by Ava Sinclair
“This is Lance Sawyer, from Summit Fitness.”
“Yeah, I know who you are,” she said. “I recognize your voice, too.”
There was a pause. “I wanted to talk to you about today.”
Tiffany cradled the phone between her ear and shoulder as she opened the ice cream. “What about it?” She tried to sound cool, nonchalant.
“I owe you an apology,” he said. “It was highly unprofessional of me to compliment a potential client in my workplace, not to mention potentially unethical.”
Tiffany swallowed a spoonful of ice cream before putting the carton down and moving her phone to her other ear.
Dr. Coleman had told her to be more forceful, less afraid. You’re an adult, she’d said. Take back your power.
“So you’re apologizing to cover yourself because you’re afraid I’ll complain of harassment.”
“Hey, wait a minute.” The voice on the other end of the line had grown stern. “That’s not what I was doing.”
“Oh, right,” she said. “Well, fuck you, buddy. I don’t believe you. But here’s the good news. I’m not going to sue you, so there’s no need to cover your ass.”
She took a deep breath, wondering if shaking hands were a symptom of empowerment. On the other end of the line, Lance Sawyer had gone quiet. But she knew he was still there. She could feel him on the line.
“Where I come from, it’s rude people who need to cover their butts, young lady.”
“Young lady?” Tiffany sat up. “Just who do you think you’re talking to?” Her tone was as indignant as it could be for someone with a naturally childish voice.
“Obviously a young lady determined to think the worst of someone trying his best to clear up a misunderstanding.”
“Mr. Sawyer,” she said. “You don’t know me well enough to make that kind of assumption. And frankly, I’m not interested in hearing anything else you have to say.”
“Tiffany,” she heard him try again. His tone was not solicitous now, but firm. “Listen.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” she said. “This conversation is over.”
She hung up on him, and for several long moments sat staring at the phone, but not because she was angry. His voice, his tone, how he’d called her young lady… it was as if he were mocking her all over again. She subconsciously squeezed her legs together, trying to deny the fact that after all this time just the thought of a dominant man could soak her panties.
She closed her eyes, remembering Dr. Coleman’s advice.
“Tiffany, this need you have… this secret desire—as you put it—for a nurturing, dominant male authority. I think it is at the root of your problem. It allowed you to trust Nick, allowed him to hurt you. That kind of mindset may have been okay a hundred years ago, but times have changed. You need to stand up for yourself, or else you’re just going to make yourself vulnerable to any man who says the right thing.”
“No, I’m not,” Tiffany said aloud. “Not again. My days of needing that are over. I’m strong.” She picked up the carton of ice cream and dug in. “I’m strong. I can take care of myself.”
The mantra didn’t make her feel any better. Neither—she realized—did the ice cream. As she sat staring at the empty container a half an hour later, she had the sinking feeling that moving to Seattle wasn’t going to change anything if she couldn’t turn her mantras into action. How much had she paid Dr. Coleman? And for what? She was still fat, still insecure. The only thing that had changed for her was her address.
Well, she wasn’t going to let it get her down. She was going to take control of her life. She was going to get mentally and physically strong. She would be one of those confident women who wore Lycra pants and jogged two miles before breakfast.
She picked up the newspaper from the coffee table, deciding that her mistake had been choosing a regular gym. What she needed was one specializing in women, some place like Curves. She was sure she’d seen a women-only gym advertised, and moments later she was circling one of the ads when she heard a knock at the door.
Silently cursing the kids and their neighborhood fundraisers, Tiffany rose and walked to the door, preparing to unload on whatever poor kid was standing on her stoop. But her voice died in her throat as she stood staring stupidly at a completely unexpected visitor.
Lance Sawyer had obviously changed before coming over. He was wearing blue jeans that hugged his thin hips, and a black t-shirt that clung to a chest that was well-defined without the excessive exaggeration of some men who spent all their time in the gym. He’d combed his black hair, too, and a lock of it fell across his forehead. He was staring at her, and this time she noticed his eyes. Gray-green.
He was holding something and lifted it up. She realized then that she’d left her gym bag.
“I figured you might want this back, and since I was in the neighborhood.”
Tiffany leaned against the doorframe.
“You were just driving by?”
He paused. “No. I won’t lie. I didn’t feel like our phone conversation was productive. So I got your address off the application and drove over.”
Tiffany regarded him silently for a moment. He was unbelievably handsome—hardly the stalker type. And even if he were, she was hardly the type of woman a man like him would stalk. She debated sending him away, but then felt a stirring of guilt. He seemed very determined to make amends.
She slowly stepped away from the door. “Do you want to come in?”
“Thanks.” He walked past her. She bit her lip as she shut the door and looked at him as he passed. He looked just as good from the back; his perfect physique made her feel even more imperfect. She hugged her arms around her torso, thankful for the knit blue maxi skirt, soft beige shell and oversized sweater she wore. It was the outfit she always wore when she was upset or stressed or sad. Soft clothes that enveloped her like a hug, yards of fabric that billowed and hid her. Clothes she could hide in.
“You’re an artist.” He was looking toward the studio clearly visible off the living room.
“Uh, yeah,” she said. “Have you ever heard of Rainbow Rabbits?”
“No.”
“Of course not,” she said. “It’s a children’s book series. I do all the… all the rabbits.”
Now he was looking at the wall above her fireplace at her collection of signed Winnie-the-Pooh lithographs.
“You like Winnie-the-Pooh,” he said. It was a statement made without condescension, but even so she felt defensive.
“Like I said, I’m a children’s book illustrator. I appreciate the art.” She turned to him. “Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Sawyer?”
“Actually, yes.” He turned his attention away from the prints and back to her. “I honestly did not mean to offend you today. As a respected business owner, it really bothers me…”
“I told you,” she said impatiently. “I’m not going to say anything.”
“This isn’t about my being afraid of what you might say. It’s about the rules I set for myself about how I treat my customers and clients. You left my gym in a huff. I can’t allow that.”
“You can’t… allow that?”
“No,” he said. “The way I see it, I’m honor bound to correct my mistake. You obviously came to the gym for the same reason anyone else does. You want to get in shape.”
She looked down. “Well, yeah. Obviously. I mean, look at me…”
“I am looking at you.”
She glanced up, expecting to see mockery in his gaze, but the steel-gray eyes were sweeping her form without judgment. If anything, they were almost appreciative. Tiffany flushed before continuing.
“I’m fat. And… out of control. I thought joining a gym would help.”
“Out of control?” he asked, arching an eyebrow.
“Well, without going into it with a total stranger, my life is kind of a wreck right now. I figured getting a handle on my health by joining a gym might help me get a handle on everything else that’s going wrong…” Her voice died
away.
Nice going, Dumbo, she told herself. Now he thinks you’re fat and crazy.
“You don’t need a gym,” he said suddenly. “You need a personal trainer.”
She rolled her eyes. “And let me guess. You have a great deal you’re willing to offer me if I sign up today.”
“Yes,” he said. “You’re right, although not about the details. I’m offering you my services as a professional trainer for free, for three months.”
“Your services?” she asked, injecting deliberate sarcasm into her words. “Why?”
“Because I acted like a lout. Even if I meant what I said about your eyes being beautiful, the timing was terrible. I want to make it up to you. In fact, I insist.”
She thought of Dr. Coleman sitting across from her with her notepad and Cross pen, glancing up every so often to glare over the rims of her glasses, lips pursed disapprovingly when Tiffany spoke of her insecurities, her fears, her deep desire to submit to male authority.
You know, Tiffany, that you’re never going to move forward until you control yourself rather than look to someone else for that control, right? Replace that desire to submit with strength, even some anger.
“I don’t think so,” she said, tilting her chin up.
Lance Sawyer was silent as he walked over her. He stopped inches away.
“Like I said,” he replied. “I insist. The gym opens at nine. Be there at 7:30. This is the chance to get exactly what you need.” He walked to the door, glancing back as he opened it. “See you then.”
Chapter Four: Personal Trainer
Lance put the odds at fifty-fifty that Tiffany would even show. It had been risky, going to her house. Even Trey told him it was insane when Lance had filled him in on what he’d done.
“You’re lucky she didn’t mace you.” They were putting up the weights as Lance recounted the visit. “I would have.”
“Well, it’s a good thing she’s more trusting than you,” Lance remarked.
“Personal trainer, huh?” Trey smiled. “Smooth.”
“It’s not like that.”
“Uh-huh. Sweet, soft little thing like her? It’s going to be Katrina all over again.”
Lance had sobered at this. “It’s not going to be like Katrina.”
It couldn’t be like Katrina, he decided, because what he’d had with Katrina wasn’t something he could likely duplicate. Behind closed doors, she’d been his little girl and he’d been her daddy—details that Lance had kept from even his closest friends for fear that they’d not understand. Only John Baxter, a former military colleague who had mentored Lance in his age-play lifestyle with Katrina, knew the full details of what they had, and Lance wasn’t about to presume he could ever recreate that dynamic with another woman. Oh, he knew he could probably find another age-play partner on the Internet, but Lance wasn’t the kind of man who sought partners online. He preferred to have things come into his life organically. He had no idea if there was any potential for a relationship with Tiffany. All he knew was that there was something special about the curvy beauty he couldn’t stop thinking about, and he was eager to have a role in her life, even if it was just professional.
So when Lance saw her Toyota 4Runner pull into the parking lot the next morning, he took it as a positive sign. He watched from his office window as she stopped feet from her car, staring at the gym as if doubting her decision. But then she tilted her chin up almost defiantly and headed toward the door.
Good.
He unlocked the front just as she reached it.
“You made it,” he said.
“Yeah.” She was wearing a baggy t-shirt and loose sweatpants, as if trying to hide herself. Negative body image. Lance made a note to work on that.
“I’m glad you came,” he said.
“I thought about it a lot last night,” Tiffany replied. “Maybe having some one-on-one training will help me focus.”
“That’s the plan,” he said. “But the first thing we should do is talk about why you’re here.”
He led her to a sofa in front of the reception area and motioned for her to have a seat.
“It should be obvious why I’m here,” Tiffany replied. “I need to get in shape.”
He smiled. “Okay,” he said. “So why hasn’t that happened before now?”
“I, um… I wasn’t always this heavy. And like I said last night, things in my life have just gotten …” Her voice trailed off.
“Out of control?”
She nodded.
“Is that what you’re seeking? Control?”
She dropped her gaze. Lance noted how she swallowed nervously, how her cheeks flushed.
“It’s all right to admit that you need it, Tiffany,” he said. “There’s nothing wrong with needing someone to guide you. I happen to be the kind of person who gets a lot of satisfaction from offering guidance.” He paused. “And control.”
He wasn’t expected to see tears in her eyes when she looked up at him. He could tell she was starting to say something, but then—to his frustration—she clammed up. The encouraging ease in her eyes was replaced with fear and for the second time in twenty-four hours, she was heading out the door.
“It was a mistake for me to come here.”
This time Lance did call after her, seeking to swallow his frustration. But she ducked into her vehicle, ignoring him as he tried to get her attention. She pulled her 4Runner around quickly—too quickly for his taste—and all but burned out of the parking lot. His heart was in his throat at the sickening sound of screeching tires and car horns as she barely evaded an oncoming truck before heading north back toward her house.
Lance felt confusion turn to anger. Whatever he’d said to upset her—and he had a pretty good idea now of what it was—was no reason for Tiffany to behave so rashly. Rushing back to the door, he locked it and then headed for his own vehicle. His square jaw was set in a grim line as he jumped in his truck and headed out of the parking lot, taking a shortcut that put him in Tiffany’s driveway just as she was getting out of her Toyota.
“Hey!” he said, as he pulled in behind her and got out.
“I changed my mind, Mr. Sawyer. I don’t want to retain your services.” Her tone was ridiculously formal as she headed for the front door, fumbling for her house key as she went.
“You don’t get that option until you tell me why.”
She looked back at him, angry. “It’s not up to you.”
She opened the door and went inside. Without thinking, Lance came in behind her. He shut the door as she turned to face him.
“What is wrong with you?” she asked. “I just told you to leave.”
“And I will,” he said. “If you tell me one more time, I’ll turn around and walk out that door and never speak to you again. But I tried to make up for offending you that first day, and you agreed when I offered to be your personal trainer, and now you’ve run away a second time. Now I think I know why you ran, but I’d like to hear it from you.”
He watched as Tiffany put her gym bag on the hall table by the door. She was quiet for a moment before turning to him.
“Okay,” she said. “If you think you know why I ran, you tell me.”
He took a step closer until only inches separated them. When he spoke, his voice was soft, stern. “I think you left because you not only want control, you need it. I think there’s a little girl trapped inside of the beautiful woman standing before me. I think she craves control, but somewhere along the way someone made her feel ashamed of it, and maybe ashamed of herself for wanting it.”
For a moment, both were silent. When Tiffany broke his gaze, Lance reached out to gently rub away a tear that had settled at the corner of her eye before tilting her chin up so that she was forced to look at him again.
“Am I right?”
She was staring at him with puzzlement. “Who are you?”
“Someone who understands, Tiffany. And maybe that’s why I came after you. I know what it’s like to be different, too. Ju
st as you’ve been taught to be ashamed of your need for guidance, I’ve always been hesitant to reveal my need to guide, to control. It’s not a popular stance for a man in this politically correct age, but that’s who I am. I like order; I like giving direction. I like being in control. It’s why I joined the military. It’s why I opened a gym. I like helping people who need control in their lives. And I’m thinking that’s what you need. But that need makes you feel guilty, and that’s why you ran. Am I right?”
“Look,” she said softly. “My problems are my own…” She dropped her eyes, even as he held her chin steady.
“Answer me, Tiffany,” he said. “Am I right?”
She looked back up at him and answered as her small hand moved his away from her chin. “Yes,” she said softly.
“Then let me help you,” he urged. “Trust me to know what’s best for you. Look, I realize that you don’t know me. But I can help you. And I want to. I get so many people coming through my gym every day. I’m not in the habit of following them to their houses.” He paused. “Twice.”
“Exactly what do you have in mind for me?” she asked.
Lance knew this was a make or break moment; what he would say next would be the biggest risk of all, but would verify if his instincts about her had been right.
“When I say I’m offering you my services as a trainer, I’m not just talking about fitness, Tiffany. You said your life is out of control. And I don’t give a damn that I don’t know you; something about you has touched a place in me that wants to help. I’m talking about guiding you on a daily basis—giving you boundaries, limits. You need more than an exercise regimen. You need permission to be happy with yourself, to be happy with who you are. You need someone who is not just going to tell you that’s okay, but demand it of you—someone who’s going to make you accountable. Now, tell me you don’t want that and I’ll walk out the door.”
“I don’t understand what you’re telling me,” she said, but he could tell from her expression—her look of mixed trepidation and need—that she did know. She just needed him to say it.
“You need a minder,” he said. “An authority figure.”