Page 11 of Resistance Training
I realize I am now five minutes late for my appointment with the drill sergeant. I’m going to have to leave it up to fate as to whether or not I get to see that beautiful shirtless man again. I knock on the open door to Mitch’s office, peer through the doorway, and find the small room empty.
“You’re late,” says a voice from behind me.
“Traffic was…” I turn to find the beautiful shirtless man staring at me. Now he has that hot guy–stare thing going on, and I nearly swallow my tongue.
“Vivian…” he says.
I know that voice.
That sexy, deep voice.
“You’re looking for me,” he tells me matter-of-factly.
“You’reMitch?”
He grins and puts that T-shirt on. Slowly. Like a reverse striptease.
I hold my breath. My face feels hot. My mouth is dry. My heart thinks I’ve started working out already. My uterus is now doing the choreography from the climax ofFlashdance.What a feeling! Let’s make this happen!
He looks me straight in the eyes as he lets go of the bottom of his T-shirt, shrugs, and drags his fingers through his hair. “Yeah. I am. But you might remember me as Fat Brad…”
It’s the strangest thing.
He says those words, almost in slow motion, and as I stare into those green eyes, his toned, angular face morphs into theface of a chubby teenage boy. The face of a boy I used to know so well. And I forget where I am. I forgetwhenI am.
Brad.
MyBrad.
Bradley.
My best friend from high school.
The boy I have missed for so long.
The friendship I’ve been missing for so, so long.
Here.
Him.
Brad Mitchell.
“It’s you?”
He blinks and barely nods as he brushes past me to enter his office. “Come in,” he mutters.
What is happening? My brain is caving in.Aubrey, what have you done?My sister’s words from last night about how I’ve been trying to fill a void that has nothing to do with Jeremy echoes around my head, and now I know what she meant. I turn on my heel and follow him inside.
“Close the door behind you.”
I do. I don’t love being told what to do and I guess saying please is not a part of this workplace culture, but I close the door. “Bradley?” I drop my jacket and shoulder bag, take one big step toward him, throw my arms around him, and give him a hug so warm it could melt an ice sculpture in five seconds. “It’s so good to see you.”
I do not feel his arms around me.
He in fact remains very still, his very strong arms at his side.
This is very, very awkward.
