“We’re channeling Feisty Jensen.” His closeness and the room’s light offer enough brightness for me to make out his lopsided grin.
“And what does athletic wear have to do with Feisty Jensen?” I hold up the clothes.
“Get changed and you’ll find out.” He turns and heads towards the door. “I’m going to change. Meet you in the hall in five.”
“You suck!” I shout as he strides out of the room.
Still, I’m doing this. I trust Garrett, even when he annoys me, I know he wants what’s best for me. Also, I don’t want to go home and sit in my apartment—alone and stewing over tonight.
“See, it’s already working.” He laughs, shutting the door behind him.
Hands on my hips, I stand in front of the door leading into Garrett’s garage. Like most houses in Southern California, the garage isn’t for storing cars. As adorable as this house is with its blue shutters, open concept layout, and plush evergreen carpet that makes my bare feet feel as if they are in cozy slippers with each step, there’s limited space. Anker’s house is similar, but he uses his garage as a hangout space and storage. Garrett uses his for torture.
“You monster. You’re going to make me exercise, aren’t you?” I poke his chest.
His very firm chest, which is part of his chiseled-out-of-marble physique. All of which he gets from his healthy diet and commitment to exercise. I may do yoga with Catherine and hitthe elliptical in my building three times a week, but I’m not at the “has a home gym” fitness dedication level the way Garrett is.
“It will be fun,” he says.
“Fun? This may be why your only friend is technically your employee.” I shake my head.
“I have friends.”
I make a dismissive noise.
“Ditka. You. My family.”
“I stand corrected.” A smirk twists my features.
“Come on… I’ll make you snacks after.” He opens the door and clicks on the light.
“If you make me eat broccoli after this, I’m going to get Ditka a sibling.”
Offering me his arm, Garrett guides me to a boxing bag near the center of the room. A few mats lay beneath it, making me grateful for their cushy warmth compared to the garage’s cool cement floor. I’ve only been here once, so he describes the space’s layout to me. A treadmill, weight bench, and shelf with various dumbbells are tucked up against the far-right wall. The left wall is made up of shelves full of boxes for storage. It’s neat and clean. A light aroma fills the room from the dried eucalyptus leaves in a tall wooden vase in the corner, which combats the garage’s stuffiness.
“Put your hands flat in front of you. Palm down and thumb out,” he commands.
“What are you doing?” A crease forms at my brow’s center as he starts to unravel a thin strap of fabric that reminds me of an Ace bandage.
“Wrapping your hands to protect them in the gloves.”
“Are we boxing?” I gape.
“Weare not, but you are.”
“How? Are you just going to stand there and let me punch you?” My mouth ticks up. “That actually sounds fun.”
“Not me. The bag, Jensen.” He huffs a laugh.
“Oh. That makes more sense.” I tip my gaze towards the large bag dangling from the ceiling. “How is this helpful?”
“Just trust me.”
“I thought we established I trust the wrong men,” I say, my tone teeters between snarky and self-deprecating.
“I’ll endeavor to prove you wrong.”
“Wrong for trusting you, or wrong about trusting the wrong men?” I nibble on the corner of my mouth.
