Acting on Impulse

by Mia Sosa

  My head pounds, warning me of a migraine. I haven’t had one of those in a long time. “Yes, I did.”

  “I would have handled it just fine. In fact, one of those poses was—”

  “Carter, stop. You shouldn’t have been in that class. It has nothing to do with your fitness goals. I let my lack of objectivity in this situation inform my training program. It’s inexcusable, and I would understand if you didn’t want to work with me anymore.”

  He draws back and gives me a dazed look. “Why?”

  I look up at him then. “Why, what?”

  “Why’d you have me take hot yoga when it has nothing to do with my training?”

  I blow out a long breath and tilt my head to the ceiling. “I guess I was annoyed by everything. The fact that you insinuated yourself into my life. The fact that your presence here threatens the quiet existence I’d like to pursue. The fact that I’m . . .”

  “What? The fact that you’re what?” he asks with urgency in his voice.

  “Nothing. Just . . . I’m sorry I let my personal issues affect my professional judgment.”

  He raises his hand slowly and caresses my cheek with two fingers. I lean into his touch, wanting forgiveness, wanting whatever he wants, but just as quickly I draw back and circle the bench so that it creates a barrier between us. After a pause, I open a locker and deposit the remaining towels inside.

  “I’m sorry,” he says.

  With my back to him, I take a deep breath and lay a hand on top of the open locker door. After a pause, I turn around and tilt my head to the side. “Sorry? What for?”

  His gaze is kind. “For not being honest with you when we met. I’m used to shielding myself from the prying eyes of strangers, but the minute I figured out I didn’t want us to be strangers, I should have said something.”

  I drop my gaze to the floor and fiddle with my sports watch. “You’ve apologized already. You don’t owe me anything.”

  “I apologized for not being honest. But I didn’t apologize for the consequences of that dishonesty. You shared details about your life, and I didn’t do the same. You thought you were getting to know Carter Williamson, while I knew Carter Stone wasn’t far behind. I wish I could hit Rewind. I’d redo the day we met. But I can’t.”

  This is too much. He’s being too sweet, too good, too much of the person I want. I need space. I square my shoulders and lift my head, meeting his gaze full on. “Here’s my suggestion.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Ask Nate to train you. He’s excellent, and you’ll get the results you want.”

  “I don’t want Nate to train me.” He licks his lips and pierces me with a heated gaze. “I want you.”

  Yes, he wants me, and yes, I want him. But he’s no good for me, and I don’t want to be an accessory in his crazy life. Maybe he sees the hesitation in my eyes, or maybe he understands that chewing my lip raw means this isn’t the right way to persuade me to change my mind.

  Whatever it is, he continues to speak as though a switch has been flipped in him. “I’m trying to land the role of my career, Tori. It’s important to me. This isn’t some flighty distraction. Despite what you may think, I’m not being careless with my body or my health. When I learned I’d have to lose weight for the last film, I consulted a doctor to advise me on proper nutrition and to monitor my health as the pounds came off. He gave me advice, sure, but he also snapped pictures of me and sold them to a tabloid.”

  Oh, Carter. How awful. “That’s terrible . . . and unethical . . . and just fucked up.”

  “I couldn’t agree more, and I’m not looking for a repeat. So in my mind the best candidate for the position is the person who fled when she learned I was Carter Stone. You don’t care about all that, and you have the expertise. This is going to be a grueling experience. Don’t make me do it alone—or with Nate.”

  How can I say no to that? I can’t, and I won’t. After blowing out a long breath, I nod. “Okay.”

  At that moment, his demeanor transforms. Carter’s smile is broad, and his eyes are brighter than I thought possible. “Great. Thank you.”

  “Let me check in with Ben about his efforts to set us up at another gym.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Take the day off and get some rest. It’s going to be really tough from here on out.”

  For the both of us.

  BEN ARRANGES A deal with a CrossFit affiliate on Broad Street. Because the location has extended business hours, our only options are to train either very early in the day or late at night. Carter scoffed at the idea of getting up before sunrise, claiming he needed his “handsome rest,” so we settle on a one-hour workout session six days a week from nine to ten in the evening. It’s not ideal, but the circumstances are unusual, and the good news is that I’m not locked into this hellish schedule forever.

  But I soon encounter an issue more serious than a scheduling inconvenience.

  When Carter arrives for our first night of training under the new regime, I’m struck by the innate intimacy of our environment. We’re alone in a gym, where I’m serving not only as his personal trainer, but also as his private instructor. Save for the occasional blaring of a car horn from the street below, we are the only sources of sound in the gym, and there are no people milling around as is typically the case when I’m working with clients. I’m hyperaware of him, and it’s seriously messing with my brain.

  Carter’s undergone a bit of a transformation that doesn’t help matters—namely, he’s shaved his beard. Which means I can now see his square jaw and better appreciate his Cupid’s bow lips. And upon further scrutiny, I discover he has a dimple in his chin. Damn you to hell, Carter.

  After returning from a quick restroom detour, he stands in the middle of the gym floor waiting for my guidance. “Ready?”

  “Sure. Let’s get you on a treadmill for a five-minute warm-up, and then we’ll work on stretches.”

  He jogs for the allotted time, and then we move to the floor in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirrors. I demonstrate the stretches I’d like him to complete before each workout, and all is well until we get to the supine bridge.

  It’s a mainstay of training programs for good reason. It prepares your body for squats, dead lifts, and the bench press, but as I lower myself to the ground, I’m mortified by what I’m about to do: It’s essentially a hip thrust. Which must be held for fifteen seconds and repeated. With my back against the floor and my feet hip-width apart, I raise my knees at a ninety-degree angle and lift my ass off the ground. Thrust. Hold. Lower. Repeat. Thrust. Hold. Lower. Repeat.

  Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. Why didn’t I think to put on music? Or would that be worse? Yes, yes, that would be worse. I’ve done this a million times. Why is it so difficult now? Because we’re alone. That must be it.

  Carter watches without saying a word, which makes me ten times more uncomfortable than I’d otherwise be. Okay, that demonstration should suffice. I scramble to my knees and jump up like someone stuck a firecracker up my butt. “Okay, you get the idea, right?”

  “Right,” Carter says in a strangled voice.

  He sits on his rear and lowers his body in a reverse curl, and then he’s thrusting, but his form is poor.

  “Be sure to use your glutes to lift yourself off the ground, hold . . . and down.”

  This is not a good time to notice that Carter has nice legs. No, no, he doesn’t. They’re average. So damn average. And to make matters worse, my cheeks and forehead are burning. The flu maybe? Yes, it’s May, but I’m sure it happens.

  “Um, Tori?”

  “What’s wrong? You okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” he says as he continues to thrust, hold, and repeat. “It’s just . . . I feel like you’re coming on strong, this being only our third training session. It’s a little more forward than I’d expected.”

  His face doesn’t bear a hint of humor, but then he tilts his head and he’s wearing a grin that spreads into a full-on gotcha smile. I cannot emp
hasize enough how dangerous a man with a sense of humor can be. And if his gaze pierces you when he does nothing more than make eye contact, take my advice: back the hell up and run.

  Well, if there are valid reasons for you to resist temptation, that is.

  Like, say for instance, the man is your client and a relationship with him would be inappropriate.

  Or maybe it’s that he’s a celebrity and you’d rather smear your body with honey and run through a field overpopulated by bees than play out another relationship in the public eye.

  One thing’s for sure: Our arrangement was tailor-made to be complicated. Because Carter’s a handsome man, whether he weighs 160 pounds or 200 pounds, and yes, a flutter tickles my belly every time I see him. And because the gods have cursed me, he’s funny, and nice, and cares about my feelings. But if I’m to be competent at my job, I must resist him. And the injustice of it all is that I can’t escape him, not for the next five-plus weeks at least. If I could, though, I’d scurry out of this gym and leave skid marks in my wake.

  Instead, I’m watching him perform squats. If this were anyone else, I’d place a hand on his back and correct his form. But because he’s Carter, I demonstrate the correct posture using my own body, not trusting myself to touch him. That’s it. I’m a perv who deserves to have her training license revoked.

  And because I think there’s safety in talking, my next coping mechanism is to chatter. With my clipboard in hand, I jot down notes about the session and ask Carter questions about anything and everything when he’s resting between sets.

  “What was your childhood like? Did you have tutors?”

  He scoffs at the idea. “No, nothing like that. My acting career didn’t really take off until I moved to LA when I was nineteen. Before that, I did mostly commercial work in New York. I went to high school in my hometown, kissed girls under the bleachers, tortured my sisters, and went to prom. What about you? You were the popular girl in school, right?”

  “From the outside, yes. I was loud and I knew how to hold people’s attention in a group. So, sure, I was invited to parties. And I always sat with someone during lunch. But it was superficial like high school often is. I didn’t have a bestie who had my back. And to be honest, I probably didn’t give off vibes that I was looking for someone like that in my life. My strained relationship with my sister made me wary of getting close to anyone. I mean, if your own sister doesn’t have your back, who else will? Meeting Eva changed all that. She has a way of breaking down your defenses before you even know you have them. But back then? Yeah, no one searched for me before the bell rang or called me to gossip. I was just . . . there. Like I used to imagine that if I failed to show up to school one morning no one would notice.”

  He bends and lifts two dumbbells from the rack. “If I had gone to your school and you didn’t show up one day, I would have noticed.”

  I have no answer for his comment, partly because I’m transfixed by the kindness in his eyes. As I stare at him, the sweetness of his words pour into me, and now I have this ooey-gooey center that’s making it even more difficult to resist him. I’m trying to build a wall, but Carter’s standing behind me, pulling out individual bricks before I can slap on the mortar.

  Note to self: Don’t talk to Carter.

  CARTER AND I settle into a comfortable training rhythm. In just one week, he’s gained four pounds.

  In that time, I’ve also learned he hates silence. Which means I must do the very thing I was trying to avoid: talk to him.

  He tells me about his upcoming and final season of My Life in Shambles, a show I’m embarrassed to say I’ve never watched. I learn that he has a tepid relationship with Nina Blake, his costar, but they’re cordial with each other, and that’s enough for him. And his older sister, Kimberly, divorced her philandering husband when her kids were still in their diapers.

  Carter also asks questions. So many questions.

  Today, he opens with, “How’d you get into personal training?”

  Together, we add weights to the bar for his bench press circuit. He’s up to lifting an impressive 170 pounds.

  He lowers himself to the bench, and I stand behind the bar to spot him. I don’t notice his chest. Not at all.

  “I wasn’t particularly athletic as a kid. But in high school I started jogging as part of my phys ed class. And then I discovered a cardio kickboxing video and loved it. It was empowering. I’d never felt so in control of my own body. It gave me confidence to engage in different kinds of physical activities. Biking, swimming, even roller-skating. So when it came time to figure out my career, a guidance counselor steered me to Temple’s degree in exercise and sports science.”

  Am I babbling? Yes, I am.

  Do. Not. Judge.

  “Let me know when you’re ready,” I tell him.

  “Ready,” he says.

  “Do you want a lift off the rack?”

  “Yeah.”

  I help him lift the bar off the rack and stand ready to grab it if necessary. His face reddens under the pressure of holding the load, but he breathes out and pushes through it. He completes three reps, and then I help him lift the bar back onto the rack.

  “That’s one set. Four more. Great job, Carter. We’re resting for three minutes.”

  He nods and walks to the water fountain. After taking a sip of water, he straightens and winces.

  “What’s wrong?” I say from across the room.

  He waves me off. “No big deal. A small bruise below my breastbone.”

  I meet him halfway. “Let me see.”

  He lifts his tank top, and I immediately regret asking to see anything as I try to scan the area with a clinical eye. It really is a small welt, and there’s no reason for me to touch it, but those facts no longer matter now that this part of his body is exposed to me. There’s so much texture. Smooth skin. Fine hairs. Hills and valleys marking the spots where muscles reside. I’d love to trace those points of interest with my fingers—or my mouth. My breath quickens, and my nipples tighten against my sports bra. The juncture between my thighs aches with need.

  I step back as if I’m avoiding a snapping turtle. “That should be fine.”

  He furrows his brows and stares at me. “That’s what I told you.”

  “Indeed, you did. I’m going to the restroom. Be right back.”

  As I walk away, I repeat this in my head: Five more weeks. Five more weeks. Five more weeks. I can maintain my professionalism during that period, right?

  No te rías. It’s not that funny.

  EARLY IN THE following week, Carter appears sluggish and irritable during his workout. When we’re finished for the evening, he goes to the restroom, and I wait for him by the door.

  A few minutes later, he bounds down the hall with a scowl on his face.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask him.

  “Nothing,” he says.

  “You look tired.”

  He rolls his eyes. “That’s nice of you to say.”

  Oh my God. I can’t believe he just hit me with the eye roll. I’m poised to tease him about it, but then his stomach grumbles, the sound reminding me of the scrape of heavy furniture being dragged across the floor when our upstairs neighbors decide to redecorate in the middle of the night.

  Carter’s eyes go wide, and then he turns a shade of pink so lovely Maybelline might want to replicate it.

  I hold back the laughter as well as can be expected under the circumstances. Which is to say, tears are streaming down my eyes. “¿Tienes hambre?”

  “Oh, that one I know,” he says. “Yes, I’m hungry. Starving, in fact.” He gives me a sheepish grin. “I don’t even recognize myself.”

  I give him a saucy smile. “I know a place.”

  His nostrils flare. “Take me to your leader.”

  Ten minutes later, we’re sliding into a booth at Broad Street Diner in South Philadelphia, one of the few places in the city open all night.

  “I would have taken you to my mother’s restaurant, but it�
��s closed.”

  He perks up despite his desperate need for fuel. “Your mother owns a restaurant? What’s it called?”

  “Mi Casita. It’s like a luncheonette. In North Philly.”

  “Will you take me someday?”

  Would I? Should I take my client to my mother’s restaurant? This is Carter, though, so it’s a different proposition. I won’t obsess about the reasons why. “I usually visit on Saturdays. Maybe I’ll invite you along when your six weeks are up.”

  He winks at me. “I’ll hold you to it.”

  When our server arrives, Carter orders an orange spritzer, a steak, and a sweet potato.

  “Anything for you?” Carter asks.

  “Nah, I ate before I came to the gym. Like I was supposed to.”

  “I won’t make that mistake again, believe me.”

  The server spins around, but I stop her. “Actually, could I have a slice of that apple pie and a glass of milk?”

  “Sure thing,” she says.

  When she’s gone, Carter’s mouth drops open. “Seriously?”

  I nod. “Seriously.”

  “That’s mean.”

  “It’s not mean. You’ll have to resist sweets if you want to bulk up quickly. Consider this part of your training.”

  The server returns with my milk and apple pie and Carter’s drink.

  He stares longingly at my dessert and groans. “This is the hardest part yet. Distract me. Tell me something I don’t know about you.”

  “Hmm.” I glance at the fizzy liquid in his cup. “I can tie a knot in a—”

  Nope. Not something I should mention.

  “What? Don’t leave me hanging. What were you going to say?”

  “Hang on a second. I need to slap myself.”

  Carter’s eyes dance. “Oh, this is going to be good. Tell me, tell me.”

  “I can tie a knot in a cherry stem with my tongue.”

  Carter looks unimpressed. “Oh, that. Yeah, I can, too. I thought you were going to tell me something juicy.”

  I sit back and fold my arms over my chest. “Oh, yeah? Show me, then.”

  Carter smiles and plucks one of the two cherries from his glass, his eyes gleaming. He throws his head back, exposing his neck, and raises the cherry above him. Then he slowly lowers it into this mouth. He’s performing, the shit. After he bites down on the cherry, he pulls the stem off and then chews the fruit. “Here’s the stem. No knots, see?”