Page 47 of Making New Plans

We squared off, and for a few moments, we followed the same pattern as everyone else. Then Chloe snuck in an extra jab to my ribs. I grunted and saw the flash of her smile.

Oh, she wanted to fight dirty, did she? Grinning, I crouched lower and circled her. She lifted her gloves to her pink cheeks and imitated me. Feinting left then hooking right, I caught her in the side.

I was so busy staring at her sexy battle face that I missed her foot snaking out and plowing into my abdomen. The air erupted from my lungs, and I stumbled back a step. Then I spun and whipped her ponytail with a hook kick. Her lips parted in a gasp, and I nearly fumbled the landing.

Growling now, she stepped forward and pummeled me with a flurry of punches to my sides and stomach. I grunted, taking the heat. Then with one clean move, I encircled her waist with my arm, used my leg to sweep her feet off the ground, and laid her out on the mat.

Panting for air, she looked up at me, her face inches from mine. Her heavy breath warmed my lips, and the look in her eyes electrified my insides.

A throat cleared over us. Our heads snapped up to see Sal standing there with a smirk.

“I don’t teach grappling until my Wednesday class. Which I expect to see both of you at. But for now, continue the drills.”

She walked away, a bounce in her step. I managed to awkwardly help Chloe to her feet, our gloved hands barely better than hooves for holding. Several other sparring pairs had stopped to rubberneck, with expressions ranging from surprise to scrutiny to amusement.

My neck prickled. Why were there always so many damn people around? I glanced at Chloe. Her cheeks were redder than before, but that look hadn’t left her eyes either. The look that mirrored what thrummed in my veins. Intense curiosity. A hot desire. A need for more.

And if that was what she wanted, what I wanted, then all we needed was the opportunity. Just not here. Not in this town. We needed to get away. And I had the perfect idea of how to do that.

16

Chloe

The morning after Sal’s lovely class featured me chugging water and popping ibuprofen like I was starring in a pain reliever ad. My whimpering muscles didn’t want me to move from my chair at the front desk, and I figured I should oblige them. But that left me staring at my phone and my planner. Two things that put Sal’s class to shame in the pain department.

I’d made a quick stop at Cheryl’s Pantry last night, about two minutes before she closed at nine o’clock. Definitely a drawback of small towns. I’d learned long ago to always be stocked on emergency supplies such as caffeine, medicine, tampons, and toilet paper. Even a few cans of soup should our situation become apocalyptic.

But this time, my trip had merely consisted of tennis balls. Despite the name, Cheryl’s Pantry was more of a general store. Thank goodness, because an online order would’ve taken too long, and I always bought local if I could help it. Not that I particularly liked getting questioned on my purchases like I had last night by Cheryl herself, but small town is as small town does.

I’d left the bag of tennis balls on Hunter’s doorknob with a note that only said “For Arwen.” And I’d yet to hear from him. He hadn’t missed our 7 a.m. start time yet, but I’d been hoping for even just one text.

I’d wanted to talk to him after class, but he’d walked out with Owen almost immediately while I’d hung back to chat with a few people.

Seeing him stride into the studio had nearly caused my stomach to heave through my nose. I’d signed on for the craziness of Sal’s classes and dragged my friends with me, but I never thought Hunter would take part.

It’d ended up being fun. I’d caught each one of his smiles and heated looks in my direction like they were rays of sun and I was on the beach looking to get tan.

Even when I couldn’t see his face, I could feel his eyes blazing trails over my body. As a result, I’d never been so focused on my form during a workout before.

And then during that boxing match. Being in such close, sweaty proximity with him. Then the feel of those muscled arms wrapping around me for a soul-searing second before my back was on the mat. Under him. Staring up at him. My imagination had been cooking with napalm since then.

I glanced at my phone again. He still had ten minutes.

I switched to my planner. The current week was a mess of to-dos and reminders. The panicked scribbles of past Chloe nearly blocked out the white of the paper like they were quickly blocking out my sanity. How could I possibly fit one more thing into this stupid schedule?

Hunter’s words rose in my mind, “Why don’t you ever say no?”

A teeny, tiny part of me wondered the same thing. I was trying to do too much. In order to take on one thing, something else would have to be let go. That’s what it came down to: choosing between two greater goods or, in some cases, the lesser of two evils. So many promises, so much to deliver, and I couldn’t.

My throat clogged. Panic started to shut down my system. Should I attend the Decorating Committee meeting Friday night or the Historical Society Committee meeting? Should I help Sarah out at the Sugar Shack Thursday evening or assist Rose at kids’ paint night?

I also needed to figure out who I wanted to argue with less tomorrow night, Sal or George. I’d agreed (albeit under duress) to Sal’s next fitness class, but I’d forgotten that I’d promised George to help him bake cookies in the lodge’s kitchen for his granddaughter’s bake sale. And then I had the big town event Saturday that I’d agreed to help out with.

Sarah, Gina, and Rose could only do movie night Sunday night this week, which meant crossover with my parents and their stupid, immovable dinner that I’d already missed once. Not sure what the punishment would be for missing it a second time, but judging by my mom’s icy texts, it could be leading the lineup for the next polar plunge in the St. Croix or volunteering to be the target of the tomato-throwing contest for our summer festival. Of course, none of them would be complete without her signature blend of guilt trips and veiled insults.

“Umm, are you okay?” a deep voice asked over my head.

I looked up from where I was drilling a hole through “6 p.m. Sunday night dinner” with my pencil.

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