Page 1 of The Weight of Love

Chapter One

Labor Day

Stella

I hate you. I hate this. I’m going to die.

My mind is convinced we should give up on the new personal record I want to set on the leg press. I can feel my glutes shaking in protest to the extra 90 lbs. worth of weight I added because I was feeling a little bit extra.

Right, Genius. Tell me how that works out for you two days from now when you can’t sit down or stand up from the toilet.

At least the gym is empty...so no one can see you wuss out.

I tell my inner Negative Nancy monologue to stuff it and massage the crease of my left thigh and butt that’s trying to start giving out on me.

“Not today, going to make this weight my bitch.”

I often mutter to myself mid-workout like an actual psychopath. The encouragement helps me brace and reset to finish the last eight repetitions of my set. The weight and depth of my squat are burning my muscles, but the heavy metal blasting in my ear and my refusal to fail fueling me through it.

I started putting one headphone in a while ago to avoid the awkward hand-waving from people trying to get my attention. It also helps me feel less like someone can sneak up on me and scare me when I’m lifting heavy.

The last two reps are starting to hit that near-failure mark where I really want to give up but refuse to let myself. I have worked far too long at this to give up now. I reach a finger towards my left knee, thinking maybe it’ll trick my mind into moving the sled back up, and I hear a chuckle from behind me.

“Don’t wuss out now, Darlin’. You’ve got it. Use that ass.”

The deep voice behind me is like honey and pure sex and entirely the wrong distraction in the moment.

Shit. Guess it’s not empty.

I turn my head to the side, sweat beading on my forehead and rolling down my face and chest as I still struggle to get my legs to extend back out of the deep squat I’m now nearly stuck in.

“My ass and I aren’t really talking right now. Thanks, though.”

I push through the pain and get my legs extended with more effort than I’d like to admit. I can feel the muscles in my left leg shaking in protest.

One more rep, and I definitely can’t bail out now. But wow…what a fucking audience.

The guy on the bench next to me looks like something out of one of those male review shows: a football player or maybe a fantasy firefighter rolled into one sexy package in gray sweatpants and a fitted Kriby tank top that shows off immaculate shoulders and arms.

Not the gray sweatpants.

I feel my body responding viscerally to his nearness and the instant attraction. The scent of his cologne invades my brain. My nipples start to pucker, things are clenching other than my ass, and I am struggling to take my eyes off him and focus on the last repetition and not get crushed by the weights.

Fucking hell, he’s gorgeous.

I feel my legs wobble just a moment when my distraction takes hold.

Focus, Stel. Do not look at the sweatpants…or the shoulders. Just don’t look. Okay, maybe just one more peek.

“I’ll talk to it if you like,” he laughs as I make the mistake of direct eye contact, “Maybe it just needs a different kind of encouragement?”

My mouth drops open in a little silent laugh.

No, no, don’t be sexy and funny. There’s no way this will turn out well. You’re going to make an ass out of us! Do not laugh. You’ll squash yourself under 500 pounds of weight. Warning, Stel! Abort! Abort! Abort!

“You seem awfully sure you know how to handle it,” I quip back with a single shoulder shrug and power through another two reps, holding his eye contact.

That’s right, sound far more confident than you really are. Resist the urge to act like an idiot.

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