Page 9 of Sweet Caroline
Fuck. No. Focus up.
Movement in the mirror catches my attention, and I drop my leg as the blonde climbs off the bike and heads for the cleaning spray. Her cheeks are flushed pink from her warm-up and… Damn. She’s beautiful.
I’m about to set up for calf raises when she settles into the chest press machine nearby, and my lats suddenly feel like they need some attention.
It’s Tuesday. Tuesday is leg day. It’salwaysleg day.
Or… it was until this girl walked in here.
On a whim, I abandon my calf raises plan and set up shop on the other side of her machine.
What am I doing?
Sure, I might be single, but single and fit for consumption are very different things. But, when our gazes lock and she gives me a sheepish smile, I hold my breath.
Oh, yeah. Calf raises can get fucked.
I’ve never seen eyes like hers before. They’re like a damn tropical ocean, or maybe one of those glacial lakes up in Canada that are almost turquoise. Like pools of light and calm. They’re fucking gorgeous.
Aggressive moaning cuts into the moment, and we both turn to the asshole nearby. When she looks back at me, eyes wide in a bewildered kind of amusement, I have to suppress a laugh. I screw up my face, hoping my expression reads halfthat guy’s a fuckwadand halfsorry about men, generally.
With another small twitch of her lips that nudges my attention toward places it can’t go, she returns to her workout, tapping at something on her watch.
Her watch.
Shit. What time is it?
Checking my phone jars me back to reality; I’ve gotta be at work in half an hour or Dave will chew me out and I can’t let that happen. That was the old Miles. Showing up late and hungover was the kind of crap that got my ass fired back in Seattle. Mouthing off to the foreman didn’t help, either. While my impulsive and smartass tendencies are partly my ADHD and can’t solely be blamed on drinking, still—that shit ain’t cute when you’re pushing thirty.
New Miles, though? New Miles is sober. Healthy. Going to therapy and AA. Sticking to the rules. Taking his meds. Learning about how his damn brain works. Grinding away at the gym every day and eating fucking vegetables and showing up on time for work.
I’m not gonna let myself fuck it all up again. Rock bottom isn’t a place you wanna visit twice.
I’m about to go hit the showers when the moaner strolls up beside me with his hands on his hips, staring right at her. Sliding my headphones off one ear, I turn down my music, already on my guard. I’ve put up with this obnoxious prick long enough.
“Y’know,” he says to her, “you should really watch how much weight you’re lifting. You don’t wanna get too bulky.”
The fuck?
Her weights clack down and she cautiously pulls out an earbud. “Pardon me?” she asks, her tone far more polite than this dude deserves. “I couldn’t hear?—”
“I was saying,” he says, and I push off my machine to stand, “women shouldn’t lift too heavy if?—”
“This guy bothering you?” My voice comes out louder than I meant it to.
“Uh…” Her eyes flit between us, lingering on mine for a beat.
The moaner immediately takes a step back and, when heclocks all six feet, four inches of me, visibly swallows. “Naw, man, sorry, I was just?—”
“You werejustgiving unsolicited advice to a woman trying to work out in peace.” I barely stop myself from blurting out that he doesn’t look like he knows the first thing about how—or how not—to get bulky.
“I wasn’t?—”
“Do better,” I cut him off. “I promise you, my girl can make her own fucking decisions about how she exercises.”
I glance her way, seeing surprise light her features at the words that fell out of my mouth.My girl. She’s not mine. Hell, I don’t even know her name. But this dickhead doesn’t need to know that.
“Sorry,” he says, holding up his hands. “Didn’t realize you were with?—”
