Page 46 of M.M. Scrooge
“It’s not much of a story. I played football in high school and worked out with the team. Fitness was just a part of my life. I won’t pretend I got here with nothing but hard work, though. A lot of it is genetics. My university had a great gym, so I maintained the habit. When school got too expensive, I dropped out. I saw training as an opportunity to walk right into a career. It pays better than many of the other jobs you can get without a degree.”
“You don’t need a degree to be a personal trainer?” I bite my tongue. Stupid question. He’d practically already said that. Being nervous makes me a poor conversationalist.
“Nope. Just a certificate. Basic equivalent of one undergrad class, really, in terms of course load. Plus, some basic first aid and CPR training, and you’re good to go.”
“That’s nice.”That’s nice.I could kick myself. Words. I know them. “You’re awfully good at it.”
“Thanks. I’ve always wanted my own gym, but I’ve never made it happen. It’s a big leap. Lots of overhead.” He pauses. Just when I think he’s finished, he adds, “Fear of failure. Less risky to stay with Realm Physical.”
“You could, erm, talk to my brother-in-law if you want. I mean.” Geez, make it make sense. “John’s a mechanic, and he started working in a big shop before breaking off to start his own. He might have some advice.”
Max flashes a grin. “Does this mean I get to meet your family?”
Sorrow comes out of nowhere and slams me sideways. “Well, not my Dad.”
“Oh, right. I’m sorry.” His voice turns serious. “I didn’t mean—”
“No, no, it’s okay.” Grief is a funny thing. It can be momentarily forgotten one second and all-encompassing the next. I shove it aside as best I can. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought that up on a date. It just came out. That was stupid of me.”
“Not stupid.” He switches driving arms to rest a hand on my knee. “Look, I’ve got to admit I’m shit at comforting people. But I want to be better. If it would help you to talk about him, we can.”
Tears threaten as I stare at the thick fingers on my thigh.Huh.Max bites his nails. That seems like an intimate detail to know about a person.
I hate that I can slide into my feelings so easily. “Not now. Maybe some other time. Thanks, though. I don’t know why I even said that.”
“I think I would like to talk to your brother-in-law. I’m sure he could give me some pointers. Maybe about owning a business.” Max squeezes my knee. “Maybe about wooing you.”
My anxious laughter chips away at the tension. I pat his hand, loving the warmth of him, which goes a long way toward shaking off my passing moment of grief. “Let’s see how dinner goes first.”
“Fair enough. I hope you like noodles.”
“Are there people who don’t?”
Nature & Noodles is one of those places that’s nicer than fast food but not exactly fine dining. A safe choice, though, because they offer dishes from around the world: rice noodles, soba, udon, pho, lo mein, spaghetti, and even the American classic—mac and cheese. Something for everyone.
We pull into the parking lot and, with a bit of trouble, find a spot. The popular restaurant is already crowded. I don’t mind. They have a ton of outdoor seating, hence the nature part of their name, so it looks like we won’t have to wait for a table.
Max opens the door for me and does that thing I love where his hand lands on the small of my back, all warm and tingly. I wish he’d leave it there, but he doesn’t. He’s tall enough to need to duck under the drapery of foliage that crisscrosses the ceiling. Pothos, I think. One of those vining plants that reach for sunlight no matter how far its pot is from a window.
As we wait in line, we don’t chat but read the plethora of choices from the menu. When it’s our turn, I order udon with chicken, mild—because I’m still hoping to get pounded through a mattress tonight, thank you—with extra veggies, and a Thai iced tea. What’s Asian fusion if I don’t fuse some cultures? Max gets a curry dish with rice noodles and tofu. Is he a vegetarian?
He takes our order number from the counter and leans in, reading my mind. “I’m not a vegetarian. I just like tofu.”
“I pegged you for a steak and potatoes sort of guy. How stereotypical of me.”
“Nah, I like those too.” He palms my lower back again to guide me toward the outdoor seating, and I swear, my cock chubs in my briefs like I’m a teenager. I’m digging the way his big shoulders clear a path for us. People step aside when a guy like Max is coming through.
When did I become such a caveman?
A wide patio surrounds the restaurant, which, this time of year, is more like a greenhouse. Thick, clear plastic shields enclose the area, with tall, stainless-steel heaters scattered among the tables for warmth. A veritable jungle of plant life sprawls from hanging pots and big cement planters. In the middle of winter, it’s a welcome sight. Christmas ornaments hang from some of the sturdier varieties, adding a bit of festive cheer.
Max pulls out my chair for me, and I slide into it. “I forgot how cool this place is.”
“I’m glad you like it. I waffled over where to take you.” He sits opposite and places our number where the staff can see it.
Our conversation drifts naturally from topic to topic until our food arrives—steaming plates of sauce-drenched noodles and vegetables. Mmm.
“Oh wow, that smells incredible.” I dig into mine with gusto.
