Page 36 of Never Date A Player
He nods. “Your turn. Keep your biceps level.”
Lewis moves in front of me, feet spread until his eyes are nearly even with mine. Wide palms lightly cradle my elbows as I repeat his example, his fingers warming my skin. Wafts of aftershave and Lewis hit me, and my movements falter.
I breathe deeply, but that makes it worse. I stare at his chin because I can’t look higher; his fathomless eyes are a dangerous place.
He slides his hands off me and steps back, as if easing away from a feral animal. He crouches on his toes, watching me. “One set of twenty,” he says, his voice a touch unsteady.
I need to get my mind off this tension between us. Lifting my arms the way he showed me, I try to clear my head. “I met your dad and he seems nice. Tell me about your mom.”
Lewis’s gaze follows my movements as I perform the exercise. “Feisty. Smart. Runs the household.”
I exhale and complete another rep. “Your dad isn’t in charge?” I don’t have a dad, so the inner workings of a real family are a bit of a mystery.
Lewis chuckles sardonically. “No. My dad can be scattered, organization-wise. But my parents are good partners. My mom does the bookkeeping for the business. She’s just—you know—a strong woman.”
I swallow, my next rep less steady. I don’t exude the strength he describes, but I feel it. I’ve just kept it locked away. “I think I’ve got this. What’s next?”
He shows me four more exercises to build upper body strength, his steady gaze as I practice driving me nuts. Does he have to do that? Stare? I’m in a sports bra, which pretty much reveals everything, but he’s not even looking at my boobs. He’s gazing at my face, my eyes—like he’s seeing something not obvious from the outside.
I don’t know why that stirs something in me. A stupid, wild fantasy of tipping him off balance and pouncing on him runs through my head.
God, I’m more like my mom than I thought.
Lewis stands and collects the heavier weights. “That’s good. Do the exercises I showed you every other day. Tomorrow we’ll train on obstacles.”
“Mudder obstacles? The race lets us do that?”
He zips the duffel closed. “No, we’re making our own.”
“The whole team?”
He shakes his head and looks over. “Just us. You need more work than they do.”
Sad, but true. “Are the other participants creating mudder obstacles to practice on?”
He shrugs as if to say, who cares. “You want to finish, don’t you?”
“Yes.” Crap. That’s all I need—to get annihilated on the field by a bunch of alpha dudes.
“How about winning?” he asks.
“That’s not something remotely realistic, but of course I want to win. Who wouldn’t want prize money?”
He pulls the duffel on his shoulder and straightens. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do you want the prize money?” he says.
I grab my T-shirt and yank it over my head. “I just do.” Why is he so negative about me doing the race? “I could use it for school, okay?”
He nods as if I’ve given him an acceptable explanation.
What the hell? Who cares if I want to buy a new nose with the winnings?
His mouth spreads into a sexy grin, and my heart skitters in my chest. “Good luck,” he says and walks toward the gate. “You’ll be up against me. I finaled last year.”
Friggin’ hell. Women don’t compete against men, but still. He just threw down another challenge.
