Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 97667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
“God, you two are some much alike some times.” Shaw looks surprised at this. “If you’re not busy this week, I would like for you to join us at the park. Or maybe you can throw a ball around with him?” I casually suggest.
“No,” he spits out. What the heck? The strength of his refusal gets my attention. My eyes snap back to his face. He’s glowering again.
“Why?”
“I pay you to teach him, not play psychiatrist. Do your job and mind your own business.” He turns the television back on and ignores my stare. Good grief, I need a happy pill to deal with this guy. He’s right. I’m not a psychiatrist. However, he certainly needs one.
Chapter Eight
Mother Nature has not gotten the memo that it’s finally April and already spring. It’s cold, and the rain has been steadily coming down for a few days. A pressing need to burn off some nervous energy has me pacing the house like a caged animal. Until I remember he said I could use the gym.
Around three o’clock, while Sam is busy with a new Lego set, I decide to sneak in a forty minute run. I walk into the gym holding my breath and exhale when I find it blessedly empty. After stretching and doing a five minute warm up on the treadmill, I start jogging lightly. Kings of Leon are singing ‘Comeback Story’, my new anthem, and I’m starting to get a little bit of a runner’s high. I’ve settled into a comfortable pace when two very tall men walk in, stop, and stare at me. The double take gives me whiplash.
Shaw and his trainer. Damn it. Without breaking stride, I smile tightly and wipe my sweaty face with a hand towel.
I consider myself an athlete. No, I’m not doing an Ironman triathlon any time soon. However, when I run it’s not for vanity, it’s for fitness. That’s why a large dose of anger pumps through my veins when I suddenly become conscious of all my bouncing flesh. I can literally feel my boobs go up and down, up and down. My thighs are now two slabs of beef rubbing together, and my butt feels like it has its own zip code. Who cares what this asshole thinks, I say to myself and try to concentrate on Kings of Leon. No such luck. I’m reduced to stealing furtive glances across the room, my eyes tracking them as they move from machine to machine like I’m some insecure teenager.
The trainer is almost as tall as Shaw and handsome in a nondescript way. He gives me a friendly smile with no heat as he passes, and in return, I offer another constipated smile. Shaw pretends I don’t exist, which is more than fine by me. Trust me, I wish he didn’t exist, either.
He goes to the wall and presses buttons ‘til the music comes on. Some country western song I don’t recognize. Then he walks to the mats and starts stretching. They’re talking in hushed voices, saying something I can’t hear, and it’s making me nervous…and now I’m becoming paranoid. I really need to get a grip.
Turning it up, I pick up the pace, running much harder than I usually do because their sudden appearance has managed to compound the tension I’m already feeling. My eyes flicker to Shaw on and off. In between his bench presses, I catch him scowling at me. Wonderful. He’s pissed I’m intruding on his work out. I can’t win with this guy.
Twenty minutes later, my thighs are on fire because I NEVER RUN AT THIS PACE. I don’t know who I’m more mad at, myself for being an idiot that’s so easily intimidated by a man that means nothing but a paycheck to me, or him for being such an ass.
I finally hit a wall and reduce my grueling Olympic marathon speed to a comfortable walk. Time to cool down. The exhaustion makes my mind go thankfully quiet for a nanosecond. Shaw walks into the bathroom attached to the gym and I’m left alone with the trainer. He’s setting up the next machine for Shaw when my treadmill shuts off.
Without Shaw’s judgy glare searing me, I scurry over to the mat and begin stretching. I’m lying on my back with my feet planted on the ground when the face of the trainer floats above me, into view. He’s hovering, saying something I can’t hear because I’ve got Kanye West singing that ‘what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger’ and I’m thinking, bullshit but whatevs. I take out my ear buds and give him a questioning look.
“You want help stretching out your hamstrings?”
Shit, I hope he’s not coming on to me. I search his eyes for a sign and find none. “No, I’m good, thanks.”
I barely get the words out when a booming voice from across the room shouts, “Steve, I pay you to train me, not to hit on the help.”