Page 26 of Bewitch

“It’ll be awesome,” she assures me.

“If I don’t die.”

“You aren’t going to die.”

“That’s up for debate.”

The next week isn’t any better. Still no weights. Two days last week, I cheated and overate, but I wouldn’t call either of them binges, so there’s that, and I did track everything that passed through my lips. Progress, right? The second week, I tried to undereat a few days, and I did, but then I overate, but the calories overall balanced out, so that’s even more progress. I think.

And the second Sunday measurements? They’re all down a little. I can’t see a difference in the pics even though Brooke swears there is.

Monday, I head back in. I’m starting to regret the six days. Week, and the feeling of soreness has never completely gone away.

“When will the soreness go away?” I ask him before we even get started.

“Ideally, never.”

“Never?”

“Soreness means you’re pushing yourself hard.”

“So it’s a good thing that I’m still sore without weights?”

“Well, I was hoping the soreness was going away so that you could maybe try some weights with legs and back.”

“Oh, I can try weights. The soreness isn’t as bad as it had been.”

“It depends on your form.”

“Of course. Ass to grass, right?”

“Talk is cheap.”

“So are you.”

He smirks. “You know that isn’t the case. You know what my bill is.”

I grab the five pounders and wait, watching him as he looks over the place. He seems to make a point of looking away from me all the time, as if the sight of me disgusts him.

But me? I love looking at him. He’s hot, yes, and I have snapped a few pics of him when he wasn’t looking to show to Brooke. She printed out a pic of him and used a magnet to keep it on the fridge. Motivation, I guess, but it’s not as if I need the picture. I can see Lucas in my head all day long. Hell, I’ve had a few dreams about him.

Not sexy ones. Nightmares where he yells at me and calls me far worse names than he ever has in the gym.

But I just take his insults in person, smile at him, do my best to unnerve him.

And I listen to his instructions because I have to hope that if he’s a personal fitness trainer, he knows what he’s talking about. My clothes are already fitting me a little looser, and I’m banking on the whole inches thing because I’ve been too afraid to go anywhere near a scale.

Finally, he looks back at me.

“Well?” I ask. “What should I do first?”

“You know the moves,” he says. “Which do you feel like you can do with perfect form with those weights in your hand?”

I grin at him. What he doesn’t know is that I’ve been watching a few workout videos and have been doing a little bit here and there on the side. I’ve become so damn bored of all of the repetition of his moves that I wanted to spice things up a little bit.

So I shift to stand with my feet shoulder-width apart, and I push up with the weights until my arms are completely straight and then lower them back down so that the weights are just above my shoulders, my elbows bent, but I’m not done after that one hopefully perfect shoulder press rep. No, I go down into a squat, hold at the bottom, and push back up to standing and then bring the weights back up.

I’m so damn proud of myself, and I maintain eye contact with him as I do a few more reps. The moment I feel like my form is slipping, I lower my arms down and put the weights on the ground.

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