Page 24 of Sassy Love
The hell?
She rubs my back. “I do. The feeling is mutual, in case you have forgotten.”
I huff a strangled laugh before whispering, “I haven’t forgotten, Mills.”
She yawns. “Time to go, then.”
“See?” I hold her at arm’s length. “Past your old-lady bedtime.”
This earns me a slap to the arm, and I grab up my bag and hook my arm through hers. We leave the office and take the stairs steadily before spilling out into the cool night air and onto the street. Fishing out my keys, I unlock my car. I’m glad I drove today. I doubt Mills would make it home without falling asleep if we took the train.
When she’s safely inside, I round the car and drop into the seat. As I start up the BMW, her eyes fall closed.
Yep, we stayed too long.
The woman’s ass in front of me twerks. Bending over, she looks behind herself and right at me. I bend down, following her position and then squat, following the instructor’s shouts.
My thighs burn.
Hell yes.
We raise our arms over our head, lacing our fingers as we pulse deep into the squat. I breathe through the burn, gritting my teeth. This is what I pay hundreds of dollars a month for.
Torture.
In return, I have a stellar ass, fantastic legs, and an even better waistline. I can’t imagine not working out five days a week now. After years of trying every diet and exercise combo known to woman, I fell into this HIIT class, desperate to find something that worked for my body. I’ve never looked back.
I’ve never felt as strong, as indestructible, as I do now.
The shape I have after three years of working out daily as a sort of promise, a commitment to myself, is delicious. I’m not shy about flaunting it by buying the nicest clothes I can to compliment myassets, as Mills calls them.
I chuckle at the memory of her voicing that one during a particularly deep and meaningful conversation.
“Reverse lunge, with weight. And go... in five, four, three, two, one. Lunge, ladies!”
I swipe up my ten-pound weights, gripping one in each hand, and step back into the lunge. After the pulsing squat, this feels easier and better all at the same time.
Twelve minutes to go.
Not that I’m counting.
I’m always counting. It’s not that I don’t enjoy the workout—I do. But mid-workout is where my willpower wanes, and I start watching the clock at the front of the class. Millie used to come along too, to watch the class, but said all the Lycra-clad women made her feel old.
She stays home these days and sleeps in. Breakfast is always waiting on the table when I make it back to the apartment.
As class finally finishes up, I tug my towel from my bag and wipe the sweat from my brow.
“Nice workout,” twerking woman says, chewing gum as she closes in.
“For some,” I say with a shake of my head.
“Good view?”
Um . . . Okay.
“Yeah, I prefer the mixed class, actually. Less pussy shoved in my face.”
She gives me a sour look and walks off.
