But I didn’t look stupid. Or if I did, I didn’t care.
I liked not caring.
Ilovednot caring.
So I give it a go now.
I set my jaw, stare into the mirror, and bend.
And I wobble.
I have no idea what this is supposed to feel like, but it doesn’t feel right. I simultaneously feel like I’m going to tip forward and rock backward. I jerk up, the bar going cattywampus in my grip.
“Okay, we need to adjust your form a little—you’re using your back too much,” Dan says. I appreciate that he’s pretending I gotthe movement even close to correct or have any idea to fix what I did. He steps behind me. “Is it okay to touch you?”
I nearly drop the bar on my feet.
“Uh, yup,” is what I mange to reply. “Sure, definitely. That’s fine. Touch away.”
Very cool, Carson.
His hands are warm when they land softly on my hips, heat licking at my skin. His fingers press into my hip bones, pulling back slightly. My body bows, my hips hinging as I let his firm grip lead me.
“You’re going to bend here, pushing your hips back. Go,” he says gently, and I do, trying so hard not to think about the fact that I’m pressing my hips directly back into his lap that it’s actuallyallI can think about. As I bend, one of his hands coasts up the column of my spine, leaving a trail of fire across my skin. “You want to keep your back neutral. Don’t round your shoulders or arch your back here.”
One of his palms stops at the small of my back, right at the waistband of my leggings. I freeze, every muscle flexing, and lean into his hand. I blow out a breath that I hope sounds like exertion and not pure lust.
Do not sexually harass your roommate. Do not assign sexual intent to his coaching. This man is helping you out of the kindness of his heart. He’s let you into his sacred gym space. He’stalking, which is a thing he never does. Respect that, and respect him, and get your freaking mind out of the gutter.
Maybe it’s his touch or the distraction provided by my hormones, but I suddenly stop panicking about being at the gym and doing things wrong and getting made fun of. I’m simultaneously focusing on my body and not focusing at all, my mind drifting into a meditative state where all I feel are my muscles stretching and flexing, the weight of the bar in my hands, and the pounding of my heart as I lower and rise.
“Good, that’s it,” Dan says. “That’s perfect.”
My heart stutters. This is all too much—the weight in my palms and the sound of his voice and the feel of his hands on my body. I need to calm the fuck down.
But then I glance up into the mirror.
I find his eyes, which are trained on my body. As if he can feel my gaze, his eyes come up to meet mine in the mirror. The sound of Def Leppard on the crackly sound system fades away. The air in the gym seems to still.
And for a moment, Dan McBride looks at me with fire in his eyes.
“You guys at the beginning of your workout or the end?”
The tether between our gazes snaps as Archer bounds up behind us like a human Saint Bernard. I think I might hear Dan let out a small groan, but I’m probably imagining that. Wishful thinking.
“We’re just starting,” Dan says after dragging his eyes away from mine. “It’s Carson’s first time.”
Archer’s grin widens. “That’s awesome! Is Dan going easy on you?”
No, I’m more turned on than I’ve ever been.
“Yup. Definitely. He’s great,” I say, plastering what I hope isn’t a manic grin on my face. I want to rerack the empty bar, but I worry I won’t know what to do with my hands without it, so I just stand there holding it like an idiot.
“You guys doing just legs today or you hitting a full body?” Archer steps up to the rack beside us and starts doing a few squats and lunges. He’s approaching his mid-thirties, still lean and muscular, evidence of his former life as a professional athlete. There’s a long scar on his knee from the injury that ended his career.
“Legs,” Dan grunts.
“Cool, same. Mind if I join you guys?”
