His lips compressed and dimples popped in his cheeks as he fought against a grin.
“What? What did I say?” I demanded. I replayed my words in my head and sagged with a groan. My double entendre, though unintended, had taken the righteous wind out of my sails for storming off. “Fine,” I muttered through clenched teeth. “Keep your mind in the gutter. I’m going to go get out of my killer shoes and find a way to destress that doesn’t involve you.”
The laughter he’d been battling erupted in a guffaw. “But Eve, it’s a lot more fun with me.”
And on that line, he turned and walked jauntily away, pausing only to throw back over his shoulder, “And, for future reference, they’re size 11’s!”
Ugh. How did he always seem to come out on top in our sparring? Was there no way to escape this with my dignity intact? There didn’t appear to be one, so I fled to my room.
In my room, I changed from my business outfit to running shorts and a tank top, and laced up my workout shoes, all the while keeping up a steady stream of commentary about presumptuous pop stars and their high-handed ways. To think that only this morning I’d been thinking positive thoughts about Jack. Kind—hah! Thoughtful—as if! Considerate? Only if he was considering how to be a pain in my ass.
Grabbing my phone, ear buds, key card, and a bottle of water, I headed to the hotel workout center. It was nowhere near as comprehensive as the gym I belonged to in NYC, but they made an effort to cater to the traveler who needed to maintain fitness. This set-up only had the space for 3 treadmills and a stair machine, a pull-up bar, a yoga mat, a mirror and barre, a weight bench, and a set of hand weights that only went up to 30 lbs, but that was perfectly adequate for the average traveler.
I did some light stretching at the barre, then went to the treadmill, placed my water bottle and phone on the console, and plugged in my ear buds. I selected my favorite workout playlist and started at an easy jog. As the tempo picked up, I increased my speed. I was just hitting my stride, finding the right pace, when I noticed someone step onto the treadmill next to me to my left. I ignored the intrusion, as gym etiquette dictates that you pretend you are alone, never staring at another person, engaging them in chitchat, or playing your music out loud.
I kept my eyes fixed on the television that was on the wall ahead. It looked to be some kind of home makeover show. Since I had my tunes going, it really was just a place to focus as I matched my stride to the beat of the song. Just as I was getting into the serious part of the run, I was stunned when a hand reached over and grabbed my phone. What the actual hell??
I grabbed the handrails and hopped onto the sides of the treadmill, so as not to pull a George Jetson, then whipped around to shout at whoever had my phone. I sucked in my yell and tucked it behind pursed lips. Jack. Of course it was Jack. He was wearing only a pair of running shoes and workout shorts that hugged his body like a glove, giving a little bit of emphasis to a finely sculpted posterior. He’d taken off his t-shirt and had it draped over the handrail, exposing his amazing chest, abs, and arms. Seriously, those arms, though. Part of me wanted to just curl up in those arms and take a nap.
Jack had his treadmill set at a walking pace, and he was strolling along leisurely, flicking through my phone, a smile playing across his lips. I shoved away my appreciation of his manly wares and said through gritted teeth, “Jack, give me back my phone.”
His smile broadened as he said, “Let’s see, what have we here. A playlist titled Guilty Pleasures?”
“No Jack, give it back!”
“Top of the playlist is a little tune by PRTY—Beat Me, Whip Me (Make Me Wear Plaid)”
I growled, “Jack, give it back.”
“So, you did know who I am, Eve, but I feel like I don’t know you at all. Your French accent is gone and now I find you listen to songs like this. I’m shocked, Miss Lambert, shocked that you would have this in a play list.”
“That song is hilarious, that’s why it’s there,” I replied, through clenched teeth.
“Hilarious? The song is about bondage, Eve, sadomasochism, and you think that’s funny?”
“That’s not what it’s about.”
“Uh, yeah, it is. I wrote it. I should know,” he said, cocking an eyebrow at me.
“Well, you’re wrong. It’s about the fashion industry and how they gleefully torture women by telling them to wear hideous and uncomfortable things to fit a mold of beauty. And it makes me laugh. So, give me back my phone.”
He handed me back my phone, with a smirk, his eyes sparkling. At this point, the familiar groove of my workout was shattered, so I decided to give up and turned off my treadmill and went over to the barre to do some cool-down stretching.
Jack mirrored my movements, put his shirt back on (sigh) and followed me to the mirror. “So, are we going to talk about when you figured out who I was? And why you pretended to be French?”
I lowered my voice and answered, “I figured it out as soon as I saw your face, Jack. I’m not blind or stupid. You just seemed like you needed a sympathetic shoulder, not a squealing fangirl. So, I didn’t say the obvious.”
He paused a moment, digesting that. “Thank you for that. And why pretend to be French?”
“I wasn’t pretending. I am French. And American. I just choose to be more French when I’m traveling. I find it’s easier to brush off intrusive people if I appear to be barely able to speak English. Plus, I find the service is better.”
“Your French accent is really good.”
“It should be. I was raised in Paris.”
“So, you actually do speak French?”
“Yes, fluently. As well as English. And what about you? Do you speak anything other than annoying jackass?”
