by M. E. Carter
Weight Expectations
Cipher Office Book #1
M.E. Carter
www.smartypantsromance.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, rants, facts, contrivances, and incidents are either the product of the author’s questionable imagination or are used factitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead or undead, events, locales is entirely coincidental if not somewhat disturbing/concerning.
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Copyright © 2019 by Smartypants Romance; All rights reserved.
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No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, photographed, instagrammed, tweeted, twittered, twatted, tumbled, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without explicit written permission from the author.
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Made in the United States of America
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eBook Edition
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Sneak Peek: Cutie and the Beast
Sneak Peek: Sticking to the Script, Book #2 in the Cipher Office Series
Sneak Peek: Getting a Grip
Dedication
To the Ladies of the SmartyPants Romance Universe first launch:
Y’all… this has been a total trip! I have enjoyed every single moment with all of you! Here’s to new friendships and cementing established ones. I couldn’t put together a better group of people to go on this adventure with! Let’s do it again!
Chapter One
RIAN
There it is. The death machine.
Otherwise known as a treadmill by people who think walking but never getting anywhere is fun. But for someone like me, who hasn’t stepped on a piece of exercise equipment since… well, ever, it’s known as Killer.
The Grim Reaper.
The Angel of Death.
I know it’s already taunting me. Just like my doctor did when she said I needed to go on a diet or death was imminent.
No, really. She said that. I swear.
Alright fine. I’m lying. She didn’t actually use the words “imminent death”. It was more like, “Rian, you’re thirty-seven years old, and you’re morbidly obese. I’m not asking you to become a skinny minnie. I’m asking you to be proactive with your health.”
Health, schmealth. It’s a family trait. We’re all big-boned, no matter how much rabbit food we eat.
Fine, those are more lies. My little sister likes to run marathons—outdoors. With a destination. And a finish line.— And while she’s not skinny per se, she doesn’t fall into the overweight category anymore. Now she’s considered curvy.
Voluptuous.
Luscious.
Every time her fiancé says it during family dinner on Sundays, I want to puke. My mother, on the other hand, smiles and clutches her heart like it’s the most romantic thing she’s ever heard. My dad just ignores it all.
I would never tell my doctor this information, though. She doesn’t need more evidence to use against me. My cholesterol level has done enough.
Which is why I’m here staring at the daisy pusher-upper.
Taking a deep breath, I build up the courage to try. Gingerly, I step onto the machine, clinging to the handrails for dear life. As if they would collapse under the weight of me if I fell while it was in motion. And yes, that’s a very real fear. I have several of them right now.
The treadmill collapses under my weight before I even turn it on.
I trip and fall over the side, face-planting in front of a gym full of people.
I can’t slow it down while gasping for air, thereby flying right off the end and landing on my amply padded ass, again, in front of a gym full of people.
All are very realistic fears considering these flimsy handrails couldn’t withstand the weight of one of my thighs. Why are they even here? Moral support?
Standing up straight, I want to give myself a pat on the back for not falling off so far. Granted, I haven’t really done anything yet, but still. Baby steps. Now to figure out what all the buttons mean…
My brain gets very close to overload as I try to figure out which “on” button actually means go. For some unknown reason, there are more than one. Maybe it’s this one…
Pressing a pink button, the monitor in front of me comes to life, but it’s not the television. I couldn’t get so lucky. Nope. Now I have touchscreen options, too. Seriously? This is why people don’t go to the gym. You need to be a freaking tech genius just to get the damn equipment to work.
“Do you need help?” A voice next to me comes out of nowhere and I startle, clutching my hand to my heart. He smiles while I take a second to assess whether or not that was my first official heart attack or if I’ve just had too much exercise for the day.
I’m sure my doctor would say neither was the case, but she’s not here, so I’m going for the dramatic.
“Sorry,” I finally spit out. “It’s my first time here, and I guess I’m a little jumpy.”
And that’s when I look at him. Like, really look at him. And oh. My. Why have I never come to the gym before? If this fine specimen is any indication, I have been missing out. No one says I have to come here and participate. I saw plenty of people sitting at the smoothie bar when I walked in. You can’t convince me they’re all here for their health.
Well, I mean, it is a smoothie bar so they’re at least partially here for that reason.
But still! With his dirty blond hair cropped close to his head and the perfect amount of scruff, I could stare at him all day. And that’s before I notice his biceps. Holy smokes, has he got guns. His shirt clings to him in such a way that I know there are some rock-hard abs under there. And those thighs. Don’t get me started on those thighs that are peeking out from under his athletic shorts as he props his leg up on the machine or I may just combust right here on this death machine.
Then I notice the staff t-shirt.
Ah. Now his inquiry makes more sense.
“No problem. I’m Abel.”
“Hi, Abel. I’m Rian.”
His eyes widen in surprise. “Ryan, huh? That’s an unusual name for a woman.”
I wave my hand around reciting the same explanation I have for the last three plus decades. “No, not Ryan with a ‘y’. Rian with an “i”. My dad’s name is Brian and my mom’s name is Riann, and they decided to combine the two to come up with Rian.”
And I’m rambling. Because why wouldn’t I when a hot guy is talking to me? To his credit, Abel doesn’t run away screaming. His smile actually widens. Color me surprised.
“That’s a really cool story. When my wife and I were having our daughter, we couldn’t decide on her name. I’m Abel. She’s May. So our first is Mabel.”
Of course, he’s hap
pily married with kids.
“That’s cute.”
“Thanks. We like it. So.” He claps his hands together, startling me again. “Enough procrastination. You’re here for a reason. Are you determined to use the treadmill, or are you interested in something a little more intense?”
I narrow my eyes at him, knowing this sales game well. I’m a master at it myself. “Do you get kick-backs from how many people you train, Abel?”
Now it’s his turn to look startled. “What?”
“How much to take the class you’re pimping?”
His eyebrows shoot up, and I know he’s surprised by my candor. “I—I don’t know. I don’t have the prices on me.”
“So, the only reason you came over here was to sell me something?”
His face pales and I start to feel bad. He doesn’t know me from Adam. He doesn’t know I don’t really have a bitch mode. I just like messing with people sometimes. Maybe I’ve taken it too far.
Patting his arm, I decide the charade isn’t worth it today. Not with this guy. If he’s this visibly concerned, chances are he’s genuinely nice. “I’m just kidding with you, Abel. I work in sales, too.”
“Wait.” He takes a step back and crosses his arms. “Was that a procrastination tactic?”
I cringe. “Did it work?” I ask sheepishly.
He nods, a look of appreciation on his face. “Almost. If you would have kept it up for just a few seconds longer, I probably would’ve cut my losses and walked away. Now you really need to sign up for a class. You owe me.”
My jaw drops. I didn’t give him enough credit. He’s as much of a smart ass as I am. I bet he contributes more to the commission pool than anyone else in this place, just by flashing that fake embarrassed look.
“I can’t believe you just turned that around on me,” I say to myself, shaking my head in disbelief.
“Work here long enough, and you learn how to keep up with the shady ones.” He leans over and presses a yellow button on my machine. Sure enough, it comes to life.
“How did you do that?” I say louder than I intend. Looking around, it doesn’t appear that anyone noticed, but I still make a concerted effort to lower my volume. No need to draw unnecessary attention to myself in case this venture goes terribly wrong. “Seriously. Teach me all the things.”
Abel laughs a deep rumble from deep in his chest. Damn. Add that sound to the list of reasons his wife is a lucky woman.
And yes, I’m objectifying here, which I know is wrong. But when you are thirty-seven, have never been married, have no prospects, and haven’t had any for years, it’s tough to hold the boundary on appropriate thoughts.
Not that I’m worried about being an old maid or anything.
I think.
Maybe.
I don’t know. It seems to change depending on my mood. Some days I’m happy as a clam being single and ready to mingle. Others, I could emotionally eat my way through a Dairy Queen.
Huh. Maybe I fall on the anxious side of love more than I realized. That’s what landed me here, right?
Unexpectedly, the ground beneath me begins to move.
Abel must notice the fear on my face because he immediately uses that smooth, deep voice to calm me. “Relax. We’re starting slow. Just look straight ahead and walk.”
Okay. I can do that. Just walk. I’ll be fine as long as we don’t go any faster.
“Why are we going faster?” I screech, as Abel presses more buttons. “And why is it going up?”
Abel laughs again, only this time it’s not a deep timbre. This time it’s an annoying ruckus, ruining my carefully laid plans to start slow.
“Relax, Rian. I bumped it up to Level One. In truth, that’s closer to the same level as walking directly on the ground.”
Oh.
“Oh.” Well, now I feel stupid and dramatic.
“We’re going to put you on an interval. We’ll go in five-minute cycles. Three minutes at your slowest pace, one minute at your medium pace, and one minute at your fast pace. Repeat the cycle for thirty minutes.”
I look at Abel like he’s lost his damn mind.
Sucking in breath, I propose a compromise. “I was thinking of starting more with a stroll.”
“A stroll?” Clearly amused, Abel doesn’t bother stopping the machine until we have a solid plan. Nope. He keeps pressing buttons that do God-knows-what and smiles. He. Smiles. A smile I no longer consider attractive, but smarmy and conniving. His poor, poor wife.
“Fine. I’ll settle for a meander.” Pointing my finger at him for dramatic effect, I add, “But that’s my final offer.”
He shakes his head and finally stops pressing buttons. Finally. And yet… I’m still moving. This isn’t good.
“Nope. Thirty minutes of intervals and then I’ll come back here to work on some stretches with you.”
My eyes widen, both in disbelief and possible terror at what “stretching” might entail. I ate a bean burrito for lunch. Does he not understand the kind of danger “stretching” might put everyone in?
“I don’t think I like this plan. And I’m not paying for this training session, Abel, since it’s unauthorized.” I try to cross my arms like an obstinate child but end up grabbing the handrails when I lose my balance. Clearly, I can’t walk and be defiant at the same time. “Come to think of it, when you walk away, I’ll just leave.”
“No, you won’t. You don’t know how to turn off the machine.”
“Dammit,” I grumble and turn my head away dramatically. He’s right. I am totally and completely at his mercy until he comes back to get me, or the power goes out. I’m all for a man taking control and getting me sweaty, but this is not how I imagined it would go. “Fine. I give up. I will do these intervals for thirty minutes. But if the video of me falling and my shirt being ripped off goes viral, I’m telling the ladies of The View and all their watchers that you are my trainer. I will ruin you!”
He chuckles again and it makes me want to take his wife to a support group for wives of hot, chuckling, unable to be manipulated husbands. The poor woman.
“Are you always this dramatic?”
“Always,” I say without hesitation.
“Good. I like it. See you in thirty.”
“It’s twenty-eight minutes now!” I call after him as he walks away. “Don’t you be a second late!”
He waves at me over his shoulder, never looking back.
I will never admit it to Abel, but the stretches weren’t as bad as I thought they would be. There was one time I had to clench a little, but for the most part, my muscles feel really relaxed now.
Plus, I enjoyed the conversation with Abel. He gets my humor and throws it right back at me. He even convinced me to try out his strength training class.
Yeah, he’s got jokes of his own all right, manipulating me like that.
Besides figuring out how to get the electronics to work, the biggest obstacle was showering. Whoever designed these box shower stalls in this place didn’t take into account that people come to the gym to get skinny—they don’t start out that way. So, there I was, my “morbidly obese” self, trying to figure out how to shave my legs without my rear sticking out of the curtain into the hall while getting sprayed in the face with the water.
Pretty sure I had to break down and position myself in one of Abel’s stretches for it to work. And I’m still not sure I didn’t moon a passerby.
But no matter. Once I finally contorted myself around and got my clothes on, I was pretty proud for acting like a real gym rat. Of course, this was after dropping my pants inside a puddle in the stall. Thank goodness they provide blow dryers. Otherwise it would have looked like I had an accident before I even left the building.
All that extra effort to clean up made me thirsty, so I’ve decided to reward myself with a drink.
Sidling up to the smoothie bar, I decide to try my hand at an organic, GMO-free treat. Because nothing says heart health like drinking plants. Or so I’ve heard. Besides, I don’t
see vodka on the menu. Bummer.
Wiping her hands on a towel, the clearly frazzled and overworked bartender, or should I call her a smoothie-tender approaches.
“What can I get you?”
I purse my lips and give her a deer-in-the-headlights look. “Uhhhh, I have no idea.”
She leans against the counter. Suddenly, she doesn’t look overwhelmed. She looks… interested. “Ah. Newbie, huh?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Considering I know just about everyone who walks through those doors,” she gestures to the front of the room, “and I’ve never seen you before, it’s an educated guess.” She pops back up off the counter like she didn’t just get comfortable. “I’m Tabitha, by the way. And here is a list of some of our best sellers. Most of these are creations I came up with on my own.”
Taking the list from her hands, I peruse the different items. I’m shocked to admit, some of them look pretty good. My mouth starts watering at the thought of having a Dreamcicle smoothie. Then, I see one that catches my eye.
“Ooooooh. What is this chocolate bar shake?” I’m sure my face has lit up from the prospect of gooey caramel and rich milk chocolate in my mouth. I might like this gym after all.
“That is one of our best sellers. Made with chocolate protein, almond butter, a little almond milk, banana—”