“I think so. He was wearing a jacket when I saw him, but he was definitely bulky around the shoulders.”
And so was Alaric when he peeled off his sweater to reveal a tight black vest. Surprisingly so. The outline of his torso in the cashmere sweaters he tended to favour had suggested he was no slouch, but in the flesh, so to speak, he was smooth and sculpted. A work of art. Before I married Piers, I’d always had a weakness for good arms. Hell, I’d even dated a rugby player for a while. But my parents had hated him, or rather, they’d hated his family background, his financial status, and his lack of a “proper job.” Back then, I’d been too scared of losing their approval to follow my own path, but the irony was, Johnny had gone on to play for England while Piers was still reliant on his trust fund.
Damn, I missed those arms.
The changing room was basic but functional, the surfaces plastic instead of marble, the lighting harsh rather than tasteful. In short, the place was another reminder of the privileged life I’d led, of the gilded cage I’d now escaped. I picked a locker near the showers and squashed my bag into it, then unzipped my sweater and bundled that in too.
“Hey, I love your top. Where’d you get it?”
Was somebody talking to me? Apparently, yes. I turned to find a pretty Black girl standing there, a year or two younger than me with her hair neatly braided into cornrows.
“Uh, thanks. Yoga Life in Chelsea, I think.”
She made a face. “Bit out of my price range. Are you new here?”
“How did you guess?”
“You’re using one of the small lockers, and they don’t have room for nothin’. Bigger ones are on the other side by the hairdryers. I’m Shereen, by the way.”
A nervous giggle bubbled out of me. This was like the first day at a new school, and my only friend was outside lifting weights. “And I’m Beth. Yes, I’m still finding my way around. Wayne gave me a quick tour of the main floor, but he couldn’t exactly walk in here.”
“Oh, I don’t know—he must’ve seen half the women in this place naked, and most of the rest would invite him in with open arms.” Shereen rolled her eyes. “Workout World is hook-up central.”
I spotted a ring on her finger. “But not for you?”
“Hell, no. I’m just here for the sauna. I already got a man, and he’d kick Wayne’s ass if he looked at me funny.”
I put a mental check in the “negatives” column. Perhaps Workout World wasn’t the right gym for me after all? I didn’t want a hook-up, and I most certainly didn’t want a hook-up with Wayne. I liked men who knew how to use a razor.
Shereen must have noticed my grimace. “Taken? Or just not into Wayne?”
“Er…”
My self-appointed buddy grasped my wrist and led me across the room. “Because he’s not the only trainer here. Behold…” She waved her arm towards a huge noticeboard. The left half was covered in ads and flyers—dog-walking services, flatmates wanted, stuff for sale—and the right half had neat rows of photos, thirty men at least. “This is the current selection.”
“Wow.”
It was like browsing through model agency headshots, except each picture was accompanied by notes of the classes the man taught.
Gavin Hughes, spinning 7-8 a.m. Mon - Fri.
Jake Mandell, registered personal trainer, works weekends.
A banner at the bottom invited us to “Book at Reception!” Did they not have female trainers? Or were their pictures all in the men’s changing room?
“What do the numbers underneath mean?” I asked. Most of the men had a line of handwritten red digits under their bios. One or two had a black X, and a couple had sad faces.
“Scores out of ten,” Shereen said, and I choked. “What, you think they don’t know? They definitely know.” She tapped one of the sad faces with a red-painted fingernail. “This means they’re gay, and if there’s a black cross, it means they’re spoken for at the moment. Engaged, married, whatever.”
I scanned the photos again. One guy looked kind of plain, but he had tens across the board. My insides clenched just thinking about that achievement, and Shereen gave a throaty chuckle.
“Malcolm has a waiting list, hun. You could try Robbie if you need to loosen up. Nine-point-two average and the stamina to match, by all accounts.”
What on earth had I walked into? I tried to focus on my goal, but my vision went fuzzy as I thought of the last man to “loosen me up.” I didn’t want a quickie with a gym instructor, not in the slightest, but I wouldn’t say no to a mysterious American-slash-Brit who went out of his way to save my shoes from certain death.
“You’re looking at Ryland?” Shereen asked.
“What? No!” Wait a second… “Ryland?”
“Because I’m, like, ninety percent sure he’s got a girlfriend, and he didn’t turn up for any of yesterday’s classes anyway. I reckon they’re gonna fire him.”
I stared at the board, willing myself to concentrate on the job at hand rather than Alaric. The picture next to Robbie popped into focus, a vaguely familiar face framed by dark hair, his lips twisted into a slight sneer. Yes! That was the man I’d seen waiting for Gemma outside the gallery. Ryland Willis, Fat Blaster 11 a.m. and 2 p.m. Sundays, Body Sculpt 8 p.m. weekdays, personal training available. He’d scored half a dozen sevens and three eights before a black X appeared under his name. For Gemma?
“Saturday?” I tried to keep the excitement out of my voice. “He hasn’t been here since Saturday?”
“So I heard. How about Saul? A nine-inch—”
“Actually, I have a boyfriend. He’s upstairs waiting for me, but thank you so much for the introduction. At least I know where to find the class details in future.”
Shereen seemed vaguely disappointed, as if she enjoyed experiencing vicarious pleasure through other people’s one-night stands. Or possibly she was just a gossip-monger, albeit a friendly one.
“You’re welcome, hun. And don’t use that shower at the end. The thermostat’s busted, and it’s always freezing.”
“I’ll be sure to avoid it.”
I practically ran out of the changing room. Where were the weights? Upstairs, turn left, oof. Alaric caught me as I ploughed into him not six feet from the door.
“What’s the hurry?”
I steadied myself on his bare arms and forced my gaze upwards, away from his chest to his face. Men shouldn’t be allowed to wear vests in the gym. It was far too distracting.
“Beth? Did you forget to get dressed?”
Huh? I glanced down at myself, relieved to find I was still wearing a sports bra and leggings.
“This is what I always wear to the gym.”
Alaric leaned in closer, his lips grazing my ear. “When you’re house-hunting, add a private gym to the list of must-haves.”
“Really?”
“We’re not coming back to this one. They score the women out of ten on the wall of the men’s locker room, and I’m not letting you become a fucking statistic.”
He wasn’t letting me? The ratings thing was horrifying, but shades of Piers triggered me to snap back without thinking.