by Zart, Lindy
“That’s my cup.”
“Aren’t they all?”
She gave him a slit-eyed look and took a different, boring, non-favorite mug from the cupboard overhead. Stepping into the colorful kitchen usually had the ability to make her happy, but Lance’s presence had sucked all the joy right out of her. “That one’s my favorite.”
He offered it to her and Maggie almost hissed at him. With a shrug, he retracted his hand.
“What are you doing?” he asked when she reached for the coffeepot.
“Getting a cup of coffee.”
“Yours is over there.”
She followed his nod and laughed at the bottle of water standing on the counter. “No. I don’t think so.”
“How many cups of coffee do you drink a day?”
“I don’t know, one.”
“You drink one cup of coffee a day?”
“No, one pot of coffee.”
Lance straightened. “You drink twelve cups of coffee a day?”
“You don’t have to sound so stunned,” she muttered, pouring black, liquid stamina into her cup.
It was immediately removed from her hand.
“There’s no other way to sound, since I am thoroughly, one hundred percent, without a doubt, stunned. Drink this instead.” He set the bottle of water before her.
“No.” She crossed her arms.
Lance raised his eyebrows. “Yes.”
“You are out of your mind if you think I’m giving up coffee,” Maggie ground out, glaring into his blue eyes.
“I’m not saying you have to give it up, but limit it, yes, and drinking it first thing in the morning? No.”
“You’re drinking it.” She realized she was being childish, but Maggie really didn’t care. She was tired, and crabby, and she wanted her coffee.
“I’ve been up since four. I drank my water already, and I also already got my workout in for the day. You can join me then, if you like.”
Maggie snatched the bottle of water from the counter.
Amusement flickered in his eyes. “Those are yours as well.” He nodded to a square packet.
Maggie stared at it. “Are you trying to kill me, or get me in shape?”
“You need energy to work out. These will give you that, and also tide you over until you can have a proper meal.”
Grumbling, she opened the package of unsalted almonds, chewing the bland nuts as her face twisted with displeasure.
Lance smirked. “What was that?”
“I said, what is a proper meal to you? A piece of lettuce slathered in nothing?”
He laughed. “No. Not quite.”
“You’re enjoying this,” she accused, swallowing the nut and slowly placing another in her mouth. They tasted like cardboard.
He shrugged, not denying it. “I’ve always enjoyed your personality.”
“Don’t . . . bring up the past,” she warned. If he did, she would remember the bad things, sure, but then she’d also be forced to remember the good, and she didn’t want that.
It had taken years to get over him, and the thought of doing it all over again was reprehensible. Lance was the one guy she’d loved more than anyone else. She’d loved other men, of course, but none like him. Him, she’d loved without reservation, with her whole heart, with every bit of her.
And he’d given her heart back—torn, bloody, wounded, aching. Scarred. Jaded.
“It’s all we got, Maggie.” His tone was somber, but then he grinned and winked, and she was transported back into that life they’d temporarily shared. Everything was brighter then, better, new. They loved under a haze of youth and misplaced dreams, and it crashed all around them—or her, more specifically.
“How was the couch?” she asked sweetly, needing to get control of the conversation.
Maggie wouldn’t be surprised to find that he peacefully slept, oblivious to his surroundings and anyone near. Maggie, on the other hand, spent the night tossing and turning, dreaming of blue eyes and firm lips. When she woke up, memories took place of the dreams—the sweet, masculine scent of his skin, the heat of his body. The strength of his hands when they unconsciously dug into her skin. The night tormented her.
Lance grabbed an apple from a bowl on the counter and tossed it back and forth between his hands as he talked. “It’s a nice couch, lumps in all the right places.” He sank his teeth into the apple. Frozen, he mouthed around the fruit, “This isn’t a real apple, is it?”
Maggie snorted and looked away to hide her smile.
Lance spit out the wax fruit and grabbed a paper towel from the holder and rubbed his mouth. He tossed the paper towel in the garbage and said, “You need real fruit, not fake.”
“Real is always better than fake,” she agreed, giving him a pointed look.
“Oh, Maggie,” he purred, moving closer. “Everything about me has always been real.”
Her breath hiccupped. “Oh, Lance. I know.” She was glad that her voice didn’t shake.
Time froze, turned heavy as Lance stared at her with enough intensity to tear the air from her lungs. Looking at him made her dizzy, and when he studied her like he was looking into her, seeing through the present and into the past, seeing her in the way only Lance ever could, it made her weak in the knees.
He narrowed his eyes, and then his expression cleared. “I noticed a bunch of doors. Would any of them happen to lead to spare bedrooms?”
“Nope.”
“What are they then?”
“Doors.”
“Doors,” he repeated doubtfully.
“Yep. Just doors. Nothing behind them but walls.”
“Interesting,” he mused, rubbing his jaw. “Because I opened one, and lo and behold, it led to a room. With a bed.”
Maggie scowled. “If you make it past two weeks, which I sincerely doubt, then you can pick out a room.”
Lance offered his hand.
She gingerly took it.
“I look forward to it,” he said, shaking her hand.
Maggie tugged her hand from his, the limb tingling from the feel of his strong, calloused grip.
“We need to go over some things, like how you should be eating five to six small meals a day. No skipping meals.” The expression on Lance’s face was severe. “We’ll set up a meal plan for you later. First things first, though.” He eyed her critically, lingering a touch too long on her chest before meeting her gaze. “Show me your underwear.”
She choked on the nut she was in the process of swallowing, coughing as it scraped her throat on the way down. “No,” she rasped.
Lance shook his head, already heading toward the stairs. “Get your mind out of the gutter.”
She ran after him, not in eagerness to reveal her undergarments, but to keep him away from them. “Don’t you dare go through my dresser drawers!”
He paused halfway up the stairwell, looking over his broad shoulder at her. “Why would I do that when you’re simply going to show me?”
She sputtered, charging up the stairs after him with more exuberance than she’d shown in a long time. The bedroom walls were painted lavender and decorated with watercolor artwork that usually had a calming effect. The room seemed to shrink with Lance inside it. He stood near her dresser, eyebrows raised expectantly.
When she didn’t move any closer, he sighed. Tone blunt, Lance said, “There are key elements to getting healthy—what and how much you eat, of course, and how often you exercise, along with the kind of exercise you’re doing. Getting enough water, and cutting out sugary drinks, is also necessary.
“What a lot of people don’t realize, is that what you wear while you exercise is just as important. You have to be comfortable, but also have proper support. That thing you’re passing off as a bra needs to be burned.”
Maggie’s face flamed and she protectively crossed her arms.
Lance slowly walked around her, sending prickles of awareness down her spine with his nearness, and stopped in front of her. “Take off your shirt,” he orde
red.
The command sent desire coursing through her, and she gritted her teeth against it. She would not be wooed by him, intentionally or otherwise. Maggie refused to find him attractive and she would remain firm in the face of his animal magnetism—all while secretly lusting after him.
“Are you crazy?” she demanded in a tight voice.
He fingered the hem of her top, a thoughtful frown on his lush mouth. “Not at the moment.” He looked up, features hardening. “Do it.”
“I will not.”
“Do it or I will.” Menace was woven through his words and reflected in the shards of blue glass that passed for eyes.
Heart thundering in her chest, Maggie tried to breathe, only a gasp of pitiful air leaving her. “Try it and die.”
The sensual mouth turned inflexible, and instead of intimidating her, she remembered the feel of it against her mouth, her body. He’d turned her inside out with that mouth. She shouldn’t be able to recall such a thing, but there it was. Maggie fought to swallow, her lips and mouth dry. All of her was rigid with longing for a man she told herself she loathed. The body was quick to call one a liar, when needed.
“Gladly.”
And just like that, her arms were over her head, the material of the shirt twisted around her before it was dragged up and off, and she stood before Lance in nothing but her uni-boob bra. To say that she was mortified would be a drastic under-exaggeration. She was beyond that. He was seeing the top half of her body in a way he hadn’t in close to a dozen years. Oh, how it had changed within that time span. Pudgy, fleshy, pale skin. Maggie wanted to hang her head in shame, so she instead lifted her chin defiantly and met his gaze.
Half of his mouth curved at the silent challenge. He didn’t move or look away. Lance placed a hand over his mouth as he studied her chest with avid interest. She saw no revulsion in his expression, but then, she wouldn’t, if he didn’t want her to. Lance was a talented actor.
Lance touched one of the straps, his fingers drawing across the sensitive flesh of her shoulder. She closed her eyes, pulse picking up, and dug her nails into the palms of her hands. His hand lingered, and Maggie stood still, wanting him to move away and wanting him to move closer. When she couldn’t stand the paused moment any longer, she opened her eyes. Lance watched her, face bleeding emotion like raindrops of sorrow and pain. She blinked, and it was gone, his expression closed.
He went behind her, near enough that she sensed the heat of his body, felt his words as well as heard them. “This should be outlawed. What do you call this, a form of torture under the guise of a sports bra? How can you stand it? I hurt just looking at it.”
Lance stopped before her, movements brisk as he touched and prodded along the bottom of the bra, inches away from her breasts. He snapped and tugged, shaking his head as he examined the garment. The material was flimsy enough that it was obvious that she was cold, and she was. Cold. Nothing else.
He looked at her. “Are all of your sports bras this nipple death trap?”
An unintelligible sound left her. “Nipple . . . death . . . trap?”
Impatiently gesturing to her chest, he said, “Yes. Look at them. They’re crying out to be released. Poor things. And your breasts—why are you being so cruel to them? They need to breathe, Maggie. Be kind to your body. More importantly, be kind to your boobs.”
Mouth hanging open, feeling oddly, properly chastised, Maggie blinked and straightened. “Well . . . well . . . I don’t wear this that much.” Why was she defending herself? Why was he making her feel it was necessary to defend herself?
“Even once is too much,” he said concernedly. “I think, for the benefit of future you, you should remove it. Now. Immediately.” The teasing light flared to life in his eyes as he met her gaze, and he smiled unabashedly, unable to keep up the act.
“You ass,” she muttered, smacking his arm.
“Seriously, you can’t wear this anymore.” Not seeing the tongue she stuck out at him, Lance tapped his mouth with a finger as he turned toward the dresser. “I think before we do anything else, we need to go shopping. What kind of workout clothes do you have? And underwear—what does your underwear look like?” His tone was innocent, but again, when he caught her eye, she saw the amusement he couldn’t contain.
“Socks too,” he continued. “Shoes. All of those things matter. Do you have clothes specifically for working out?”
“I wear tee shirts and shorts.”
He was shaking his head before she stopped talking. “No. If you can’t afford workout clothes, those will do, but you can.”
“How do you know what I can or can’t afford?” she asked suspiciously.
“Do you experience chaffing?” His gaze was aimed at her crotch.
Maggie nervously crossed her legs. Why, she didn’t know. He still had a perfect view of her clothed nether regions. “I’m not telling you.”
“I’ll take that as a yes. So.” He clapped his hands once and focused on her crimson face. “Today we’ll walk to the sports store near Lane Gym. Not much in the way of hardcore exercising, but we need to start out slow. Less chance of injury that way. And please, for the love of all things holy, get rid of that bra before we do. I’ll wait downstairs.”
“The sports store doesn’t even open for over three hours,” she called after him.
He paused near the doorway. “You’re right. Good time to get a physical assessment while we wait. See you in the basement.” His voice was sinisterly as he said that.
“How do you know there’s a basement, or where it is?” she demanded.
“I am a man without limits—and I snooped around the house last night after you went to bed.”
Lance closed the door after him, leaving a sputtering Maggie in his wake. She wasn’t surprised that he’d snooped through her house last night. She was sure he’d even used the gym located in the basement that morning. At least someone did, she grudgingly acknowledged.
With a sigh, she rifled through the dresser drawers, deciding on what to keep, and what to toss. She had no suitable underwear for working out; most of them were thin and miniscule, and the majority of her bras weren’t supportive enough.
It was a struggle to get out of the bra she’d squeezed into, arms bent at odd angles and grunts leaving her as she fought with the apparel. It got stuck somewhere between her armpits and the top of her breasts, and with a cry of fury, she pulled it over her head, causing her arms to ache in the process. Out of breath and sweating, she heaved the sports bra to the floor and put on a slightly better one that didn’t make her look like she had one boob instead of two.
Clothed in her customary exercise shirt and shorts, shoes on feet and hair up in a ponytail, Maggie stopped in the upstairs bathroom to brush and floss her teeth and wash her face before meeting Lance in the basement.
Maggie had the makings of a workout room in the semi-finished basement. So far the area had a treadmill, elliptical machine, and a punching bag. She’d had most of the equipment for over three years and had used a combination of it less than a dozen times. She stood in the middle of the cream-toned room and stared at her reflection in the mirrored wall. The mirrors were supposed to work as a motivator, but they worked as the opposite most days. A television and DVD player were set up in a corner of the room with a yoga mat, free weights, and resistance bands.
It came as somewhat of a surprise that there weren’t cobwebs covering the majority of the contraptions.
Lance had a set of pink ten-pound free weights in hand, back to the mirror as he lifted and lowered, muscles forming and releasing as he moved. She was surprised that he wasn’t staring at his reflection, preening at his physical perfection, although it wasn’t like everywhere he went, he wasn’t reminded. Women had always fawned over him. Maggie doubted that had changed.
He set the weights down, not in the least bit winded, and wiped his hands on the gray athletic shorts gracing his muscular legs. A band of black material showed beneath the hem of the shorts, which had to b
e compression shorts. Lance was a runner. That didn’t surprise her.
“What is your activity level?” he asked, picking up a notepad and pen from the floor.
Maggie frowned. “Are you taking notes?”
“Yes.”
She squinted at his hands. “That’s the notebook I use to make my grocery lists!”
“Is it? Nice. Very sturdy.”
“You went through my desk too?” she growled, sounding disturbingly like a bear, or some other large, rabid beast.
There was important, private material in that desk. She could clearly picture him rummaging through her things in the dark of night, thoroughly amused with any information pertaining to her that he could get his grubby hands on. Suddenly it made sense how he would know whether or not she could afford workout clothes—her financial papers and checkbook were in a drawer of the desk.
The glare intensified, to the point that her face was grooved in discontent, all of it aimed at Lance.
“Good thing too, or I wouldn’t have found these.” He lifted the pen and paper with a disarming grin.
There was no positive outcome from getting too upset with him. He wouldn’t notice, or care.
“If you were an average person, you wouldn’t get away with nearly as much as you do,” she commented, more of an afterthought than a direct one.
“Alas, I am so much more than merely average.” Lance held a hand to his chest and closed his eyes.
“In all areas,” Maggie muttered, thinking of the conceited gene he seemed to have in ample supply.
Back to business, he asked, “How active are you, on a daily basis?”
“I don’t know.” She avoided his eyes.
Maggie wasn’t active at all. She wandered around the house during the day, and sometimes sat outside. Once in a great while she’d go for a short walk, but mostly, she led a solitary, sedentary existence. It sounded bad when spoken out loud. Sure, she had her hobbies, but those were done either standing or sitting. All in all, she was a couch potato.