The Fastest Way to Fall(39)

He stared at it, a slow grin spreading across his face, but his eyes held an odd expression—surprise mixed with something I couldn’t place.

“For me?”

“I would have made you a cake, but I thought you might be more likely to eat this.”

He ran one of his fingertips up the length of the candle before taking it from me, our hands brushing. “This is so . . .” His mouth formed an adorable grin he failed at hiding. “Thank you. This is awesome.” The smile widened as he laughed. “You ready?” He tipped his head toward the large room.

Five people were on the elliptical machines and the treadmills, while a few others lifted weights around the perimeter and the thump of heavy bass bled through the walls from another room where an exercise class had started. He led me through stretches, and I tried to point my back toward the wall. As I always did, I struggled to get my leg up behind me to stretch my quads, stumbling on the third attempt. I should make a video compilation of my trying this. I could see it in my head, and I smiled.

“Here,” he said, all business with his deep voice as he stepped behind me.

Don’t look at my ass. Don’t look at my ass.

He steadied one hand against my shoulder and guided my leg. Even through my yoga pants, I felt his heat. Our hands skimmed against each other, but he let his fall away, keeping a palm near my shoulder to help me maintain my balance.

“Thanks,” I said, hoping he hadn’t noticed my reaction.

“No problem. You can always use a chair when doing that one, especially if you lose your balance.”

“Are you calling me clumsy, Tube Sock?”

“Never.” He winked and patted the bar on the treadmill. “You ready?”

I stepped up on the machine, intimidated by the wide display with flashing lights and buttons and space for me to enter my weight. Et tu, treadmill?

Wes tapped a group of buttons, and the belt hummed to life. He walked me through the settings and let me know some safety practices, including attaching the little plastic clip to my shirt in case I lost control and needed to stop.

“You wouldn’t catch me if I went flying?” I stepped onto the belt, moving at a snail’s pace. I opened my mouth to say something else, but a woman in a sports bra took the machine in front of us and started jogging. The sounds of her feet hitting the belt over the sound of my sneakers ambling along made me stifle my next joke.

“I’d catch you,” Wes said, drawing my attention back to him, and I certainly wasn’t imagining touching the dimple in his cheek. “Time to speed up. Tell me how you’re feeling, though. Once you’re warmed up, we’ll switch from walking to light jogging for a short interval.”

I nodded, steeling myself. The room was surrounded by mirrors, so if this running experiment went bad, I’d have a 360-degree view of it. Wes stood next to my machine, and I glanced down and watched as his long fingers moved across the display, resting on the up button.

“Ready?”

“Yes,” I said, catching another glance at the woman ahead of me, who was running full speed now, earbuds plugged in, laser focused on the news program. Wes tapped the button, and the belt moved faster. “Don’t worry about what anyone else is doing.”

I got this. I smiled at Wes when he adjusted the speed and I could keep up, just breathing harder.

His expression lightened at my smile. It was cute, almost like he’d been waiting for it.

After a few minutes, he raised his eyebrows. “Good work. Jogging now. Nothing too intense.”

“Easy for you to say,” I mumbled.

“Oh, and here.” He handed me a pair of new earbuds from his pocket after unwinding the plastic band holding them together. “I grabbed these on the way over. Wasn’t sure you’d bring your own.” He plugged them into his phone and motioned for me to put them in. “Running is better with music.”

Once I had them secured, he hit another button on the machine.

Here goes nothing. I began a clumsy, lumbering jog and stared at the display, because I did not want to get a glimpse of myself in the mirror, especially with Betty McMarathon in the foreground.

Wes fiddled with his phone and looked up, his eyes traveling over my arms and down my legs.

What is he noticing? Oh, God. Is the sound of my feet hitting the belt louder than everyone else’s? My face heated and my breath came fast, despite this only being a light jog. Such a bad idea. I’m going to resign. My head twisted with anxiety until light piano music came through the headphones, and I raised an eyebrow at Wes, who’d set his phone in the cutout on the display.

He shrugged as Whitney Houston’s voice flowed through the headphones, crooning about stolen moments. I laughed, despite being short of breath. He mouthed the lyrics and then held up two fingers. Two minutes. I glanced at the timer on the machine. I’d been jogging for thirty whole seconds. Don’t let me down, Whitney.

After five intervals of two-minute jogs, I was red-faced and sweaty. My chest heaved, and even the start of “I’m Your Baby Tonight” was not enough to give me a second wind. I huffed and pawed at my water bottle.

“You did good,” Wes encouraged.

“I hate you,” I wheezed.

His laugh was low and hearty, even amid the noise and clatter of the gym. “Back on the belt for cooldown, and then we’ll try some weights.”