Chapter One
Preslee Owens sat in her green Honda Accord outside the Body Shop, daring herself to go inside. If her vehicle had needed repairs, she wouldn’t have hesitated to stroll through the doors and ask someone for help. But since it was her plus-size figure that needed the overhaul, she couldn’t help but feel self-conscious about doing so.
After all, it was like a bad joke. Preslee Owens walks into a gym…
Only she also happened to be the punch line.
At twenty-eight, she had never once set foot inside a gym before. She realized how ridiculous that sounded since most people had probably played sports at some point in their life or, at the very least, taken a physical education class during their school years.
But not Preslee. She’d been homeschooled all of her life and had never had any interest in sports. Not only because she was clumsy but because most sports took place outdoors and she couldn’t fathom the idea of standing out in the Texas heat any longer than necessary. Who in their right mind likes to sweat?
Okay, she guessed some people did. But not her.
The only physical activity she’d participated in on a regular basis as a child consisted of her taking out the trash or washing the dishes. Neither of which had ever gotten her heart rate up high enough to be considered exercise.
Well, unless she counted the time she’d burned a pan of lasagna in the oven until it was completely black. Even after soaking the pan in hot, soapy water overnight, she’d scrubbed it so long and hard the next day that she’d nearly passed out from the effort.
That’s what I get for adding a ridiculous amount of cheese.
Preslee sighed. Clearly, her diet hadn’t helped matters either. She’d always eaten whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted. She’d never paid any attention to the number of calories in each serving, much less considered the negative impact that her poor choices might have on her health. Well, until now.
She glanced sullenly at the untouched cream-filled snack cake she’d tossed into her center console on her way to work. Though it was still calling her name, she hadn’t eaten it at lunch like she’d planned. She couldn’t. Not after what her doctor had said when he’d called this morning with her test results.
Last week’s appointment with Dr. Fowler had started out as a routine annual physical. But when he’d noticed that Preslee’s blood pressure was a little high and that she had gained weight, he asked about her family’s medical history with diabetes, high blood pressure, low HDL cholesterol and high triglycerides, and even gestational diabetes. None of which she had an answer for.
At three weeks old, Preslee had been adopted by a childless couple who’d been unable to conceive on their own. Because they weren’t blood relatives, she had zero knowledge of her biological family’s medical history. Therefore, Dr. Fowler’s preliminary screening hadn’t been able to produce any helpful information to adequately gauge her health risks.
So he’d done the only thing he could. He’d ordered some lab tests of her fasting glucose level, oral glucose tolerance level, and A1C. All of which determined whether or not she had impaired glucose levels.
At the time, Preslee hadn’t been concerned. After all, she was young and hadn’t experienced any health issues that would indicate anything was wrong. Sure, she’d gained some extra weight and her blood pressure was a little high, but neither seemed like much to worry about on their own.
Still, the determined Dr. Fowler had refused to take no for an answer. Although she loved having the elderly man as her doctor, the persistent grump glowered when he didn’t get his way. Without a doubt, he would’ve harped on her until the end of time—or at least until his death—if she hadn’t conceded and taken the damn tests.
Maybe that wouldn’t have bothered most people since they probably never ran into their doctors outside of their offices. Unfortunately, Preslee didn’t have that luxury. Her father lived next door to the man. Besides that, Granite, Texas, was a small town, and it wasn’t unusual for her to run into Dr. Fowler several times a week. Often at the post office, occasionally at the grocery store, sometimes in the bakery, and he even knew where she worked. Jeez. Nowhere was safe.
So Preslee had sucked it up and agreed to the tests. She’d stopped eating at eight o’clock the night before and woke up early the next morning to drive herself to the nearest lab in the next town over to have her blood drawn. All the while feeling like she’d been starving for weeks and had sand trickling down her dry, scratchy throat.
Yeah, fasting sucked.
Thank goodness she didn’t know any top-secret government intelligence. If anyone ever wanted to torture her for information, all they’d have to do was refuse her food or water for about twelve hours. She’d tell them everything they ever wanted to know. And probably then some.
Over the past week, however, Preslee had forgotten all about those dang tests and—thankfully—her horrible fasting experience. That was, until the doctor had called this morning to give her the upsetting results. As he spoke, only one word had stood out to her. Prediabetic.
Although the medical term sounded ominous, Dr. Fowler had assured her that it wasn’t the worst thing he could’ve found and it was completely reversible if she took action now. Then he’d urged her to change her crappy diet and become more physically active in order to lose some weight and get her glucose levels back to normal.
Right. Because it was just that simple.
Maybe the optimistic doctor hadn’t realized that he’d just asked her to change her entire lifestyle, but he had. And whether she liked it or not, that was going to take some seriously hard work on her part. But she didn’t have a choice. Her health was at stake, and she wanted—no, needed—to take this seriously. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be long before she dropped the pre and was left with only diabetic.
Preslee cringed and then hauled in a deep breath. “Better go inside and get this over with.”
She waited purposely for two young guys to enter the gym before sliding out of her car and adjusting her tight outfit. She’d purchased her workout attire at a local shop during her lunch hour without trying it on, and the clothing was more fitted to her body than she normally preferred. Like a lot more fitted. But it couldn’t be helped. She’d bought the items in the largest size available and had hoped for the best. It wasn’t like small towns had many options when it came to clothing stores. Especially for a plus-size woman.
She was only a respectable C cup at best, so at least the blue sports bra kept her boobs in place. Even if the straps dug uncomfortably into her shoulders. And the black calf-length leggings? Yeah, those had gifted her with an unpleasant wedgie that constantly needed to be picked.
Still, the workout clothes seemed somehow necessary…though she’d hidden both articles under a loose, oversize T-shirt. The idea was that looking—or rather feeling—the part would help motivate her. Or, at the very least, keep her from standing out in the gym like a brick in a pile of pennies.
Yeah, right. Good luck with that. She’d been sitting outside in her car for almost thirty minutes, and everyone she’d seen entering or leaving the gym had all been way more physically fit than her. Some of her workout clothes may have matched theirs, but the shape of her full-figured body didn’t.