Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 237(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 237(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Looking down, I am stopped abruptly when I feel two firm hands grip my shoulders, stopping me just inches from his chest.
Scotty.
While the man has muscles on top of muscles, he’s an ego-maniac. I’m sure most women do swoon over him, but “man grunts” and flexing don’t do it for me.
“Paisley, baby, gotta be careful.”
“Sorry,” I mutter, knowing I need to pay attention. Scotty used to be just a regular at the gym. The more he transforms his body, the more it messes with his energy and his mind. He went from a casual, laid-back guy all of us felt fine around to a completely obnoxious jerk.
“Make it up to me. Take me to dinner tonight,” he commands in the way Scotty does.
I reach up and pat his pectoral muscle, to which he makes it jump in what I assume is a way to impress me. “Scotty, at least twice a week you tell me to take you to dinner.” I sigh. “It’s getting old, buddy. Women want to be whisked away, swept off their feet. Ya know”—I look up into his green eyes—“romance, buddy, romance.”
He cups my chin with his index finger and thumb. “Paisley, this ain’t no fairy tale. You can have a night or two with a man like me. Gotta take the leap, baby. It’ll be worth it, promise.”
I raise an eyebrow at him. “You really think that works?”
“You have no idea.” He smirks.
I have had enough.
Jerking my head back, I step to the side and around the behemoth. “Not happening, Scotty. Go have another protein shake,” I say without looking back at him.
I make my way toward the front entrance of the gym, passing a few isolated exercise rooms to the door that leads into the women’s locker room. Desirae, who is one of my closest friends, is already putting her stuff in a metal locker when I walk in.
We met when she came to Miami after the death of her sister. She still visits North Carolina regularly, but for the most part, her life is in South Beach with her man, Ethan “Hammer” McCoy. They are cute together in that “get a room,” face sucking way.
Des is easy-going and doesn’t judge a soul. It’s why we get along so well.
She takes one look at my face and asks, “Scotty again?”
“Yup. Des, is it really bad to think romance is dead?”
She laughs. “Honey, I live with a biker. Depends on your definition of romance.”
I sit on the bench rather than tuck my stuff away. “I want to be knocked on my butt. When cupid nails me with his arrow, I’m gonna be swept away. It’s not something I’ll find on a date; it’s something that’s going to spark and then go boom.” I raise my hands dramatically.
“You do realize it doesn’t necessarily work that way, right?”
“You and your logic. Okay, so for most people, it may not; but for me, that’s how it’ll be. The stars will align and something will happen, sending me barreling into the man of my dreams life, and instantly, there will be fireworks. I know it.”
She closes her locker before picking up my phone and towel to toss them inside the locker beside hers. “Fireworks, those can happen for a lot of reasons, Paisley.” She smiles as she takes me by the hand, pulling me from my perch on the bench. “I love you to death, but you are the craziest woman I know. Maybe a little meat in you would take the edge off?” she jokes, to which I just sigh loudly.
“Meat in me, huh? That’s gonna solve all my problems?”
We both laugh as we make our way to class.
Exiting through the other side of the women’s locker room, we walk through the heart of the gym that is filled with various exercise machines until we reach the yoga classroom in the back.
An hour session later, love, fireworks, romance, and all thoughts of my morning are gone. No, the meditation, the focus, the calm is all back in place. I’m balanced. Rejuvenated.
~~~
My shift at the grocery store begins on a register. Beep, beep, slide the cans with a smile; it’s my job. I count items or sing songs in my head to entertain myself as I ring up my customers.
“Paisley,” the produce manager calls my name, getting my attention.
“Yes, sir.”
“Flip your light. Finish that one, then you gotta work organic today. Paul called in.”
I nod and do as I’m told.
Bin by bin, I go through the vegetables and fruits, making sure to discard any that are going bad and refill those low on stock.
“Can you believe they want over a dollar more for this organic crap?” a lady says to her friend.
“Half of it still has dirt on it,” her friend chimes in.
I should probably mind my own business, but they are missing out on some good foods by their assumptions.