Chapter 24
I AM A WEAK, weak woman.
I haven’t broken, thank you, but halfway through my workweek there are cracks in my resolve.
I can recall every time he’s touched me since Saturday.
Monday, when his fingers brushed mine when he handed me a cup of coffee, and when his knee bumped me beneath the table when we sat down for lunch, we just…
stayed put. Neither of us commented or made any effort to move, and we maintained the contact for the duration of the meal.
I swear, I could feel the pressure of his knee against my thigh for hours after.
Tuesday almost broke me. He had me model an assisted lat stretch, where I hung on to the rig while he pushed me from behind.
His hands pressed below my shoulder blades, sending me up and out, releasing tension across my chest and shoulders while inspiring a whole other kind of pressure below my waistline.
When I dropped from the bar, my legs about gave out.
There’s been no touching today, but I’m facing another challenge.
He’s programmed deadlifting. A brutish, grunt-heavy lift no one, not even Alistair, can perform without some degree of unflattering facial contortions.
I’d hoped that Ian would do me the courtesy of providing a hint of grotesque when he lifted during the nine forty-five class, but nope.
Just steel-eyed determination as he ground through a set of five at 80 percent of his own max, in lieu of the day’s prescribed PR attempt, punctuated with guttural cries that had my toes curling.
Now, as I watch his deadlift demonstration in my own class, the relatively light weight he’s using means there’s no opportunity for weird faces, and his no-nonsense breakdown of the movement has inflamed my competence hard-on.
Then, there’s what the mechanics of the deadlift require of him physically.
Tiny shifts, muscles rising and falling with each adjustment to his form.
His shirt is so fitted that when he braces, I can see the muscle high on the outside of his ribs ripple like a cluster of pebbles.
He insists—literally—that we observe the engagement of his glutes as he initiates the lift.
He stands, bar in hand, and those glutes I’ve been instructed to watch grab at the seam bisecting the seat of his shorts, closing around the line to create a perfect outline of the individual cheeks.
My brain volunteers a little Cookie Monster om-nom-nom!
at the sight. Because not only am I a nauseatingly horny wretch, but I have the humor of a six-year-old.
“Any questions?” he asks. Or repeats? Who knows; I’m thinking about some om-nom-nom of my own and how gladly I’d take a bite of that firm tush. Just a playful nibble! Maybe give it a little smack…
“Hayes! You gonna load up that bar?”
“On it!” I call back, coming to and realizing that I am the only attendee not retrieving plates. I scurry off for some fifteens. The warm-up rounds are easy enough, and I do the prescribed larger number of lifts with lower weights before cutting back on my reps as the load creeps up.
Ian catches me midlift and tells me, “Chin down. Not too much, just enough to have your neck in a neutral spine alignment.”
I make the adjustment and am rewarded with a warm finger at the base of my skull, tracing down my spine to the collar of my tank top.
“That’s what you want,” he continues, like he hasn’t just created a channel of heat that’s set fire to my entire central nervous system. “A long, straight line.”
I nod, a quick jerk of my chin, and rise, my posterior chain grabbing for the back of my own shorts. I reverse the bar path and reset, lifting again, and wondering, without looking or interrupting my set, if Ian is in a spot to appreciate the active engagement of my backside.
“Nicely done,” he says, and moves on to Russ in the row ahead of me.
I unclip the collar on each side of the bar, sliding on another five-pound plate to each end. I’m not even doing math anymore. I know I’m close to the record I established when I started, but Grant assured me earlier that with the work I’ve been putting in, I’ll blow past that today.
The next lift is a breeze. I switch out the five-pound plates for tens, and lift on autopilot as my mind continues down a very different track.
What if I’m reading all of this wrong? My stomach flops, and I lower the bar to the floor with a scowl. What if he isn’t interested beyond casual, consensual, workplace flirtation, and I’m the horned-up weirdo who is imagining Cookie Monster om-nom-noms on this poor man’s backside?
OH GOD, HE’S BACK!
I’m squatting beside my bar, sliding on another ten pounds, as he pauses to look over the plates I’ve loaded. Instead of tabulating the weight myself, I watch him do the math. His brows rise, and he presses his lower lip out approvingly. “Is this close to your last PR?”
No idea. I’m just doing my best not to let my attention drift to his crotch, which is currently at my eye level. “Yup!”
He smiles. “Still feeling strong?”
“Yup!”
“Great! I’ll let you get back to it.”
I stand and return to the bar. Focus, Ellie. No thoughts of nibbles or crotches or—holy hell, how is my blood still on fire from his finger? That was, like, what? Ten minutes ago? How long have I been lifting?
I grip the bar, ring and pinky fingers firmly on the rough section for grip, and rise.
The right side of my body flashes with heat. My head spins.
No!
The bar falls from my hands, the plates hitting the floor with a thud loud enough to hear over the bass throbbing from the speakers.
I gasp.
My vision has gone spotty, and the ground is uneven, rolling beneath me like a goddamn funhouse. I can’t trust myself to stay standing.
I drop to a crouch and grab my bar for balance. Dr. Hartman’s list of possible symptoms rifles through my mind. My eye, tingling in my limbs… sudden dizziness.
Panic rises in my chest, so fast and sudden, it closes up my throat. This is it. It has to be. This is the second nerve attack.
A whimper crawls up my still tight throat, and I force it down. I have to get out of here. The hysteria is bubbling beneath the surface, and I’m not about to fall apart in front of everyone in the class. Especially not—
Ian’s head swivels in my direction.
I turn away. I keep hold of my bar, hoping it looks like I’m trying to keep it from rolling toward Russ, who’s grunting through his own lift, but out of the corner of my eye, I see Ian heading toward me.
He’s not making a scene, but if he gets to me in this state, I sure as shit will. I have to get off the floor.
I rise unsteadily and keep my head down as I beeline for the supply room.
I left it unlocked when I started the laundry, and it’s a safer call than waiting it out in the locker room, which will be full of members when class wraps up.
I step in, close the door, and lean against it, not bothering to turn on the light.
The right side of my face still tingles, like I’ve put some weird chemical peel on it, and my heart rate is sky high. But I don’t cry. Which surprises me. I’d have figured that when this caught up with me, I’d finally have that emotional collapse I fought against the last few weeks.
Instead, my body shakes, rocking with full-body convulsions I make no effort to combat. I try to make a list, but the only thing I come up with is to call my neurologist. Every other to-do spins out from there.
In the gym, more weights hit the floor as athletes reach their limits. Someone rings the PR bell. Had I PR’d? Does it matter?
A broken sob pulls free from my throat. It isn’t fair! I’ve only just found this new, powerful thing my body is capable of. I hadn’t known I had it in me, and there’s so much more I want to do. It’s taking me four pulls to get to the top of the rope; I want to be able to do it in three.
My eyes sting, but still, no tears. I just shake.
So much for while I can.