Page 17 of Bear to be Wild
He stood and took another mug from the desk, leaning against it as he drank. “I have an idea.”
I narrowed my eyes over the rim. “One I’m not going to like?”
He grinned, a mischievous one that did strange things to my body. “I need to head up soon for my HIIT class. Join me. You’ll be up there anyway. Might as well make the most of it.”
I fake-choked on a sip. “Did you fall out of a tree, bear?” I blinked at him, clearing the remaining sleep from my eyes. “Being hit by anything isnotmy idea of fun.”
“Not H-I-T,” he said. “It’s high-intensity interval training.”
I grunted. “You sure the T isn’t for torture? Or torment?”
“Training,” he insisted, a gentle rumble rolling out of him. He put his mug down and folded his arms, which made his massive biceps bulge. “It’s good for you, Maribelle—body and mind. Trust me, you’ll feel great after.”
I snorted. “Doubt that.”
He cocked his head. “Just try it.”
I groaned and dropped my head back. “Ugh, it’s too early for me to come up with a good excuse.”
“So you’ll do it?” He grinned wider, as if already convinced of his victory.
“Fine!” I took another sip of coffee and crawled out of bed to get dressed.
Twenty minutes later,I questioned my life choices as I mirrored Roan’s warm-up steps in the fitness studio.
I shot eye daggers at him to show him how I felt about his plan, but he ignored my death glare, choosing his sickening motivation instead. He motioned to the sun gleaming on the ocean outside, said stuff about starting the day right, blah blah blah.
Roan guided us into the next set of instructions for all sorts of horrendous moves that made my heart race—jumping jacks to running in place and unnatural activity on all fours he called mountain climbers. Who climbed up a mountain that way?
Despite the intensity of the effort, Roan didn’t bark like a drill sergeant. No, his voice was encouraging throughout.
“You’re all doing great,” he insisted, talking to the entire class, yet his gaze lingered longer on me. “Terrific form. Looking good.”
His praise warmed me in a weird way. Why would I care what he thought about my participation in his class from hell? This was his domain, not mine.
Yet, I couldn’t tear my gaze from him. The way his muscles flexed in his arms as he demonstrated the proper way to swing a kettlebell. The way his shirt clung to his broad torso and stretched over his shoulder blades. The way his shorts curved over his ass, so perfectly round, as if he did a thousand squats a day. The sunlight gleamed on his body, and he looked like a golden god.
Between the intensity of the workout and my growing awareness of him, I was soon winded.
Eight others had joined us for the early-morning ordeal, six of them women, and a slinky shifter asked him for help with her form. I stifled an eye roll, yet an odd pang surprised me. What the heck was that? Jealousy?
No, it couldn’t be. I had no reason to bejealous.
One of the men was hard to ignore with his swagger, extending his massive arms out like they were physically unable to fall naturally to his sides. Shifter, big cat type. Blond hair with frosted tips that looked hardened to a helmet by gel.
His muscle shirt was all but painted onto his body. His biceps were so round they looked unnatural, and his forearms protruded with veins as if being externally attached to his skin. He checked himself out in the mirror so often, it was like he was programmed. When this strutting peacock made his pecs dance, I bit my lip to keep from laughing.
Roan caught my reaction and almost broke into a smile, but he wrestled it under control and snapped himself back to professional coach mode.
After a water break, big cat shifter wormed his way next to me, reeking of perspiration doused by body spray. Wonderful.
“You gotta train like a tiger stalking prey. I’m all tiger and that’s my mantra.” He swiped with his hand as if it were a claw. “Go for the kill.”
Was this shifter serious? “I’m just trying to get through this class,” I quipped.
“I’ll help you get through it,” he volunteered with a smug smile.
Oh. Hell. No.
