Text Me, Maybe - Jolyse Barnett Page 0,3
ears.
Doing his best to ignore her blush at his innocent response, he opened his mouth to remind her of the benefits of cardio, but when she pressed the water bottle against her flushed throat, his mind went blank. Like his cat chasing a stupid red dot, he tracked her movements, his middle tightening as she lifted the bottle, and his breath catching when she angled the spout toward her waiting mouth. He ached to erase the distance between them, to cup the back of her head and replace that damned bottle. He’d command time to slow, and spend heated minutes exploring, tasting, teasing…
“I thought I was ready, but now I’m not so sure.” Her shrug was apologetic.
He swiped at his forehead.
The woman’s drinking water, not inviting you to bend her over the treadmill. Enough, already.
“Try not to stress the first day jitters. It’s normal.”
“This might seem crazy, but all I can think about is that Taylor Swift commercial. You know? The one where she’s all happy, rocking it out on a treadmill, but then ends up doing a face plant on the thing a few second later.”
He laughed. “I forgot about that one.”
“You’re not helping here.”
“Yeah, well, there’s plenty of ways to avoid injury.” He lifted the safety tether. “Attach the clip at your waist, like so.” He modeled. “You slip, the power cuts off. No worries, see? Just remember to grab the bar.”
She wrinkled her nose, but tossed her bag against the wall, out of the way.
“No feature’s foolproof, so use common sense. If you get dizzy or whatever, grab the bar like I said and click the down arrow.” He tapped the treadmill’s landing step. “Another trick is jumping on these so you straddle the belt.”
“I guess.” She placed her bottle into the holder, then flashed him a hesitant smile and whipped off her sweatshirt.
And out flew all his good intentions.
Stop looking at her boobs.
They were glorious.
Down, boy.
Thrusting one of the towels at her, he covered the front of his bike shorts with the other. Didn’t need the poor girl thinking he walked around with a perpetual boner. Maybe a run would help. Yeah. A really hard, fast run. “Any questions, just ask.” When she didn’t respond, he popped in his earbuds and got to work.
Three tunes later, he turned to her, careful to keep his eyes on her face. “A minute out from your jog. Feeling good?”
She nodded.
“Great.” Maybe now was a good time for small talk, distract her from the exercise monotony. “Want to tell me more about you?”
“I didn’t answer all the questions?”
“Yeah, sure you did, but that was about your goals.”
Liar. You want to do a hell of a lot more than break ice with her.
She laughed. “Putting the personal into personal training?”
Hmm. And was that innuendo? The next four weeks might prove to be an adventure. “Why not? We’ll be hanging out here a lot the whole month.”
“Uh, not such a good idea.” Her smile faded. “Don’t think I can run and talk at the same time.”
“Sure. Do what’s comfortable.” He assessed her condition. Hmm. Nothing to indicate shortness of breath. Maybe she was shy? He rubbed the back of his neck, then powered up the tunes. Maybe music would make him stop wishing he was the fabric cradling his client’s breasts.
A few songs later, he turned to her again. “You did it!”
She shot him a soul-melting grin, and he gripped the bars to steady his world, and slowed his pace. Where the hell was that obnoxious beep coming from?
He pulled out his earbuds.
Aw, fuck.
“Sorry.” He ripped his palms off the heart sensors. Who was this woman that gave him insta-lust? He shook his head and laughed. In all his years as a trainer, he’d never had a client affect him like she did. He glanced over at her. “Four more minutes. You still feeling okay?”
She dabbed at her brow, a hint of sadness in her eyes. “I survived. Does it get better?”
“Should.”
“Hope so.” Her voice was soft.
Was the client still talking about exercise? He wasn’t sure. Lexie Bloom was a mystery.
Chapter Three
Juggling a cardboard tray of coffees in one hand and a bag of doughnuts in the other, Lexie wove her way through the maze of gray office cubicles to her own at the far end. She set the tray down and tossed her duffel bag beneath the desk before turning at the click of high heels behind her.
Ms. Swann approached, pale and slender in a blue dress and pumps that matched