Page 60 of Butterfly Effect

Two thumbs go up in reply. “You got this.”

Yeah, I got this. I’m fake dating Wade Boehner. I can do anything.

The first five are cake. The following three are increasingly difficult, and I’m almost ready to drop.

I wasn’t raised to be a quitter, though.

Sweat trickles down my arms, and into the bra fabric as I hang at rest, ankles crossed behind my bent knees mid-air. Every breath strains exiting my lungs. My head drops back until the ends of my ponytail tickle the spine on my lower back. I lift it again to shake out a no to my trainer’s reflection in the floor-to-ceiling wall mirror.

“Not happening.” I heave.

Justin straightens from his squat to spot me.

“Push through it,” he encourages from behind. “C’mon. Up.”

Each muscle in my arms tense and tremble. The veins in my neck bulge, all the tendons terrifyingly taut as I get stuck halfway, too stubborn to give up and too tired to move. Justin’s hands hover over my hips, not quite touching me.

“A little more, keep going—oof!”

Out of nowhere, Justin stumbles to the side, replaced by an unamused-looking Wade Boehner. Before I can scream at him, his hands flank mine around the bar. He positions under me, thighs pressed into the backs of mine. They’re firm. Warm. And there’s a hardened third leg at the ass-seam of my leggings.

Don’t get distracted. It’s a penis. Not like you remember how big it is or how it felt inside of you.

At the top of the pull-up, I face where his chin rests in the crook of my shoulder.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I yell through a hush.

He replies at the same volume. “Helping you through your last reps.”

“Why are you here?”

“Kept thinking about your ass in leggings. Had to run here and see if it lived up to my imagination.”

He’s not wrong. What I lack in boobs, I make up for in butt. It’s the only curve I have. I lower slowly, the scorching burn in my lats traveling down their attached triceps. “What’s the verdict?”

His lips meet the shell of my ear, searing the skin and spreading the burn southward. “If you want a compliment, Freckles, just ask.”

A grumble vibrates in my throat. “You’re a jerk for pushing Justin.”

“Justinwas about to touch you.”

“This will be number ten,” Justin calls out, confusion circling his tone.

“He’s my trainer,” I grit through my teeth, pouring whatever strength is left into the last lift. Calluses threaten my palms.

“Ask me if I care, Freckles.” The man is thoroughly unfazed by doing pull-ups. He hasn’t missed a beat or lost track of his breath. I, on the other hand, am huffing so hard you’d think we were doing something else. “New rule: while we’re together, no one gets to touch you like this but me.No one,” he breathes past my ear.

The descent is nothing short of agonizing. Physically, I’m spent. Sexually, I’m so frustrated I could cry. Emotionally, I’m angry at myself for allowing this level of desperation.

A silent, wide-eyed Justin stands frozen to one side as my stupid fake boyfriend keeps me stable. Wade spreads a palm across my bare stomach as the tips of my toes meet the floor, and I remove my grip from the bar.

“Nice work,babe,” he announces, wrapping his other arm around me, too.

I want to escape his hold and run, but we’ve garnered too much attention. Too many eyes follow us.

My arms layer naturally over his, shoulders rising against the bristling stubble of Wade’s chin. “Thaaaaanks.” I’m not sure the attempt at masking my disdain with singsong is working. “I didn’t expect you here.”

“Had a couple hours before practice and was missing you.” He releases me, but only to curl an arm around my neck, trapping my ponytail under his elbow.

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