“Hello?” I call, stepping into the space. “Is anyone here?”
There’s no sound, which is odd because I expected to see a gym filled with lugheads grunting and straining. Instead, all I can see is a reception desk and some lockers over on the left. Everyone must be in the back, although it’s still eerily silent.
“Hello?” I call again, nervously jiggling my bag on my shoulder. “I have a personal training session at six p.m. Is anyone here?”
With that, muffled footsteps sound and a huge man appears from behind the wall. I gasp because he’s absolutely gorgeous. He has to be at least six foot four, with thick chestnut hair brushed off his forehead, and blue eyes that remind me of a sunny day sparkling off the Caribbean seas. He’s also perfectly toned and fit: broad shoulders emphasize the width of his chest, and he’s wearing a muscle-T that shows off a rock-hard stomach. Not only that, but as my eyes drift lower, I let out an involuntary gasp because there’s that. Ohmygod ohmygod. Mr. P has a giant candy cane inside his gym shorts, and judging from his cocky grin, it’s all for me.
3
Patrick
The girl waiting for me at the entrance to my gym is not what I expected. When her mother called, she made her daughter sound like a misshapen pile of Play-Doh that needed a firm hand.
“My daughter … well, she’s big,” Lorraine Handle told me. “You’ll need to put her through your most rigorous exercises.”
“That’s fine,” I said smoothly into the phone. “CrossFit is a challenge for most people, and even elite athletes have trouble with the regimen on occasion. I’m sure I can find something that will be right for your daughter.”
“Don’t just challenge her,” Lorraine insisted. “Make her work. Maisie has a lot of weight to lose, and her father and I are at a loss. We need this because how is she going to meet someone otherwise? You’re our last option, Mr. P. We’re depending on you.”
I bit my tongue because there are a lot of gorgeous larger women out there, as well as men who appreciate ladies with curves. Myself, for example. I love women who have some extra pounds on their frame, and actually prefer junk in the trunk to skinny minnies who are always dieting.
But as a result of Mrs. Handle’s words, I was expecting someone morbidly obese to step through the door. Perhaps she would be three hundred pounds and lumber from side to side, huffing and puffing from the stairs that lead to our front door. After all, it happens sometimes. A patient gets a warning from their doctor that they’re a candidate for gastric bypass surgery unless they lose weight, and they begin dialing all the gyms in the neighborhood in a panic. More than a few have showed up on my doorstep, hoping to turn their lives around, and I’m happy to lend my expertise. But obviously, I can’t start at level ten with clients in that state. Instead, I tailor a regimen for my trainees that fits their body type, energy requirements, nutritional habits, and fitness goals. It’s the only way to be healthy for any human being, and not just the ones looking to slim down.
But the woman before me is no giant white whale. Yes, she’s curvy, but in a good way. She has large breasts that press against her exercise top, and her hips are wide with a certain swing to them that has my mouth watering. Her buttocks are creamy and enormous, encased in tight gym leggings, which also highlight her ample thighs and narrow, shapely calves.
“You must be Maisie,” I say in a deep voice while sticking my hand out. “Hi, I’m Patrick. Also known as Mr. P.”
She flushes brightly even as that small palm is engulfed in my large one.
“You’re Mr. P?” she asks breathlessly. “Oh wow. You’re not what I expected at all.”
I grin.
“Let me guess … you were thinking gold chains, bulging guns, and a mohawk right?”
She giggles a little, flushing even more.
“Yes,” she admits. “I guess you get that a lot.”
I nod.
“Yep, sure do. But I’m glad you’re here because I’m ready for our personal training session. Are you?”
She swallows, a little nervous.
“Yeah, I am. Well, sort of. Is there a women’s locker room where I can drop my stuff off?”
I nod.
“There’s a women’s changing area right back here,” I say, leading her around the partition to a narrow hallway. “And the gym is the second door to your left. Meet me there when you’re ready?”
She nods, her breasts bobbling a bit even though they’re encased in a stretchy viscose top.
“Sure. Looking forward to it, Mr. P,” she says sassily while disappearing through the door. I stop in my tracks, the blood pounding in my temples. Holy cow, is Maisie flirting with me? I would swear yes, judging from the flirtatious swing of her hips and the brightness of those big brown eyes. But her mom made it sound like she was a wallflower, desperate for a guy to ask her to dance.
