I rush out of St. Mary’s, desperate to escape the humiliation still clinging to me like the sweat running down my back.
The warmth in my muscles is a testament to Adam’s training session, but it’s the warmth in my cheeks that quickens my strides.
God, I’m such a mess. What Adam must think of me …
Sunlight glares down on me, a stark contrast to the gym’s bright indoor lights. I slip on my sunglasses and hike my gym bag up further.
My phone vibrates in the hip pocket of my leggings.
I bet it’s Lily, wondering if I’ve survived my first day with Ada.
I snicker under my breath.
She’ll be in for as much of a shock as I was when I fill her in that I was paired with a personal trainer who looks like he stepped right out of one of my steamy scenes.
At least he wasn’t one of those muscle-bound, brain-addled alphaholes.
In fact, he was way too sweet—and hot—to be anything but dreamy.
I decide not to check my message just yet. If I do, I’ll likely walk into a lamp post or something and I need my wits about me if I’m gonna make this new version of Carlie come to fruition.
As I stride down the sidewalk, I try to shake off the embarrassing first day—the trip on the treadmill, the unfortunate incident with the water bottle, and the way my voice cracked when I first said hello to Adam—not Ada.
If clumsiness is an art, I’m the friggin’ Picasso of it. Or would that be the Polluck of it?
Yeah, Jackson Polluck’s more my jam.
But it’s not just the mishaps that keep replaying in my head—it’s him.
The way his shirt stretched over his muscles, how his lips twitched into a lopsided smile that looked like it was just for me—even when I was making a complete fool of myself.
He’s like that guy from Club Nocté, only ... tangible, real, and able to make me blush without even trying.
Especially when I think of my idiocy on full display.
I mean, all the mishaps aside, my attempt at hello came out more like a haunted house soundtrack—part creaky door, part startled cat.
I was soooo not expecting an Adam.
While he looked like he’d been photoshopped in real life, my brain, ever so helpful, supplied nothing but elevator music.
I run my hand over my face.
As I reach the corner, a breeze picks up, and I get a whiff of the lake—fresh and cool and somehow full of possibilities. I never thought I’d feel that way again.
Not after …
Shaking my head, I drop that line of thought.
Instead, the past few days have made me think more about my novels—of the wild, adventurous romances I pen down for my readers.
Only now, the line between my fictional escapades and my real-life choices seem to blur a bit. Between that one incredibly sexy night to—hell, even to this day with Adam, I feel like something is stirring.
Is it the sunshine or is it him making me feel like the heroine in my own story?
Ridiculous.
My stomach growls, a rude interruption to my daydreaming. I haven’t eaten anything today—unless you count swallowing my pride. There was plenty of that.
Maybe a stop at my favorite bakery will cure the blush that I can’t seem to shake—or at the very least, provide a sugar-laced consolation.
I pull up short.
No, Carlie. For crying out loud, that’s what got you into this mess. Go to the fancy protein shake place. It’s time to act like you love the taste of green powder.
Adjusting my direction, I’m almost to the protein place when my foot decides to tango with the other, and like the most awkward dance partners, they step on each other’s toes.
My arms flail in a desperate attempt to find balance, of which I have none. And just like that, I’m wrapped up in the leafy arms of a hydrangea bush outside one of the downtown businesses. The blossoms whisper what I imagine to be floral expletives in my ear.
“Looks like you could use a hand,” comes a voice, wreathed in the kind of mirth that suggests its owner has seen a thing or two.
I look up, ready to find a bemused bystander with a phone out, capturing my downfall for internet immortality.
Instead, it’s a lady my grandma’s age, her eyes twinkling with undisguised amusement. She extends a hand, her grip surprisingly firm. Her bracelets jangle like a medieval court jester’s bells—a sound that seems to underline the absurdity of my situation.
“I suppose hydrangeas are in this season,” I quip, as she helps me to my feet.
“Oh, darling,” she chuckles, her voice a melody of past laughter and wisdom, “you’re just ahead of the trend. Next week, everyone will be wearing them.”
I smile, grateful for her good humor, as I dust myself off.
“Do you think they go well with embarrassment?” I ask, plucking a rebellious petal from my hair.
“Better than pearls with pajamas,” she says with a wink that suggests she’s no stranger to either.
The elderly woman pats my hand, her own crinkled with the maps of a life well-lived. “You remind me of myself when I was your age. Always rushing, always tumbling. Took me a few years to learn the art of walking without making the flora fear for their lives.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Any tips on mastering that art?”
“Darling, the key is confidence. Walk like you’ve got nowhere to go, and everything’s waiting for you,” she advises.
I thank her, promising to practice the art of nonchalant walking, to which she responds with a sage nod. “Don’t make the hydrangeas dread your approach. Reserve that for your exes.”
As she walks away, I realize that her steps are measured and sure—a balletic grace that contradicts her years. I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and try to emulate her poise, managing a whole three steps before nearly tripping over a crack in the sidewalk.
Where’s that sloth treadmill when I need it? Well, before it tried to buck me off, anyway …
“Well,” I mutter to myself, “Rome wasn’t built in a day, and my poise won’t be either.”
Reinvigorated by the woman’s kind gesture and her light-hearted laugh, I continue on my path to the shake place.
It’s one of those trendy spots with smoothies named after Greek gods and goddesses—though whether or not any of the patrons knows that is beyond me.
As I get close, I can’t help but feel out of place among the sea of fitness enthusiasts entering the establishment. None of them look like they’ve tripped over air in their life.
“Suck it up, Carlie,” I mutter under my breath and reach for the door handle.
The bell jingles as I step inside Olympian Blends.
A gust of air conditioning hits me, chilling the sweat on my back and providing immediate relief from the heat that’s starting to build outside.
I scan the menu, pretending to contemplate the choices before settling on Hera’s Harvest—a mix of kale, spinach, green apple, and a hint of lemon—all with added protein powder proclaimed to be the best in the area.
If it’s good enough for the queen of the gods, I guess it’s good enough for me.
While waiting for my shake, I finally give in and check my phone.
There are two messages from Lily, both checking in to see how it’s going. I quickly type out a response assuring her I’m alive and haven’t yet succumbed to the perils of gym life.
But as I hit send, a message from an unknown number catches my eye.
I open it, half-expecting it to be a spam message promising a fortune left by a distant relative who was an eccentric millionaire with an affection for adopting random people as kin.
But no, it’s not a promise of unclaimed riches.
My heart does a peculiar flip.
Adam.
Texted me.
This can’t be right.
My brain kicks into overdrive, ricocheting between possible explanations. Maybe this is one of those bizarre social experiments, and somewhere someone is watching to see if I’ll respond.
I glance around conspiratorially.
Or perhaps Adam lost a bet with the beefy Jillian chick, and the dare was to text the most grace-challenged person at the gym because I’m sure she noticed. She was watching me as much as I was stealing glances at her in the hopes she didn’t witness my demise.
I can almost picture the other trainers drawing straws, and Adam, with his luck just slightly better than mine, drawing the short one.
Or maybe, in a plot twist worthy of my novels, he’s actually an undercover prince forced to work in a gym to escape the paparazzi, and I am the unwitting civilian who’s stumbled into his story.
Right, and next, I’ll be fleeing from villainous henchmen in a high-speed Vespa chase through the city.
The blush that I’d managed to tamp down flares up again with the force of a supernova. There’s something seriously wrong with my brain.
I type out a response with fingers that suddenly feel like they belong to someone else—a parallel universe version of me who can actually talk to men without turning into a walking cautionary tale.
I hit send before I can concoct another wild scenario—like Adam being a secret agent who mistook my water bottle for a gadget-filled counterpart.
The thought makes me chuckle.
As if anyone would trust me with gadgetry more complicated than a pen. I’d probably accidentally activate a laser in the middle of a crowded street or something.
The woman behind the shake counter calls my name, and I collect my goddess drink that looks like irradiated sludge.
One sip and my taste buds immediately regret the decision not to go to the bakery. The tang of the lemon does little to mask the taste of liquefied lawn, despite half-expecting to sprout a peacock feather or throw a lightning bolt once I’ve swallowed.
The girl behind the counter eyes me expectantly as if waiting for me to transform into an Olympian deity right before her eyes.
I force a smile. “Mmmm, so good.”
Apparently appeased, she nods and turns to make the next drink.
I find a seat near the window, pulling out my notebook from my gym bag. It’s time to process everything—the good, the bad, and the Adam.
My pen hovers over the paper as I contemplate where to start.
Rather than focusing on the disaster that was my gym experience, my mind drifts back to Friday night. The next-level sexiness and seduction that had played between me and the mystery man from Nocté.
I flip to a new page and begin to write a new scene, one where my heroine meets her hero in a sexy nightclub. The words flow from my pen like they’ve been waiting for just this moment.
It’s strange how life works—I leave the gym thinking my day can’t get any worse, and then a series of stumbles lead me to the perfect scene. Maybe it’s the universe’s way of telling me to keep at it, no matter how many bushes I end up making out with.
As if on cue, a hydrangea petal flutters from my hair and lands on the notebook. I shake my head, and brush it aside.
An hour passes before I lift my gaze to see the sun casting its golden glow across the city streets. Gone are the early morning shadows.
On the upside, I’ve filled pages with witty banter and heart-racing moments, and for the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. At least, with my current work in progress.
Life, now that’s another story. Literally.
My phone buzzes with a new message, snapping me back to reality.
It’s from Adam.
I read it once, twice, then a third time, letting his words sink in.
Inspiring? Me?
Part of me wants to hardcore scoff. However, there’s an undeniable warmth that spreads through my chest, too.
I grin like an insane person, and pack up my things, ready to face whatever comes next.