2. Leah
Leah
While my personal cabin is fully finished, everything inside has the appeal of a concrete slab. Gray, it’s all gray… The couches, every curtain, each bare wall. Burial chambers have more appeal.
Kicking my boots off at the door, I haul my bags to the bedroom—also gray, but a lighter shade.
How cheerful. The only things that aren’t some shade of drab are the appliances.
They’re stainless, so close enough. Since I’m a day early, I have free time before training starts.
Introducing myself to my peers would be nice, but decorating has been promptly moved to the top of my to-do list.
Foresight is one of my best qualities. For that, I’m immensely thankful.
Most people would never consider bringing décor to a boarding facility.
But me? I have trunks filled with a variety of trinkets and figurines.
The benefit of being a closeted nerd pretty much ends there.
Nonetheless, between them and my art supplies, I have more than enough to keep me busy.
Powering on my Bluetooth speaker, I connect my phone and open Spotify.
Volume cranked, hair tied into space buns so they look like pink cotton candy poofs, I get to work.
If I have neighbors, they’re either going to love me or hate me.
I’d like to think anyone who stumbles—or storms—in on me attempting to dance along to 90s boy bands would be entertained.
Bopping along to “Bye, Bye, Bye,” I pull open the zipper on my large cow print suitcase.
Mountains of clothes erupt from it. All of my favorite dresses had to make the journey.
There’s no world I’d want to live in where they don’t exist. The occasional romper and overalls fill in the gaps for rainy or cold days.
Does Florida even get cold? We’ll see.
My plush burgundy comforter is the next thing released from its luggage confines. Haphazardly tossing it over the bed, I move along to the sitting area by the large window. Throw blankets are pivotal to human existence, and I’ll fight anyone who disagrees. I brought seven.
In my expert opinion, my favorite throw—cream-colored, decorated with little ivy vines—will complement the dark red on the bed perfectly.
I drape it over the plush chair, grinning from ear to ear as I admire my improvements.
The benefit of a monochrome, blank slate is that everything goes with it.
A girl’s got to look on the bright side, after all.
I dance my way to the kitchen, cutting the tape that seals the cardboard box on the counter.
Mismatched dinnerware shines back at me in a kaleidoscope of colors, like beacons of comfort and personality.
I file them away, appreciating the glass cabinet doors.
The peek of life visible from inside livens up the space without needing any extra effort.
My cow print apron finds its new home on a hook by the fridge.
Sunny-yellow place mats on the round glass-top table provide the perfect pop of vibrancy to the dining area.
Hanging a few of my favorite watercolors fills in the gaps to bring the space together.
Music still booms through the cabin. I’ve been at this for hours. If the other cabins were occupied, someone would have broken my door down by now.
Solitary confinement means I can be as loud as I want, nobody is around to tell me otherwise.
Jackpot!
One final trip to my truck for things to add a little pizzazz to the living room, and I can call this done.
The amount of chaos I’ve imbued into the space is amazing.
As I lay the rest of my throw blanket collection along the couches, the first notes of “Livin’ la Vida Loca” fill the air.
Naturally, I burst into a full-on frenzy—whirling, spinning, shaking my hips—forgetting the world as I lose myself in the sweet musings of Ricky Martin.
As the beat stops, I strike a final pose and shake myself off, catching my breath. My hair is a wild mess. I’m sweaty, panting with a giant grin on my face. That is, until I realize I didn’t close my door.
Leaning suggestively against the frame is a man—arms folded, one hip pressed against the molding, legs crossed at the ankles. Backlit from the sun, his face is cloaked in shadow, so I can’t make out the expression hiding there.
He’s lean, so definitely not Grady.
Some people would feel bad for disturbing his day, others might even feel embarrassed and scurry to stop the music. Not me. I casually press pause, letting my hands find their familiar perches atop my hips. Chest puffed, I return his silence.
Please don’t be another silent mystery man.
“What a display,” he says after a minute, voice deep but surprisingly light.
Oh, good, he talks. Still, that doesn’t excuse his gawking.
I tilt my head, trying to get a look at his face. No luck. “Do you make a habit of watching people?”
“Only the cute ones.” He straightens, knocking on the already open door. “It was unlocked, I took it as an invitation to introduce myself. Besides, I love a good party and expected an entire gaggle of women in here. Instead, I got one hell of a solo show.”
“Wow, okay,” I say with an exasperated huff, looking for more words. They’re somewhere in the pudding my brain has devolved into.
“Can I come in?” He lets out a soft laugh.
“You’re already halfway there, may as well.” I shrug, strolling to the kitchen.
The door latches behind him, click echoing louder than needed. I immediately swallow down tingles.
Did I just let a strange man shut himself in this—suddenly very small feeling—cabin with me?
“Well, this is a pretty secure place. I’m also not that strange.” His eyes, so blue they’re almost colorless, sparkle when he chuckles, pillowy lips pulled into a half-smile.
I lean against the refrigerator, groaning into my hands. “Stupid mouth. I said the inside parts out loud again.”
“You’re not the usual type of clientele they take on here,” he comments with a playful smirk.
I’m definitely staring way too long, but it’s just enough to commit his chiseled jawline to memory.
“I’m Parker, your trainer,” he interrupts my studying, destroying the fantasy life I started building for us in my mind.
My lungs stop working. “P-Parker?”
“In the flesh. Grady told me you were here.”
“Grady?!” I squeak.
“Yeah, he said my new project had arrived. In fewer words, but still.”
“He… talked to you?”
“Ah, my bad. No. He sent me a text.”
“That sounds—wait. Your project?!” My face twists, lip curling.
“It’s a long story. Mostly a tale of my shortcomings and why I need you.” His mouth corner twitches despite the attempted humor in his voice.
My heart pounds rapidly, nerves prickling the back of my neck. “So I’m a pawn. For what? Are you going to use me for your own gain, make yourself look good, then discard me once I’ve finished being beneficial?”
“Uh, wow. Okay. There’s an entire truckload of worms I don’t wanna open. What I mean is, we both have something to prove. Your secrets are safe with me. I’d like to think we could be friends.” He taps his fingers on the counter.
Friends. Riiiight.
I raise my chin, straightening my spine. “Good thing I don’t have secrets.”
“Of course not. Silly me for insinuating that you might. But, if you ever find yourself in need of an alibi, hit me up, Pinkie.” He pulls a business card from his pocket, slapping it on the counter.
“Pinkie, how original.” I roll my eyes. “Haven’t heard that a million times from guys trying to take me home.”
He chuckles. “That’s the difference, I’m already in your home.” I scoff, but the heat on my cheeks betrays me. “Fine, I’ll get more creative. I appreciate a spunky lady. The pink hair is a bonus.”
“Good, you’ll love my horse then.”
“Grady gave me a heads up, don’t worry, I’ll keep peppermints on hand for her.” He circles the counter, leaning in close.
My stomach flips from his presence, only getting fuzzier as our eyes lock.
“What do you like?” Brows raised, head tilted a little to the left, he watches me with such intensity that my breath catches.
No man should be this magnetic. I’ve been with a sinful amount—if you ask my mother.
His aggressive confidence would usually earn a knee to the groin. But good god does it work.
My mind slips into a maddening spiral. “L-lemon,” I squeak out.
“Lemon heads? Or lemon meringue pie?”
“Lemon heads are to die for,” I reply, finally coming back to reality.
“Peppermints and lemon heads, got it. I’ll stock up. Happy girls make for a good time.”
Red alert, change the topic.
“How are you a trainer? They’re all ancient. You must be twenty years old.” It’s obvious that he’s older than that, but exaggerating to see his response is entertaining.
His face is expressive. He also absolutely enjoys my sense of humor. Every poke and jab rewards me with small smiles and little lifts of his eyes, which I need to stop staring into.
He’s your trainer, Leah. You can’t sleep with him.
“I’m twenty-nine. But thanks for the flattery.” Leaning against the sink, he braces his hands on either side of himself, forearm veins bulging.
My lip almost bleeds from how hard I bite it. Does he know how attractive he is, or is this just the way he naturally acts? I guess I’ll find out soon enough.
He raises a single eyebrow. “You good?”
“Yup. So, am I your only client?” Another change of subject, getting back on track before I leap across the kitchen and lick him. That would be a massive mistake.
“No, but I only have one other. She’s a… special case, too.” The slight frown that tugs at his mouth marks the first hint of negativity I’ve seen.
“Lucky you. A ‘project’ and a ‘special case’ all to yourself,” I joke, hoping to bring his smile back.
“It’s the price I’ve gotta pay to prove myself.
” He shrugs, pulling out his phone. “I’m famished, wanna get lunch with Grady and me?
” When I go stiff, he winces. “Did he make a bad first impression? He can be a little rough around the edges, but he’s a decent guy. Just don’t ask him to talk to you.”
“So he can talk?”
“Come to lunch and give him a chance to show you his personality. He’s going to be very involved in our day-to-day routine, so there’s no avoiding him.” He motions to the door. “I’ll text him. We can all take my car.”
I shift on my feet, trying to think of an excuse that doesn’t suck. “I’m sweaty and gross from unpacking.”
“He won’t care, neither do I. You look gor—” Clearing his throat, he tucks his hands in his pockets. “Good, fine. You look fine. We’ll be waiting outside. Take a minute to get ready if you need it.”
With that, he leaves, not giving me the chance to argue further.
Looks like I’m going to lunch.
My stomach growls on cue. I had planned on grabbing food soon anyway. Some attractive company can’t hurt. Might as well get started on those introductions.
Jitters fill me, like there’s an entire atrium coming alive in my stomach. I scurry to the bathroom to brush my teeth and apply fresh deodorant. As for my hair, messy space buns will have to do. It’s far beyond salvageable. Not that it matters, they’ll see me at my worst soon enough.
It’s just lunch with my trainer and stable hand.
Rein it in.
A snort escapes me from the thought.
Pulling on a baby-pink dress with a scattering of small white flowers all over it, I stop at the full-length mirror to admire myself. The skirt flows loosely, landing mid-thigh. Buttercup sleeves flatter the fullness of my upper arms. That’s right, I’m hot shit.
Walking with a spring in my step, I’m ready to take on whatever awaits me at lunch.
After I slip on a pair of cream-colored flip flops, I swing the door open, freezing at the sight of them.
Man, am I in trouble.