Behind me, I hear Fashion Forty laugh in the glass office with HOG. The sound of their voices is like breaking glass and it’s ugly and awful. Their sound is the one I’m accustomed to. Not cellos.
I start to shake with disappointment and sadness.
I want to run away from this place and never come back. I grab one last look at Mr. Cello’s sunshine eyes before I dash out of here so I can remember this moment. At least I’ll have that much. Because what’s going to happen next is, he’s going to walk behind the counter and join Fashion Forty and the HOG in his glass office, and all three of them will point at me and laugh like broken glass.
“Don’t worry,” Mr. Cello says, his voice rivaling Yo Yo Ma’s virtuosity for its beauty. “I can check you in.” He walks behind the counter to a computer. “What’s your name?”
“Daphne Bowman?” I sound so insecure, like I’m not even sure of my own name. But I always sound this way around men. Especially godlike cello-voiced men like this man.
He clicks keys and the computer beeps. It’s the most beautiful beep I’ve ever heard. “Okay, you’re all set. Have a good workout,” he smiles.
“Um?” That’s all I can force out.
“Yeah?”
“Um?”
He snickers, “Yes?”
“Um, um, um!” Get a hold of yourself, Daphne! Use your words! “Um, I’m supposed to meet with my trainer! At six!” I’m practically shouting.
He’s startled.
“Sorry,” I sigh.
“It’s okay. This is your first time, isn’t it?”
“How can you tell?” I ask sarcastically.
He flashes a rugged grin, “You seem a little nervous.” The way he’s looking at me does something I don’t understand. Guys never look at me this way. It’s like he wants to talk to me.
“Yeah, a little.”
Unlike me, he is totally at ease and confident. His shoulders beneath his purple polo are broad and his bare arms defined. “Let’s see who your trainer is.” He clicks more keys on the computer. He frowns. “I don’t see your name on here. Did you reply to the confirmation email we sent out? If you don’t, the system automatically fills your slot with someone else.”
“No.” Crap. That’s how these things always work out for me. I forget one little thing and set myself up for daily failure. Now he’s going to tell me to go home and never come back.
He smiles, “That’s okay. I don’t have an appointment until seven. You can be mine.”
Did he just say I can be his? I shake my head. He didn’t mean it that way, Daphne. He just means the appointment way. He’s just being polite.
But the flushed look on his face says the opposite. He says, “I mean, you can be my six o’clock. Appointment. My six o’clock appointment.” He chuckles.
Nervously.
It sounds like cellos.
#b#b#b#
APOLLO
“I just need a minute to drop my bag in the locker room,” I say to Daphne.
“Okay. Should I wait here?”
“Sure. I’ll be right back.”
“I’ll be here,” she smiles.
“Yeah…” I don’t know what it is, but that smile is killing me. And those curves. I just want to grab them and never let go. And that smokey black hair of hers tied back in a pony tail that is begging me to wrap my fist around it while I take her from behind. And those liquid blue diamond eyes. It’s like they’re piercing a hole in my heart. It almost hurts. It’s also turning me on, which is weird because I’m not usually an eye man. But I am now. I could stare into her eyes day and night and never get tired of them.
“Weren’t you going to the locker room to drop off your bag?”
“Oh, right.” I am such a tool. “Hold on.” I turn and walk fast toward the locker room.
Why am I rushing?
It’s not like she’s going to leave.
Is she?
When I turn the corner, I speed up and beeline into the men’s locker room. I open an empty locker and toss my bag inside. I pull out my padlock from the zipper pocket and hang it on the latch. Then I unzip the big pouch and unscrew the SMIRNOFF without pulling it out of the bag.
For a second I consider not drinking any.
I already had enough at the cemetery. I can’t believe I didn’t get pulled over by Highway Patrol on the drive up from San Diego. Fuck it. I’m nervous all of a sudden because of Daphne and there’s no cops waiting to write me up for DUI here at the gym.
I pull my entire gym bag out of the locker, unscrew the cap on the vodka, and tip it and my gym bag back while I take a swallow. I must look like a high-class wino, drinking from a bottle in an expensive gym bag instead of a greasy paper sack. Whatever. I screw the cap back on and pull out my mint breath freshener and spritz some into my mouth. I breathe on my hand. Mint. I hope she doesn’t notice the vodka.
I slam the locker shut and close the padlock.
This day started out in the shitter, but somehow it got turned around.
Somehow being Daphne Bowman.
Chapter 3
DAPHNE
“Are you ready to get pumped?” Apollo asks as he comes strolling back to the reception desk.
WHAT?!?!
My eyes nearly jump out of my face. “Uhhhh…”
What kind of pumped does he mean?
The look in his eye inclines me to believe he means the only kind of pumping a woman wants from a man like him.
Oh. My. Gasp!
Yes, that kind of pumping.
The kind that requires the sort of fire hose a man like this obviously keeps coiled in his black khaki shorts.
Okay, he must be blind. That’s it. Mr. Cello is blind. It’s the only explanation for why he’s treating me this way. That’s fine with me. I don’t judge. Blind is fine.
He smiles, “I like your top, by the way. That shade of blue looks good on you. It brings out your eyes.”
Okay, he’s not blind.
Died. Gone to Heaven.
“Long time no see,” a familiar and irritatingly glassy voice purrs behind me. Fashion Forty. She must’ve walked out of the office when I wasn’t looking. She walks right up to Mr. Cello. Sure, she walks out for him. But me? Of course not.
“Hey, Fiona,” Mr. Cello grins at her.
Died. Gone to Hell.
Fashion Forty brushes her fingers across Mr. Cello’s muscled forearm. “What’s new with you?”
He smiles, about to speak…
This is the moment where my fantasy bubble bursts. Mr. Cello is going to sweep Fashion Forty Fiona off her feet like a feather because she weighs ounces, carry her into the back, and make sweet beautiful people love to her while I stand here like an imbecile. Then HOG will come out of his office long enough to rip up my membership contract, send me on my way, and tell me never to come back. Which, at this point, I will gladly do.
Mr. Cello places his palm against my lower back and says, “I was just about to take Daphne here onto the floor and coach her through her first workout.”
I almost have a stroke because his hand is touching me. Despite the insulation of my loose-fitting workout top between his hand and my skin, his touch is making every cell in my body sizzle. The electric sensation emanates out from his hand in pulsating waves. If he doesn’t remove it, I’m going to faint.
Fashion Forty scowls at me and deflates. “Oh.”
Take that, you heathen! I’m surprised I still haven’t fainted because this is now officially the longest amount of time a gorgeous man has touched me. And in a slightly possessive sort of way, no less.
“Let’s go, Daphne.” Cellos.
“Talk later?” Fashion Forty asks him hopefully.
“I’ll see if I have time.” Mr. Cello says it like he’s saying, I really won’t have time so don’t hold your breath.
I faint.
But somehow I manage to stay on my legs as Mr. Cello guides me toward the workout floor. The sound of whirring ellipticals and stationary bicycles
and treadmills is loud. There’s a flurry of people moving on the machines, sweating, listening to music on earbuds, reading things on their smart phones, watching the TVs hung from the ceiling. Beyond them, a huge wall of windows reveals the setting sun.
“Sorry about her,” Mr. Cello whispers. His hand is still on my back.
“Who? What?” I can’t remember what happened a second ago because his touch has blocked out everything else.
“Fiona? The receptionist?”
“Oh, her! I forgot about her!” I giggle.
He smirks, “She’s very forgettable.”
Huh? Let’s be honest. Fashion Forty Fiona is gorgeous. I’m not blind either. When I arrived earlier, the guys checking in were all staring at her. I need to call him on his dishonesty. “What do you mean?”
He rolls his eyes. “Fiona is rude to everybody she doesn’t like, which is most people. If it was me, I’d fire her.”
“Oh. Really?”
“I saw the way she ignored you when she was in the office with Tony.”
“You did?”
He nods, “She does that kind of thing all the time. It’s totally unprofessional.”
I almost blurt, So it wasn’t just me she was ignoring? But I manage to keep that to myself. “Right.”
“We should have you warm up for a few minutes with some cardio before we start. Get your blood flowing.”
Is he kidding? Just being in his presence has my blood flowing just fine. “Okay.”
“What do you prefer?”
All I can think is: which machine will make me jiggle the least? Now I’m embarrassed. Why did I have to buy lycra leggings? Couldn’t I have bought a tent?
No!
I look good.
I don’t need a tent.
“Ummm, whichever?”
He scans the cardio machines. “Let’s do the treadmill. There’s two free over there. I’ll walk next to you.”
Is it normal for the trainer to exercise with you? I have no idea. If I’m being logical, I want to say no. I mean, they probably train people all day long all week long. It doesn’t make sense that they would be exercising with their clients the whole time. They’d be all sweaty and gross before the day was over. So what in the Eff is he doing offering to walk with me?
I’m not gonna ask.
“Okay!” I blurt.
He leads me to the two treadmills and we both start walking.
I do my best not to bounce. Just thinking about it makes me twice as nervous as I already am. I need a distraction.
As a dental receptionist, I’m used to making small talk. Putting other people at ease is part of my job. I just have a hard time putting myself at ease. So I start talking about anything and everything to Mr. Cello. Before I know it, we’re talking like best friends. I can tell you that this isn’t normal. Putting people at ease with small talk is one thing. Having a genuinely enjoyable conversation is entirely another. But it’s happening between me and Mr. Cello. When I realize this, I go back to being nervous again. I blurt the next thing that comes to mind, otherwise I’m going to fall off this treadmill out of fear. “So, um, what was your name?”
“Apollo.”
I laugh in his face. “That’s not your name!!”
He smirks, “Is too.”
“Nobody names their kids after Greek gods.”
“Mine didn’t.”
“Did not?”
“Nope.”
“Um, last time I checked, Apollo is the Greek god of the sun.”
“He’s also the god of archery and art. And music and poetry and just about everything else you can think of.”
“How do you know that?”
He shrugs.
Okay, I must’ve woken up in an alternate universe this morning because guys this hot don’t know anything about Greek mythology. I, on the other hand do, because I loved reading about mythology in school. Nothing made me happier than burying my nose in a book so I could read about all the fabulous goings-on of the gods and goddesses. So much juicy drama and intrigue, murder and mayhem. Yes, the gods are terrible people.
I shake my head, “So, if your parents didn’t name you after the god Apollo, who did they name you after?”
“Have you ever seen Rocky?”
“Like, Rocky and Bullwinkle? The cartoon?”
He frowns, “No. The boxing movie. With Sylvester Stallone.”
“Oh, I don’t like violence. So no. Never seen it.” I smile and he nods and stares into my eyes, which fuels my nerves. I need to think of another question quick. “What’s your last name, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Armstrong.”
“Apollo Armstrong? A.A.?” I grin, “I bet that means you were first in line all through school.”
His face sours. “Something like that.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to…” I can tell I hit a nerve, but I have no idea why.
“Forget it.”
“I’m sorry, I just…” don’t know what to say when I get this crazy nervous.
“Don’t worry about it.” He tilts his head and gazes at me with his golden sunshine eyes. His eyes rival an actual sunrise.
I’m going to swoon.
Instead, I nearly trip and fall off the treadmill.
I struggle to regain my footing, white-knuckling the safety bar as I get my feet underneath me. I am such a klutz.
“You should slow that down a notch.” He reaches over and presses beeping buttons until my treadmill slows down.
I’m blushing from the tips of my toenails to the ends of my long frizzy hair, which is currently pulled back in a thick ponytail. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he smiles.
I expect him to start laughing but he doesn’t. His smile is genuine. That’s proof that I’m in an alternate universe. Or I did die and go to heaven earlier and this is the after life. It’s certainly good enough to be.
“I was gonna say that my dad named me after Apollo Creed, the villain in Rocky 1 and 2.” He beams with excitement, obviously remembering the movie. “My dad and I must’ve watched that movie a million times when I was growing up. It’s a classic. You should see it.”
The look on his face makes me want to see it. And I never watch sports movies or sports anything. But I would watch nothing but sports if he was by my side. “I should,” I smile. “It sounds interesting.”
“Would you believe they’re having a midnight screening of it Friday night at the Egyptian in Hollywood?”
I laugh, “No they aren’t.” I might have zero experience with men, but even I can detect something that’s too good to be true.
He chuckles, “You’re right. But I couldn’t think of a good way to say I have all the Rocky movies on DVD and I watch them at my place all the time and you’re invited if you ever want dinner and a movie.”
Is he lying?
He must be lying.
The look on his face says he’s not.
I swallow hard then mutter, “I would—”
WHAM!!
I fall face first on the treadmill and go shooting off the end like a slingshot. Thank goodness I’m covered in cushions. I tumble off the end and land on the rubber floor in a heap.
Apollo vaults off his treadmill like an Army Ranger jumping out of an airplane and kneels beside me. “Are you okay, Daphne?” His concern is obvious.
“I think I broke my face,” I grimace, “and my boobs.” I struggle to a sitting position and hold my face in my hands. People are staring, but I’m so distracted by Apollo, I barely notice.
“Let me see.” He pulls my hands tenderly away.
He’s touching me again.
I quiver.
“Is it broken?” I moan.
“What, your nose?”
“No,” I giggle. “My whole face.”
He chuckles and smiles at me, his eyes searching my features. “Nope. Everything looks perfect to me.” His sunshine grin relaxes me. He really does have an amazing smile. And those golden eyes mesmerize.
And the way he says the word perfect in relation to me melts my heart.
He winks, “Now that you’re all warmed up, I think it’s time for you to get pumped.”
That was innuendo! I heard it! I just got innuendoed by the hottest man on the planet!
Oh. My. Gosh.
I didn’t realize heaven was this good.
Chapter 4
DAPHNE
“Are you sure we’re allowed to do this? Here? It seems so…” I can’t even finish my sentence but I want to say it seems so scandalous.
“I’m the trainer, Daphne. I think I know the rules,” he says gruffly. “So do another squat.”
“Right. Sorry.” I feel stupid. I stand with my feet shoulder width apart and I have an empty weight bar on my shoulders. To me, it weighs a million pounds. I also feel stupid because I probably insulted him by questioning his authority. That’s me: Daphne Bowman, S.H.W.
What does S.H.W. stand for?
Social Half-Wit.
It’s my usual title when I’m around men I’m attracted to. I may be good at small talk at the office, but when I’m around hunky men?
S.H.W.
“Another squat,” he barks. If he hadn’t been so nice earlier, I would think he was being a demanding prick.
I squat down, my thighs trembling.
I’m sure you’re wondering what’s so scandalous about doing squats at a gym. Embarrassing, maybe, because a child could squat an empty weight bar. But me? I’m struggling and sweating after only five reps. Here’s the scandalous part: there’s a mirror in front of me. Every time I squat down, my knees go out. In layman’s terms, I’m spreading my legs. Which means I can plainly see my hoo-ha in the mirror right in front of me. Well, it’s covered by my lycra leggings. But I can see it. So can Apollo.
I swear he’s staring.
Despite my extra long active Tee, which hangs below my waist, it bunches up every time I squat. In essence, I’m putting on a free show.
“Arch your back,” he demands. “You have to stick your butt out. Do another one.”
Taking Back Beautiful Page 2