Page 19 of Kiss-Fist
“I can help you.”
His shoulders sag. “Seriously? After all that, you’re still willing to be in my presence?”
“Yep. We’ll get those biceps pumped as fuck, and I’ll get you on a really nice squats routine to help your core. Then you can start a TikTok account and go viral as the hot chicken farmer.”
His cheeks pink, and he glances away. “Yeah, no. I donotneed internet fame. I’m happy to be left alone.”
Maybe he doesn’t need it, but the world probably needs a hot chicken farmer to look at when they’re sad. But that’s a future problem. For now, I need to get him on my schedule. “Come with me to my office. I have my appointment book there, and we can see where I can squeeze you in.”
He looks worried as he follows me past the long row of treadmills. “I don’t want to be an inconvenience.”
“You’re adorable,” I tell him, patting his bicep. “This is my literal job. I just got a new client, is all, and I want to make sure no one is getting shuffled around too much.” We swing around the corner, and I open the door to the little supply room.
Leaf stops in the doorway, giving the space a dubious look.
“It’s not a murder cave, I swear. My boss is kind of a dick, and he said if I wanted an office, I had to take this space.”
Leaf grimaces. “Wow. What an asshole.”
“I’m just kidding. I’m the boss. So is my brother. I just took this because I don’t really use an office.”
Leaf stares at me, and I grin.
“You’re the asshole, then?”
“Sometimes.”
He lets out a small laugh as he looks around the room.
I wave my hand absently at the wall where I hung up a few coloring sheets from the kids who come and stay in the daycare we offer for working parents.
“Aww. Kids?” he asks.
“Not mine, thank fuck.” I shuffle around for the iPad and eventually find it under a pile of—thankfully clean—jockstraps. I have a sudden rush of heat because they remind me of Robbie. Which is a weird thing to say, but it’s true. He’d been hard when he worked with me the first session, and the jockstrap in the second one was obvious.
I don’t think he knew I’d noticed.
God, him and that fucking lower-lip pout I just wanted to bite…
I shake myself out of it before I get hard, which would be mortifying because I’m wearing freaking Lycra. “Before I get started, what are your shoulder and arm injuries from? This’ll help me determine how long our sessions should be at the beginning. Those weren’t the chickens’ fault, right?”
“Oh, no. Uh…they’re from repetitive movements.”
“Like a dancer? Or typing, or…”
“I’m an—I mean, Iwasan interpreter.”
I stare. I’d heard that word before. My ADHD meds are wearing off though, and my thoughts are running around my brain like little gremlins on crack. Shit! Right! “Rhett!” I blurt aloud.
Leaf blinks at me. “Uh?”
“Sorry. God. One of our newer clients is an interpreter. That’s the Deaf thing, right?” I sign ABC, and I get the same stare Rhett had given me when we first met.
“The Deaf thing,” Leaf repeats dryly.
“Sorry, I’m not trying to be a dick. We have a Deaf trainer here and a few Deaf clients. We try to be accommodating, but I do kind of suck at sign.”
That’s only because I’ve never actually sat down to learn. I was in exceptional ed classes growing up because my ADHD was entirely out of control, and my dyslexia made it damn near impossible for me to figure out reading or writing. But I have an ear for languages, and I have a feeling I probably have an eye for them too.
