Page 42 of Resistance Training
I shake my head.
She rolls her eyes. “Okay, well, if youhadread the first email I sent you, you would have found this out eight years ago, but I want you to know that I didn’t have sex with Brad Turner.” She pauses, waiting for me to react.
I don’t have a reaction for her. My brain cells aren’t ready to hold this information yet. “Say more.”
“In case you assumed that I had sex with the other Brad, just because I went to prom with him, I want you to know that I didn’t. At all. I didn’t even make out with him. I didn’t even have fun with him at prom. At all.”
My throat makes a sound.
Her hand is still on my shoulder.
Some small part of my brain is accepting this as a relief.
My heart beats out a littlefuck yeah!fist pump,and then it goes back to its regular rhythm.
Am I glad to hear this?
Yes.
I am glad. I did assume that, but I also didn’t allow myself to picture it. The fire is an all-consuming fire. This changes nothing.
She’s searching my face. I think she was expecting me to drop to my knees and forgive her for everything. Take her into my arms and thank her for not fucking Brad Turner even though she still went to prom with him. Suddenly morph back into her doughy BFF who’d do anything for her.
“That it?” I ask.
I watch the optimism drain from her pretty face as she realizes that I’m not going to squeal with delight and hug her. “Yes. That’s it.” She lets her hand drop from my shoulder.
“Okay. We’ll warm up first. Starting with general movement. Give me thirty seconds of arm circles.”
She laughs to herself, shaking her head. “Wow. Back to our regularly scheduled dickishness, huh?”
“That’s right.”
Vivian sighs and crouches down to place her water bottle on the floor, giving me an excellent view of her sensational cleavage, along with the desire to put my fist through the wall.
I do forward arm circles. “Come on, let’s go.”
She faces me, glaring, and immediately starts circling her arms forward.
After fifteen seconds I tell her to reverse the circles.
And then: “Give me thirty seconds of jumping jacks.”
She gives me thirty seconds of jumping jacks, locking eyes with me, and I have to work so hard at not staring at her boobs that I cross over to the equipment storage cubes and pull out a pair of boxing gloves and focus mitts, taking my sweet time because I don’t want to go back over there. “Now jog lightly in place,” I call out, glancing at her reflection in the mirror.
She jogs over to me. “Like this?” she asks, very seriously, as I turn to watch her bounce with perfect posture, like a she-demon.
“Like that,” I grit out. I can’t decide if I like it better when she wears her hair up or down. I liked seeing her bare neck when she had her hair in a ponytail and I liked thinking about grabbing that ponytail. But today her thick, dark hair is being tossed around the way it would if she were riding me and I can smell that shampoo and she’s smirking at me because she knows exactly what I’m thinking right now, and I’m not going to let her win this session. “Okay, that’s enough,” I blurt out as I carry the boxing equipment back to the center of the room.
I demonstrate some shadow-boxing warm-ups, get her practicing jabs and crosses without putting any power into it. I can see by her breathing rate and slightly flushed skin that she’s ready for the HIIT. Keeping the boxing mitts under my arm, I hold out the gloves to her. “Put these on,” I tell her. “We’re going to do ten minutes of pad work.”
“Is this my punishment for enjoying my lunch?” she asks in a sexy tone that makes me regret all my life choices.
“Or you could think of it as your reward for having a personal trainer who’ll keep you on track even though you broke our agreement in favor of immediate gratification.” I step back, strap the training pads onto my hands, and hold them up. These aredesigned to absorb the punch impact safely, but I’m going to keep them moving as a target.
“Oh, thanks!” she says, sarcastically. “I will!” She pulls on the boxing gloves, punches them together, and shifts from one foot to the other, sneering and posing like a boxer. “Bring it.”
She’s fucking adorable, and it has zero effect on me.
