Fall With Me (Cinnamon Rolls and Pumpkin Spice)

1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Chloe

My clients call me a witch. A torturer. They’re not wrong. Well, I’m not literally going around casting spells and cursing people, but I delight in people’s blood, sweat, and tears. I relish the look they give me when they want to cave, but then I hold their gaze, and they don’t. The hate they fire my way is an essence that fuels me.

Does it sound weird? Sure, if you’re not a fitness instructor. But for me, it’s super, duper normal.

“Ladies,” I shout in my headset at the back of the fitness room. “Let me demonstrate this station.” I slide my back down a wall until my thighs are parallel with the floor. “Twelve reps, holding for thirty seconds, resting for fifteen.”

The women starting at this rotation get situated, complaining about this move as they go.

“I know your quads burn, but the pain stops as soon as you do,” I say to those doing wall sits. “Fight through it! Don’t give up! Your mind will fail you way before your body does!”

The back door creaks open like we’re in a haunted house .

When no one walks in, chills run up my spine.

And that’s why I shouldn’t watch suspense movies late at night.

It’s not a ghost, Chloe. “Are you coming in?” I ask.

I threaten anyone who’s late to my class with twenty burpees before they can join us. The move is hard—even for me. They’re effective though. Rarely do I have late comers.

But is this new attendee someone I can torture? My heart drums in my chest. It’s been way too long. A malicious smile creeps on my face.

“You’re doing great!” I say to my clients, who have stopped exercising and are staring past me at whoever is hiding in the doorway.

Moving to greet the new person, I freeze at the sight of him. My heart skips a beat.

I get why their focus stalled. Oh, wow! WOW!

I clasp my hands behind my back to keep from fanning my face, which is suddenly overheating. The man in athletic shorts and a shirt with the sleeves cut off is standing there looking lost and incredibly handsome.

“What’s the holdup?” I manage to ask this stranger who is making my heart feel things it hasn't in years.

I see bodies in all sorts of clothing at Elite Fitness. This guy shouldn’t have any effect on me. Oh, but the way he fills out athletic shorts and a workout tee? Yeah, I’m noticing. Big time. He’s taller than me by a few inches, and the muscles of his bare shoulders are lean and defined. His shirt stretches taut across his chest.

And I am here for it.

He rubs a hand through his short brown hair. “Uh…is this boot camp? Like…regular boot camp, not for geriatri—” His eyes dart around the room, as if he’s afraid he offended someone by calling them old.

He doesn’t think this class is for him. Ha. Challenge accepted.

“Sure is.” I fold my arms across my chest in an attempt to make myself look tough. “Ready to cry?”

He glances around the room, his brown brows furrowing, showing his disbelief that my class—full of older women—can challenge him.

“Yeah?” He hesitantly steps in all the way, the door automatically closing behind him. But he doesn’t move after that.

Good. He can serve out his sentence right there.

“Drop and give me twenty full burpees,” I command.

“What?” Wrinkles appear on his forehead as he looks around the room again.

“If you’re late to my class, you get penalized. Get started.” I tap my watch, emphasizing my point.

“I’m new here. How was I supposed to know?”

I shrug like it’s not my problem. “Now you do.” Pointing to the floor, I motion for him to start.

Grudgingly, he hops down into a plank position, does a push up, then tucks his knees under him and jumps up. He scowls at me as he goes back into his plank.

“One,” I count for him. “Keep going.”

Leaving him to carry out the other nineteen (secretly impressed with his proper form), I go to the women at the upper body station. “Those muscles won’t get worked just standing there Bea,” I say. “Let’s get back at it. ”

Whispers of “I wonder if he’s single?” and “Ohhh, he’s sexy” and “There’s the motivation I needed” echo around the room.

He is attractive and his perfect form and defined (but not bulky) muscles are downright sexy. But if I don’t stop my class—and myself—from checking him out, we’ll never finish our workout.

Clapping my hands again, I shout, “Keep moving, friends. The next time I see someone standing around who isn’t on their fifteen-second break, will get to do burpees, too.”

I’m bluffing, but I want them to exercise.

Every woman, except Bea, gets back to it. Bea, in an attempt to show off for the new guy, introduce herself, or prove she can keep up with him—I’m not entirely sure of her reasoning—joins this guy in doing burpees.

New Guy does three to Bea’s one. Granted, she’s in her seventies…but should I stop her? The last thing I want is someone having a heart attack, stroke, or dying during my class. I care about these women who have consistently supported me since I started working here, but she obviously thinks she can do it.

“Bea,” I say. “We’re about to switch stations. Why don’t you get up and head back to your biceps curls?” And leave this poor man alone.

He’s mine to torture.