Snatched

Chapter 1

Chapter One

ELENA

By the time I shove through the revolving doors of Elevate Fitness in SoHo, my hair is frizzing from the subway steam, my purse is slipping down my arm, and my right heel is dangling from my fingers like a dead bird.

“This day has been chaos,” I mutter.

“You sound like chaos,” Harper says in my AirPods. “Where are you right now?”

“Walking into the gym as we speak. Thanks for keeping me company on the walk.”

“It’s a gym, not Mount Olympus. Breathe. Channel your inner hot, powerful thirty-nine-year-old woman who is entering her prime.”

I snort. “My prime was ten years ago. Maybe fifteen.”

“Bold of you to assume you’re not at your prime right now. Especially with the revenge body. You’re about to get snatched.”

I giggle. “I mean this is day one, but that’s the idea.”

Harper pauses. “Are you wearing the cute leggings I told you to wear? Any cute guys at this new gym?”

I come to a full stop in front of the lobby mirror.

My reflection stares back at me:

Honey-blonde hair falling out of the braided ponytail I put in this morning at 5:45 AM.

Blue eyes with faint laugh lines that suddenly feel like canyons.

Peach sweatshirt slightly askew.

Leggings with a barely visible coffee stain from my morning sprint to the office.

Fantastic.

“I just joined to actually try and get into shape, for once in my life. For the private instruction on fitness. I’m not here to flirt. And even if I was, it would be after I get into shape. The gym bros intimidate me.”

“I know you look hot,” Harper insists through the mic. “Now stop judging yourself and go get trained by your new, hopefully hot, probably ripped personal trainer.”

“I hate you,” I whisper with a grin. Because she’s always right.

“You don’t,” she singsongs. “Now, sit down, collect yourself, and pull up a dating app. Loosen the energy.”

“Absolutely not. We’re in a gym lobby. Also? I’ve been thinking, maybe dating apps aren’t the best for my aura.”

“The universe needs to know you’re open. I love you, Elena, and I love those manifestations you do. But unfortunately you can’t find a boyfriend if you don’t leave your apartment…and refuse to date anyone at your company.”

I groan, drop into one of the lobby seats, and swipe open the app. Harper is right. I’ve been taking things so seriously, and I do need to loosen…something. Maybe it’s my shoulders. Maybe it’s my grip on the idea that I should have been married with two kids by now.

Timelines.

“I know, I know. I don’t want to be like, a downer, but I feel like I’m behind, you know?

Like I should have figured everything out by now.

I’m thirty-nine, but I don’t feel thirty-nine.

” I pause and think for a moment. “Well, except after we have one of our three margarita Mondays and I have to work the next morning.”

Harper cracks up. “You are on the right path. Stop it. I know you better than anyone, and you are a steal. Who volunteers 20 hours a month?”

“Me,” I mumble.

“Right. But you’re a good person. You’re…kind. And you’re a lover. Despite what he-who-shall-not-be-named did to you, you’re not a man-hater.”

“I know. But maybe I should like, decenter men?”

“You make more than most men,” she quips. “So…just have fun. Let a man be an addition to your life.”

I sigh, still swiping while I’m chatting. Harper, for better or worse, has not steered me wrong.

“Oh no,” I whisper.

“What? Did you match with a troll?”

“No.”

A 31-year-old pops up on the screen. Very cute. Very grown. Very… young.

But 31 isn’t that young. And I definitely don’t feel thirty-nine. Maybe it’s because I spent almost all of my thirties wifed up. I never sowed my wild oats, so to speak.

“It’s just…am I too old to date a thirty-one year old? I accidentally put my filter to 30 and up.”

Harper says, “Do it. Swipe. Swipity swipe swipe. Keep your heart open, remember?”

I swipe right, heart fluttering in that weird way where my brain says this is pathetic and my body says maybe not.

“Okay,” Harper says, “now find your new trainer on the gym app. I want to see if he’s hot.”

“Harps. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Do it, Elena.”

I pull up the Elevate Fitness app and type his name.

Colt Evans.

His profile picture loads.

I blink.

“Oh. Oh no.”

He’s…shirtless.

Like should not be legal shirtless.

Shredded abs.

Golden skin.

A V-line that points to places I have not visited in far too long. One classy piece of ink on his bicep.

He looks like an underwear model on a billboard I’d politely try not to ogle.

“Is he hot?” Harper demands.

I zoom in on the photo.

“ELENA. Your silence tells me everything. You need to send me the screenshot of his pic.”

“I’m just checking his—um—credentials.”

“You’re zooming in on his abs, aren’t you?”

“No, of course not.”

I absolutely am.

And because the universe loves comedy, at that very moment a deep, amused male voice says behind me:

“Enjoying the view?”

My soul leaves my body.

The phone slips from my hand and clatters onto the tile.

Harper screams through the AirPods,

“ELENA? WHO IS THAT? IS HE HOT? ASK IF HE CAN BENCH-PRESS YOU!”

Slowly. Painfully…I turn.

He’s standing there.

Obviously the same Colt from the photo I was just perusing.

All six-foot-something of him. Three if I had to guess. Three? Maybe four. I’ve never been good at guessing heights. And speaking of ages, he is well below my dating range. What is he, mid-twenties, if I had to guess?

A black fitted tee clings to his strong shoulders. He’s got warm brown eyes that look like they belong on a movie screen.

A smile tugs at one side of his mouth, like he’s waiting for me to say something.

I swallow. “I, um. Hi. Sorry. That wasn’t…this wasn’t—”

He crouches down, picks up my phone, and his eyes flicker to the screen still displaying his abs enlarged to NASA-level resolution.

He raises an eyebrow.

I’m going to combust.

“You must be Elena,” he says, handing the phone back with a devastating calm.

Harper shrieks,

“OH MY GOD HE SOUNDS HOT—IS HE LOOKING AT YOU—HELLO? ELENA?”

I rip a single AirPod out so fast it flies across the floor like a runaway popcorn kernel. Like that’s going to do anything since my phone already switched to speaker phone. Technology hates me.

Colt bites back a laugh as I awkwardly walk over a few steps and lean down to grab it, trying to pretend like I’m smooth.

“I apologize,” I whisper. “My friend doesn’t, um, censor.”

“Really? I couldn’t tell,” he says with a grin.

He gestures toward the gym hallway. “Ready for your evaluation session? Or…do you need to tie off with Harper?”

Absolutely not.

“Sure,” I squeak.

I end the call, and we walk down the hallway, his stride easy and confident. Mine is less so. I feel awkward, just trying not to stare at the way his shirt stretches across his chest. Or his arms. Or the curve of his neck.

I take a deep breath. No, I’m not doing this. He’s my trainer. I’ve worked in corporate my whole life, and I know how to be very professional. In fact, that’s my strong suit. So there will be no crushes here. I’m here for the workout.

Inside the training studio, he sets down a tablet. “So. Elena. Talk to me.”

“About?”

“Your dating life.”

“Uh….” I stumble over my words. Why, when just two hours ago I was telling men ten years my age off during a tense board meeting, am I suddenly tongue tied?

“Well, let’s just say it’s been a while. If you know what I mean.”

A smile washes over his face. “That’s…interesting. But I’m kidding. Tell me about your current fitness routine. Obviously. Sorry…I’m not good with jokes.”

I open my mouth.

And something unhinges.

“Oh. Right. Well, I do yoga twice a week but sometimes I cancel it because work drains my soul and then I try to go on dates but all the men my age want women who are twenty-seven and flexible and can do handstands on TikTok—no offense—but I’ve been looking into strength training because that’s apparently better for longevity and oh, by the way, my last relationship was extremely disappointing in bed, which maybe isn’t something you need to know but here I am saying it out loud—”

His eyebrows lift slowly.

I slap my hand over my mouth.

“I don’t know why I’m talking.”

He laughs. It’s low and warm and does things to my internal organs.

“It happens,” he says. “People talk when they’re nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” I lie.

“No?”

I stare at him.

He stares back, eyes soft, not mocking.

So I confess, “Okay. Fine. Maybe a little.”

He gives a small smirk. “Relax Elena. We’re going to have a great time. And you know what? Training is supposed to be fun.”

“Fun? Really?”

“Yeah. Or else you’ll get bored. It’s easier to combine discipline with fun.”

“That’s…an interesting concept. I never thought of it that way.”

“Let’s warm up.”

We start with treadmill intervals of walking and jogging.

It’s humiliating how fast I realize I’m winded.

Colt jogs beside me effortlessly, his steps light and rhythmic.

“Your form is good,” he says. “You just carry tension in your shoulders.”

I glance sideways. “Don’t we all.”

“Thirty-nine isn’t old by the way,” he adds casually, adjusting my incline like he didn’t just drop my age into conversation.

I whip my head toward him. “How did you know?”

“I’m a psychic. That’s my side gig.

I shoot him a twisted grin. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. You also wrote it on the intake form, though.” He grins.

“Oh. Right.”

He slows the treadmill, then says casually, “I’m twenty-seven, by the way. In case you were wondering.”

I nearly trip. “I wasn’t.” Definitely was.

He sees it. “You okay?”

“Just air. Breathing. Life.”

He tries not to laugh.

“Age is just a number anyway,” he says, checking my form. “It’s not the thing that defines people.”

Easy for him to say when he looks like Poseidon’s nephew.

Next up is my first experience with weights in way too long.

He positions me for a hinged row. I kneel with one knee on the bench, and his hands brushing lightly against my ribcage to help my posture.