woman with the fiery crown of hair tied up in a knot of controlled chaos stands in front of me, I can’t quite put the thought to rest.
Despite myself, my gaze drifts over her collarbone, but the birthmark—the distinct heart shape that I’d all but memorized as I kissed it that night—would be hidden under her high-necked workout shirt.
That is, if it’s even there.
In fact, with the way she’s staring at me—with a vivid clash of disarray and determination, her green eyes wide, I’m not entirely certain.
Carlie’s eyes dart to Jillian and back to me as she decides her fate. It doesn’t appear she’s all too thrilled with the prospect of switching to Jillian.
Good.
“What’ll it be?” I clear my throat and shoot her a reserved smile, the one I give to new clients who seem like they’d bolt at any hint of intimidation. “Ready to jump into the fire with me?”
Her eyes round, the whites embracing her green irises all the way as she nods.
“Yeah, fire. Jumping—great. Love fire.” She pulls up short, raising a hand to her cheek. “I mean, not actual fire, it might ruin my outfit. Not that it’s a great outfit, but it’s the only one I really like at the moment. So … just, you know, the metaphoric—workout—kind of fire,” she stammers, a mess of words and wide-eyed glances that somehow amplify her charm. “Good, god. Someone stop me.”
I can’t help but grin and exhale. While there’s a hit of disappointment, it’s pretty clear this woman isn’t the one from Nocté.
“Right, metaphoric fire it is, then.” I gesture toward the mats. “How about we start with some warm-up stretches?”
She nods, enthusiasm waning slightly at the prospect of actual exercise, it seems. It makes me wonder why she’s motivated to be here.
Something to ask her when she’s more comfortable.
As she follows me to the mats, her movements are a dance of awkward angles and misplaced steps. To be honest, it’s endearing in its rarity in this place.
“Take a seat and just watch what I do. Then, you do the same. Think you can handle that?” I asked dropping down onto the mat.
She nods tentatively, a small squeak escaping her lips as she sits down opposite me.
I roll through toe touches, figure fours, and even some knee and hip mobility stretches, since it looks like her joints could benefit from a little strengthening. Her hamstrings are awfully tight.
However, watching her attempt to mirror my stretches is like observing a fawn on ice—there’s a willingness, but the execution is wildly imprecise. It’s almost comical, the way she fumbles, and with each slip or overreach.
“Good. Feel warmed up?” I ask when we’ve made it through the full warm-up routine.
Her eyes meet mine and despite the crimson in her cheeks, she nods. “The metaphorical fire is stoked and ready.”
I chuckle, gesturing to a large, inflated balance ball. “Good. That’s what we want. I’ll focus today on core and upper body, with a little bit of cardio thrown in for good measure. Sound good?”
“Whatever you say, boss,” she says, standing up and brushing off her backside.
The gleaming blue balance ball sits in the corner of the room like a challenge made manifest. Perhaps it’s pushing my luck a bit, considering her initial awkwardness, but we gotta start somewhere. Right?
Carlie approaches the ball as if it’s a wild animal that might spook.
“This is pretty basic, so don’t let it freak you out. Here’s what I want you to do … Just sit down gently, like this, feet flat on the floor. Then, we’ll have you do a few crunches and back extensions.” I model the position I want her to get into and stand back up. “I’ll walk you through everything. You’ve got this.”
“Okay.” She nods, then exhales loudly. Her hands lightly skimming the rubbery surface before she turns around and commits her full weight to it.
The ball accepts her with a gentle give, and for a moment, it seems like she might master this precarious throne with perfection.
Her smile beams at me as she glances up and declares, “I am the queen of the— Whoa!”
In an instant, her victory crumbles as the ball skids away, sending her toppling sideways. Her arms windmill, but without much to grab onto, it’s the gym schedules and an advertisement for green juice she takes down with her. She lands with a soft thud, covered in a sea of fluttering paper.
“Are you okay?” I ask, rushing over to her.
Her face peeks out, sheepish and flushed.
Before I can reach a hand out to help her, she’s back on her feet, batting away the paper with a tight laugh.
“I always wanted to make a dramatic entrance. Consider that a rehearsal,” she quips, though her eyes have taken on a wild, maybe even crazy edge.
“That ball can be tricky,” I say, hoping to inject a bit of levity back into the session as I bend down and pick up the papers. “It gets the best of us. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve ended up on the mat.”
Carlie narrows her eyes as if she’s not buying it for one second.
“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m basically a walking infomercial for how not to gym.” She offers a smile, thin and fragile. “You might want to think twice about training me. And if you are, I don’t blame you.”
“You’re not that bad.” I chuckle, shaking my head as I guide her over to the resistance bands. Somehow, they seem like a safer bet. Nothing heavy to drop on a toe or a foot.
Grabbing a band for myself and one for her, I go back into teacher mode.
“Here’s what I want you to do. Hold the band with one hand to the center of your chest, like this,” I demonstrate the movement I want her to test—clutching the band to my torso, then I slip my right hand into the other end of the loop. “Place your palm inside the loop and press down. Like this.”
“What’s the point of that?” she asks, watching me go through the motions, all curiosity and no snark.
I grin. “It’s a tricep extension.”
“Oh.” She squares her shoulders and mimics my stance. Then, she stretches the band as I showed her.
There’s a look of fierce concentration etched onto her features as she pressed down. A grin floats to her face, as she does it a couple more times.
“This is easier than I thought,” she admits with a bit of triumph laced in her words. But then, in a slip of focus, the band snaps from her palm. It zings through the air, smacking against my forearm with a sharp sting.
“Oh my god, Adam, I’m so sorry,” Carlie gasps, her hands flying to her lips.
“You know, they usually work better if you don’t weaponize them,” I tease, rubbing at my arm and picking the band up from the floor.
Her face is the color of ripe beets but she quips back, “Go me. Guess I’m just preparing for the gym apocalypse—one snapped band at a time.”
I huff a laugh. The things that come out of her mouth.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asks as she steps closer with concern flooding her features.
“It’s fine, really.” I smile, hoping to ease her embarrassment, but as she reaches out, her fingers brush the reddening skin.
The touch is light, fleeting, yet it sears me more profoundly than the snap of the band.
Her eyes meet mine, wide and apologetic, and in that split second, I’m transported back to a feather-light touch just like that.
But it can’t be.
The woman from Nocté was confident, and coordinated, and so sure of herself.
“Really, I’m okay,” I reaffirm, trying to shake away my conflicting thoughts.
We move on, and I decide to steer clear of equipment for a while.
“Let’s try something a bit less ... adventurous,” I suggest.
Her eyes dart to mine as if something I said caught her off guard.
Shooting her a lopsided grin, I continue, “How about a break to regroup?”
We walk over to the lounge area and I hand her a St. Mary’s branded water bottle from one of the mini-fridges. Pretty hard to weaponize that unless she plans on throwing it at my head.
“Thanks,” she says, tentatively taking the bottle from me and indulging in a long swig.
My eyes are drawn to the movement, but I shake it away, grabbing one for myself taking a sip.
“So, tell me, what are your fitness goals, Carlie?” I ask, shifting gears and trying to lighten the mood.
Based on her intake sheet, I already know she wants to lose weight and get toned up. But it’s always nice to connect about goals one-on-one. It helps me understand what truly motivates them and comes in handy on those days when the going gets tough.
She shrugs. “To be able to sprint to the fridge during chapter breaks without losing breath.”
I shoot her a confused look.
She grins sheepishly. “Priorities, am I right?”
I’m about to ask her what she means by chapter breaks when she takes another big gulp. But as she does so, her gaze catches on something over my shoulder.
Distracted, water dribbles down her chin, soaking into the collar of her shirt, and she sputters, coughing as she tries to stem the flow with the back of her hand.
“Good god, I’m just ... I’m a mess,” she says, her voice raw and vulnerable as she looks up at me.
“No, it’s ... refreshing,” I reply before I can censor myself.
“Not as refreshing as I feel right now, let me assure you,” she fires back, tugging on her shirt to pull it away from her skin. She shakes her head and drops her gaze to the floor.
We stand there for a heartbeat, the noise of the gym fading into a backdrop, and I’m aware of nothing but her. For some reason, I really want her to feel better—to not be so self-conscious.
“You’re doing great,” I start, hoping like hell it hits as truth. “Getting used to this place, the movements … Hell, everything, really. It’s all part of the process. Give yourself a little grace as you get used to it.”
“Grace—pretty sure that’s a foreign concept in my world.” She wipes her face with the neckline of her shirt, and as she does, the fabric lifts ever so slightly. My eyes betray me, darting down, searching for that birthmark, but the fabric falls back too quickly.
I check my watch. “Okay, we still have a little time left. How do you feel about treadmills?” I ask, hoping it’s a safer bet and one I can give her a solid win on.
“I feel like they don’t usually fight back, so ... better chances?” Her laugh, bright and unguarded, fills the space between us.
“To better chances it is,” I echo, feeling a smile tug at my lips.
As we walk out of the weight room and approach the wall of treadmills, I show her the basic controls, my hand hovering over the buttons as I explain how to use it.
“Start slow,” I advise, glancing her direction. “We’ll gradually increase the pace. I want to see where you are now so we can gauge your progress.”
She nods, and I can’t help but notice the way her hair has started to escape her knot, framing her face with errant strands that beg to be brushed back. For some insane reason, it’s a challenge to keep my hand from tucking them behind her ear.
“All right, let’s walk.” I set the machine to a gentle pace, and she steps on, albeit a little hesitant at first.
I watch her find her rhythm, the initial awkwardness melting away as she moves. There’s a grace in her steps now, a natural flow that hints at hidden depths and core strength.
“This is a lot easier when there aren’t things in your way to trip over,” she says over her shoulder. Pride filters into her tone and I can’t help but feel a bit of that pride myself.
With each step she takes, I find myself taken aback by the simple motion, the roll from heel to toe that seems both innocent and intoxicating in the gym’s fluorescent lighting.
Her curves are more pronounced than many of the women in here, just like the woman I’m searching for—and my eyes want to take in the way her hips sway.
To distract myself, I ramble on about maintaining a steady pace and proper form, but my words feel hollow—secondary to the thrumming pulse of curiosity and draw I feel towards this woman.
Maybe the woman from the club was just a kick in the pants—one I needed to break out of my comfort zone and date women who aren’t my typical style?
God knows, I now seem to have a thing for redheads.
Carlie looks over, catching me mid-ramble about incline, and her smile shifts. It’s almost as if it becomes something more knowing—like she sees through the façade of the fitness trainer to the man beneath who’s reeling from some internal revelations.
“Do you go out much?” The question slips out, a poorly veiled attempt at nonchalance.
She slows her pace slightly.
“Not a whole lot,” she replies softly. “I guess I’m more of a homebody. I’d rather sit out the couch with a good book. You know?” She scrunches her nose. “Thus the need for you.”
The confirmation shouldn’t come as a relief, but it does. It simplifies everything, and strips away the complexities.
“Same,” I whisper, unsure where to go after that. “I mean, I like staying home, too. Good book and all.”
We fall into a comfortable silence, the only sound is the rhythmic beat of her footsteps on the treadmill. I find myself studying her profile, the way her eyelashes cast long shadows down her cheeks, the slight parting of her lips as she breathes.
Then, without warning, the treadmill jolts, a sudden malfunction that has nothing to do with her at all. Yet, her footing stumbles.
I lunge forward, instincts taking over, and my arms wrap around her waist to steady her as she hops off. For a moment, we’re locked in an unintended embrace, her body pressed against mine, and the room’s remaining sounds fall away.
“Holy shit,” she breathes out, her voice a husky whisper that grazes my senses.
“Are you okay?” I manage to say, even as I gently step back, aware that the heat I feel isn’t solely from the proximity of our bodies.“Equipment can be unpredictable. That was totally not your fault.”
“Unpredictable,” she laughs, shaky but recovering. “That seems to be a recurring theme for today.”
I take another step back, physically putting more space between us.
“Let’s call it a day,” I suggest. “I think we’ve had a good start. Don’t you?”
Her agreement is soft as she nods.
At first, it seems like she plans to move around me, but she pauses, her gaze lifting to mine. There’s a question in her eyes—something she wants to say and I inhale sharply, waiting for it.
“Thanks, Adam,” she finally says with a ghost of a smile. “I appreciate you getting me through this mortifying day. If there’s a gym blooper reel, I’m pretty sure I just filled up the annual quota. So, uh, enjoy.”
Before I can say anything to that, she stalks off, leaving me standing there, surrounded by the hum of cooling treadmills and the echo of my racing thoughts.