Page 37 of Set on You

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I NEARLY REGRETshowing up at the gym when Scott emerges from the changing room sporting a smug-ass grin, as if he already knew I would come. I had half a mind not to show at all, but after those notifications, which were like little teasing reminders of his sexy existence, I couldn’t get him out of my head. I kept glancing at the time, willing myself to resist putting on my cutest, most flattering gym ensemble, stay at home, and ask Tara to help me craft a written apology instead. Unfortunately, my willpower is zilch.

My face flushes the moment we lock eyes. He looks like he’s just stepped off the cover of aMen’s Fitnessmagazine. In an effort to refrain from gawking at his square-jawed beauty, I catch my orangutan hair in the mirror as I stretch my calves in the Gym Bro Zone. I have deep regrets about not using hairspray today.

“Well, well, well. Look who actually showed up,” he leers, his humongous bottle of water dangling from his index finger.

“You liked every one of my pictures,” I say, deflecting.

“Sorry, I blacked out. One minute, I was looking at your profile, checking out your ab video. And the next, I was liking your selfies from 2014.”

“You’re insane.” I secretly admire his honesty, while pretending I haven’t googled his high school athletic accomplishments.

“Are you going to follow me back?” he asks. “It would be a step toward forgiveness.”

I shrug. “Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t. But if I were to follow you back, it would be purely for your dog.”

He beams like a proud parent.

“Are you a Harry Potter fan?” I ask.

He stands over me. Even from an upward angle, the man is so hideously attractive, I’m convinced sorcery is at play. “Hell no. But it was already his name when I adopted him from the shelter. Didn’t have the heart to change it. Figured it would confuse the poor guy.”

My heart flutters involuntarily at the thought of him saving helpless dogs in shelters. I imagine them moments from being euthanized before he busts in and whisks them away to a sprawling farm... His expectant stare brings me out of my reverie. I give my head a literal shake, turning away from his mesmerizing gaze.

“So, are we just gonna stand here or are we working out?” I try to lower my voice to a serious tone. It fails miserably. I sound like a child trying to impersonate their stern father.

He snorts, pulling a small slip of paper out of his pocket, scribbled with what appears to be a workout routine. I’m pretty sure I see the wordRevengeat the top of the page, ominously underlined multiple times. “Oh, we’re working out.”

He’s not bluffing.

He puts me through a killer CrossFit circuit involving a malicious number of rounds on the assault bike, burpees, barbell front squats, and box jumps. Again with the hostile acts of aggression, probably to tire me out so he can launch some sort of surprise attack. It doesn’t help that he’s racing me, ensuring he’s faster than me through every circuit. When I complete my burpees before he does, he looks certifiably devastated.

We’re quiet throughout in between panting and gasping for air. I blame my excessive sweating on the little smiles he’s giving me. Working out with someone who could pass as a movie star is more challenging than expected.

It’s strange to be instructed by him. I’m so used to being the one telling others what to do. Now I know how it feels to be bossed around while on the cusp of fainting, or hurling, I’m not sure which.

“I’m done with this. I think I’m gonna puke,” he pants, bent over, palms resting on his knees.

“Hey, this is all your own doing. Your sick little revenge fantasy.” I lean my elbow on the squat rack. “I don’t think I’ll be able to walk tomorrow.”

“Things guys like to hear after a date.” He gives me a mischievous grin and quickly backtracks when he sees my jaw drop. He holds his hands in front of him. “I’m just kidding. Please don’t kill me.”

I reach out, giving him a lackluster punch in the chest. “You’re a pig. And this is not a date.”

He shrugs, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the fabric of his shirt.

We sit face-to-face on the floor. Legs stretched out in front ofme, I press the bases of my shoes against his to deepen my stretch. His feet are nearly double the size of mine. Holy shit.

A series of images of a gigantic penis of the same length flash through my mind at warp speed. My throat instantly dries like the Sahara when I recall him hard against me during our changing room make-out, lending serious credence to this size association. I think I’m going to require intensive therapy to get these images out of my head. I try to swallow, but I end up coughing. “What size are your feet?”

A devious smile forms on his face. “Why do you want to know?”

I give him a dramatic eye roll as I cough again. “You’re the worst.”

“You walked right into that one.” He hands his water bottle to me. “I’m sorry, though. Really. I’ve developed a crude sense of humor after a decade of working in a firehouse.”

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