Seriously, it's like walking into a Transformers convention—treadmills lined up in perfect rows, shiny ellipticals, stair masters, weight racks that stretch forever, squat racks, yoga mats, kettlebells, battle ropes, even one of those sleek Peloton bikes that look like they're plotting to judge you if you don't pedal hard enough.
And the best part?
The view.
I sigh in delight, catching myself in the giant wall mirror—though, let's be real, I'm not admiring me right now. Subtlety? Don't know her. Because try looking away when there's a guy on the chest fly machine straight-up flexing like he's auditioning for a Marvel movie. Pecs straining against his shirt, veins popping, face all concentrated like moving weight plates is saving the planet.
Then my eyes slide left—oops—and land on another guy cranking out pull-ups. Shirtless. Eight-pack on full display. Not six.Eight!The kind of stomach that looks carved, like someone Photoshopped it in real life. His lats flare wide, arms bulgingwith each rep, and for a hot second I wonder if his biceps have their own zip code.
Excuse me while I dab the drool with my towel.
And did I mention this is my happy place? I did, didn't I? But just for emphasis—this is my happy place. I love it here.
Except—oh crap.
Mr. Topless Eight-Pack Glory? Yeah. He catches me.
Our eyes meet in the mirror, and instead of pretending he didn't just see me eye-banging him, the guy smirks. Full-on, cocky-as-hell smirk. Then he winks.
Winks.
Do you know what that does to a girl? It's like getting zapped by a defibrillator straight to the ovaries. My heart skips, my stomach swoops, and for one horrifying second, I nearly trip on the treadmill like an idiot.
See? Subtlety. I should really get to know her someday.
My cheeks go beet red, but do I shrink into a puddle of embarrassment? Hell no. I roll with it. Pretend it's nothing. Like I wasn't just ogling his V-line like it was the Mona Lisa.
I plaster on a casual little smile, flick my ponytail over my shoulder like I meant to do it, then let it fall and tighten my grip on the treadmill rails.
Focus, Caroline. Eyes forward.Speed's still cranked to 6.5 and now I'm running like I'm training for the freaking Olympics.
Nothing to see here, Mr. Topless. Nothing at all.
But then—my eyes slip again. Just a quick glance. Just to check.
And... he's gone.
The pull-up bar's empty. The space where his abs-of-steel were just glistening in the light? Nada.
Oh. Well, too bad. Guess he wrapped up his workout. Shame, really. I was kinda in the mood to flirt back.
Wow... listen to me. Who evenamI?
Thinking about flirting back at a random guy like it's nothing. Confidence really does hit different. Three years ago, I would've melted straight into the treadmill belt and prayed for invisibility.
Now? I'm not running from it. I'm running with it.
And then—oh God—he's back.
Not over by the weights this time. Nope. Mr. Eight-Pack Glory is walking straight toward me, slow and easy. His eyes lock on mine. And that smile—God help me—that smile curls at one corner first, lazy and knowing, before tugging wider like he's already in on a joke I don't even know the setup to.
My palms go clammy on the treadmill rails. My heartbeat kicks faster than the speed setting. Suddenly every drop of sweat on me feels like it has a spotlight.
What do I do? What the hell do I do?
Where's all that confidence now?My inner sass monster snarks.
Shut up, I hiss back.
