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So that part of the show wasn’t included without the full cost of admission. It was a sneak peek designed to leave her wanting more. As if she needed the incentive.
She looked at him as he pulled on a tank top. Loose fitting, like the shorts, but both still showed off plenty of skin and plenty of muscle.
“All right then,” he said, downing the offered water and then swinging into the gym. “Where do you want to…” He trailed off as he looked around. “Huh. Slim pickings.”
Daphne glanced around the gym and saw what he meant. They’d noticed it was small, but they hadn’t looked closer. The treadmill took up half the space. That left a squat rack and single weight bench, which was shoved under the squat rack, there being no other place for it.
“Take turns, I guess?” Chris said. “Looks like it’s all free weights. Is that okay?”
Daphne almost lied. Free weights? Damn, I only know how to use machines.
That’s fine. Here, let me show you.
That was… oddly tempting, now that she thought of it. Not a stranger putting his hands on her to “correct” her hold or posture, but Chris “teaching” her to use free weights.
Breathe like this? I can’t quite get it. Here, let me put your hand on my sternum? Whoops, that’s not my sternum, he-he.
Daphne sighed inwardly. He’d set his parameters, and if she tempted him to break them, she’d feel guilty, and guilt didn’t make anything sexy.
She did use free weights—exclusively these days, being all she had in her home gym. What caused a panic bubble was the realization that Chris expected her to lift in front of him. While he watched. That also wasn’t sexy.
Why not?
Because it wasn’t.
So watching him lift wouldn’t be sexy?
Her pulse picked up speed at the image.
So that’s sexy, but not a guy watching you?
She’d tell him to go first. There. Let him start and then, whoop, out of time.
Chris had turned away, though, and before she could speak, he was bending in front of the weight rack.
“How much?” he asked.
Sweat beaded along her hairline. “Why don’t you go first?”
“I’m good. You warm up while I get this ready. It’s one of those variable weight barbells. Might take some fussing.”
“If it’s too much trouble—”
“It’s not. How much do you want for a flat bench press?”
She swallowed.
He turned and caught her expression. “And that’s a loaded question, isn’t it? I’ve seen guys do that in the gym to women.” He lowered his voice to a gym-rat rumble. “That’s all? I can lift four times that.” His voice went back to normal. “I know that the chest press is one exercise where women lift a lot less. You won’t get any judgment from me.” He met her gaze. “On anything.”
When she still didn’t answer, he reached over and lifted a five-pound dumbbell. “This?”
That made her laugh and relax. The problem wasn’t that she thought he’d question her not being about to press enough.
She flashed back to the last time a guy offered to set up the barbell for her, after he’d finished with it.
“That’s a lot for a lady. You sure?”
“I am. Thank you.”
