Page 7 of New Year, New You and Me

I shake my head, but brace my legs on the ground and lift the bar from the catch. I give a slight grunt.

“Sorry, is this too heavy for you?” Molly asks sweetly.

“We’ll see who the smart ass is in another minute.” I wait for her to wrap her hands around the bar, her fingers brushing mine as they get into position. “Ready?”

She takes a deep breath and nods resolutely. “I’m ready.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.” She sighs. “Let go.”

“Okay…” I release my hold.

Molly’s arms—and the bar—immediately drop. I grab hold again before it hits the safety catch.

She cringes and clamps her eyes shut.

My heart races. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“Just a bruised ego.” She pops open one eye. “Maybe I should start with something lighter.”

“Maybe you should.” Bringing the bar back into the starting position, I remove a weight from each side. “There. That’ll be more your speed.”

Nodding, she takes a deep breath and puts her hands back into place. At her nod, I release my hold and she keeps the bar steady. She sucks her bottom lip under her teeth. Her green eyes sparkle with determination.

It’s a look that’s so breathtaking and so Molly. My cock once again springs to attention.

Maybe it’s because of all the blood draining from my brain and into my groin. Maybe it’s because I haven’t had my coffee yet. Or maybe, Molly’s eyes are just that stunning.

Whatever the reason, I’m not paying attention when Molly lifts the bar to begin her first repetition. And, apparently, I removed too much weight. She lifts the bar too fast and knocks it straight into my dick.

THREE

MOLLY

“No!” Angela gasps on the other end of our video call. “You’re joking. There’s no way that happened.”

“Scout’s honor.” I hold up three fingers before resuming lining up vegetables and a pound of turkey burger on the kitchen counter. “The weight bar knocked right into his schlong.”

We both dissolve into peels of laughter. The sound startles Pigeon, my senior long-haired Siamese cat, who is curled up on my lap. With a whine of protest, she gingerly hops off my lap and stalks off to find her water fountain.

“Sorry, baby girl,” I call out. But I already have tears streaming down my cheeks, and I haven’t even started chopping the onion. I’m waiting to do that until the man with the bruised ego—and penis—arrives for our next resolution: make healthy home-cooked meals three nights a week.

When she can finally speak again, Angela asks, “Were you able to get a look at how big said schlong is? You know, to note for the official record.”

I snort. “You mean after he fell to the ground and curled up in a fetal position?”

She winces. “Okay, now I feel bad for laughing.”

“Don’t. Bradley laughed like hell about it. After he stopped crying.”

This sends us into a fresh round of laughs. Once we’ve recovered—again—she asks about the rest of the workout. I give her a rundown of my cardio and weight routine.

“Honestly, it went better than I would have thought. Bradley was surprisingly helpful.”

“Did you think he would try to sabotage you?”

“Well… no. Not really.” As much as I hate to admit it, that’s not his style. On some level, I knew that, even when I accused him otherwise.

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