Page 41 of The Pucking Proposal

He shrugs, but also adjusts his dick when I walk past. Maybe it was the fork-licking, or maybe it’s my yoga pants. Or maybe that monster he’s hiding is always a little uncomfortable.

Answering his earlier question as I sit at the bar-top counter, I say, “I have a private Pilates session with Rayleigh. What’re you doing today?”

“Going to Pilates.”

He sits beside me as I laugh, totally thinking he’s kidding. “I didn’t saypie and lattes, which you can’t have anyway, Mr. Protein Omelet. I’m going toPi-lat-es.” I drawl it out extra long so he can hear the difference.

“Heard you the first time. I’ve got the day off from Fritzi, so I could use an extra stretch.” He shoves an enormous bite of omelet into his mouth, using the fork he questioned without hesitation.

I blink, thinking I surely must’ve heard him wrong. But he’s looking at me in complete seriousness as he chews. An evil smirk steals my face, and I rush to hide it so he doesn’t realize the hell he’s getting himself into. Making my voice sound totally casual, like Rayleigh’s sessions are no big deal, I say, “Yeah, you should absolutely come with me. It’ll be fun.”

We finish brunch quickly and go outside. He automatically walks to his truck and opens the door for me.

“We can’t take your truck. What if people see it at the studio?”

He looks at his truck like he’s seeing it for the first time. “Probably think I’m fucking Rayleigh.” He has the small amount of decency to cringe as he says it. “Besides, I won’t fit in your tin can car.” He points at my Mini Cooper, and I imagine him folded up to fit in the passenger seat. He’d have to hang his legs out the side window and his head out the sunroof, and that might be a little more noticeable driving through town.

“Fine,” I concede.

Thirty minutes later, on the dot, we’re walking into Rayleigh’s studio.

“Uh, heyyy, Joy. Dalton,” Rayleigh greets us, looking confused at the appearance of a sudden guest for our session. She’s wearing a bright-red sports bra and leggings set, which means today’s private session is going to be intense and punishing.

I can’t wait to see how Dalton handles this.

“Hi, Rayleigh. Hope you don’t mind, but Dalton wanted to tag along. Said he had the day off from workouts, so a ‘nice stretch’ would be good.” I do finger air quotes as I meet her eyes, and she instantly knows I want her to work the shit out of him.

Pilates isn’t the aerobics queen “stretch with a plastic hoop” shit most people think of. It’s no joke, and Rayleigh is serious about her craft, priding herself on finding muscles you never knew you had and working them until you cry or plead for mercy. Or both. And of course, she does it all with her trademark positivity.

“Nope, I don’t mind a bit. Shall we?” If I didn’t know her as well as I do, I’d think her eyes have an evil twinkle as she waits for us to remove our shoes and put on grippy socks before guiding us into her space.

I watch Dalton’s reaction as he walks in the studio where Rayleigh has several reformer machines lined up. I expect him to look a bit fearful of the long, table-like carriages and various straps and bars, and am secretly ready to give him a hard time.Who’s scared now?

Instead, he looks . . . excited?

“Cool place,” he tells Rayleigh. “This all yours?”

She beams, her pride in her business visible. “Yep, this is my baby. Been here for a year and growing exponentially every month. If people in town hear I’m training a Moose, even more will come.” She claps her hands in anticipation.

Dalton reaches for the back of his neck, his lips screwed up in a grimace. “Uh, about that. Might have to keep my guest appearance on mute. Sorry.”

He doesn’t explain why, and Rayleigh cuts her eyes to me, silently asking approximately 112 questions at once. I shake my head ever so slightly, and she lets every single one of them evaporate in an instant. She’s solid, and I trust her not to gossip, which is basically the town pastime, other than watching or playing hockey. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have agreed to bring Dalton here, for his sake or mine.

“Okay, then. Let’s warm up. Joy, take your usual machine. Dalton, this one will be yours.” She leads him to the one beside me. “We’ll start on our backs, feet on the bar.”

She runs us through a foot warm-up, a bridge series, and then a core burner to get things moving andliquidas Rayleigh likes to call it. And then the real fun starts.

At one point, we’re standing on the stationary platform at the end of our reformers and Rayleigh tells us to step our dominant foot forward to the carriage. I know what’s coming, and this is going to be good.

“Yes, now slowly ... slowly ...slooowly... start to release your foot forward. Maintain hip placement toward the front.”

Dalton throws a wink my way and then slides right down into splits a gymnast would be proud of. “Ta-da!” he brags.

Rayleigh smiles sweetly and tells him to stand back up. “Now, do the splits slowly. We’re looking for time under tension. Each millimeter of stretch is also an opportunity for strength.”

That’s not as easy as popping down into splits, and before long, Rayleigh has made us slow-split and return to standing multiple times in various configurations. By the time she instructs us to switch sides, my quad and hamstring are screaming and shaking. Equally as important, Dalton doesn’t look quite so cocky now.

“That’s different from on the ice. There, it’s all about fast-twitch muscle response and being able to split fast without injury. This slow shit has me shaking like a stripper.” Dalton lightly punches his leg to relieve the stress, but grins like he’s enjoying himself.

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