Page 33 of Falling

“Whoever told you that is a liar.”

“No one had to tell me that for it to be a fact,” he argues.

“The more you talk, the stupider you sound,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. “You could do yourself a favor and shut up.”

“You could do me a favor and make me.” His voice rumbles low in my belly, and I push off the desk when the receptionist finally hands over our day passes, not before flashing me a sympathetic look. I’m going to need all the help I can get to help this fool with his training.

Secluded gyms like these, that nobody knows about, are my favorite. It’s one of those weird things that make my heart insanely happy. They always smell fresh, and I’m usually one of the first people to use the equipment. It’s like opening the cap of a fresh orange juice carton.

Miles and I drop our bags in the corner of the room and start with a light warm-up.

I usually stretch at home, but I don’t know what kind of level he’s at with his training if he hasn’t been playing regularly. He might not be regularly working out, but he’s still built like a hockey player. He’s tall and broad, his thighs and calves are almost god-like, and he’s got the personality to match. I did some of my own research into what constitutes a good workout for someone of his age and build, so I’m hoping today can ease him into it.

We settle into a smooth rhythm of doing a couple miles on the treadmill and on the Step Master. We move over to the weights, and start with our legs, pulling back the weights with our feet on the machine. My thighs burn, but it feels fucking fantastic.

I usually work out with my headphones in and keep social interactions to a minimum, but it’s Miles. And he’d rather talk my ear off than listen to his outrageous music alone.

“How much can you bench?” I ask when we take a small break. I pull out my water from my bag, gulping it while he catches his breath.

“Isn’t that the same as asking a girl what their bra size is?”

“That’s not the same thing,” I say, “and you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I was just wondering so I knew what you could handle, that’s all.”

I position myself on the bench press, and he stands behind me, ready to spot me.

“I don’t know. Maybe one-seventy,” he answers, looking slightly embarrassed. I let out a “huh” in recognition, and he raises his eyebrow. “What about you?”

“Around the same. I do up to one-ninety on a good day.” My cheeks turn red, and I don’t know why I even have the feeling of being embarrassed. I’m proud of that. I’ve worked like a maniac to build up my strength, and being able to press that much has been a personal goal of mine over the years.

“How the fuck can you do that? You’re, like, the size of a child,” he says, shaking his head at me. I just shrug. “Don’t get embarrassed, Wren. That’s a good thing.” He leans over and pokes me in the stomach, and I squirm.

“Hey, what was that for?”

“Just checking if those abs are real.”

“And?”

He smirks. “They are. Hot as fuck too.”

My cheeks heat, and I don’t think I can blame it on the workout. There’s something about the way Miles compliments me and my body. He never sounds sleazy or gross. He sounds like headmiresme. Like he cares about me.

Augustus thought everything was a competition between us, which is why we never worked out together. He’d complain that I was trying to show off, or that I should go to a women’s-only gym so he could hog the spotlight. He made me believe that was the way things were supposed to go. And now I realize how wrong he was.

After alternating on the bench press, we move back into the floor space, changing between weighted squats and sit-ups. I’m trying to give him a feel of everything and what I typically do, and he meets every challenge with ease. I’m so used to working on my own, but the more time we spend together here, the more I realize it’s a lot nicer than I thought it would be.

I watch him through the mirror where he’s squatting, and I finally mutter, “You’re doing it wrong.”

I’ve been trying to let him do it on his own, not wanting to be annoying or controlling, but it’s starting to piss me off.

“I think I know how to do a squat, Wren.”

“Do you? Because you’ve been doing it wrong for the last ten minutes,” I say, making my way toward him. I stand in front of him. “Watch what I’m doing.”

He blinks at me, and I spread my legs into a decent position, making sure my back is set and I squat down low. I didn’t think about the proximity until I felt my ass brush against his shorts, and he sucked in a sharp breath. I grab his hands from behind me.

“What are you doing?”

“You clearly aren’t a visual learner,” I mutter. I place one of his hands onto my lower back and the other on my stomach. My senses tingle at the feeling, but I ignore it and push it down. It’s been way too long since a man’s hands have touched me, and my body does not need to be getting confused right now. I clear my throat. “Can you feel how my back isn’t leaning completely forward?”

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