Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 62095 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 310(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 207(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62095 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 310(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 207(@300wpm)
I’d become a regular here. I usually came down here around one every day, and I stayed for an hour or two, alternating between swimming and jogging and stretching.
I took a quick shower in the far corner, where I also refilled my water bottle, and then I got into the water.
“Finally,” I exhaled.
The pool could’ve been deeper, maybe. The water ended right below my chest when I stood up straight. Then again, for baby swim classes and water aerobics for seniors, anything deeper would be less than optimal.
Ethan came down the stairs soon enough, and I watched him through the glass walls. He had a white towel rolled under his arm, and he was untying the drawstrings of his shorts. Perhaps he’d changed earlier too. I already knew he was a Speedo guy. He had the body of a ripped swimmer, with wide shoulders and… I guessed that was where the similarities ended. Ethan Quinn never missed leg day, and he carried more bulk than a swimmer.
That was the one thing he’d shared about himself during our initial interview, when he’d bombarded me with questions. His first venture into the world of athletics had been to join the high school swim team. He’d also played football. And countless sports after that, which he mentioned in passing. Field hockey, lacrosse, martial arts…
He opened the door and plastered his PT smile on his face, and he walked toward the three showers. “I forgot to ask earlier. When was the last time you had a nice bowl of pasta?”
Hnngh.
“I can’t even remember,” I chuckled.
“I figured.” He reached the corner and unceremoniously dropped his shorts to reveal a pair of black Speedos that he, um, filled out very well. Jesus. “I have a recipe you’re welcome to try this week. I take one part lentil pasta and one part regular pasta, and I serve it with a semi-healthy pesto that I make myself. Throw some sundried tomatoes and shredded mozzarella in there, and you’ve got yourself a feast.”
That…sounded fucking incredible. “My mouth is watering,” I joked. “Is that allowed, though? I know you mentioned metabolic confusion and variety and all that, but it sounds heavy.”
He turned on the shower and stepped under the spray. “It’s a heavier meal, no doubt,” he conceded. “I call it a once-a-week kind of dish. But it’s great in between two bigger workouts.”
I averted my gaze, feeling a bit too much like the women he accused of always gawking at him. “I’d love to try it.” I cleared my throat. “Do you like to cook?”
“I love it, actually.” He let out a chuckle. “Unfortunately, nobody in my family is interested in the food I make.”
So, like…Darius and those people…?
This was the perfect time to bring up the fact that we were sort of family, but I simply didn’t want to. I feared it would shatter the professional relationship we had, and he’d go from strictly my PT and coach to…something else.
“Well, I wouldn’t mind shaking you down for recipes,” I settled for saying. “I’m afraid most of what I normally cook is more likely to give me diabetes. I can’t even open my mom’s old cookbook. The Southern answer is seemingly always more butter.”
He chuckled again as he turned off the water. “It’s damn delicious, though. My mother grew up similarly, and when she cooks, I don’t ask for healthier options.”
Good to know.
I sent him a brief glance, deeming it safe to look again. He was on his way into the water.
Unfortunately, I hadn’t forgotten what he’d said before, and I would rather ask than obsess over it.
“Can I ask you about something you said earlier?” I wondered.
“You can ask me anything.”
Okay, then. Fuck—he’d probably meant nothing at all with his “of course.” I didn’t know why I’d gotten stuck on it.
“When I mentioned I’d changed into my bathing suit already, you said of course, like it was obvious,” I said uncertainly. “Was there a specific reason, or am I overthinking nothing?”
He cracked half a smile and cocked his head. “There was a reason—and I’m not surprised you picked up on how I worded myself.” He paused as he sank lower into the water and eased toward me. “People struggling with losing weight—usually a significant amount, and almost exclusively women—are some of the quickest thinkers I’ve ever met. If I suggest coffee, you’re already thinking about places you’ll know have comfortable seating. If you know you’re heading to the pool, you’ll change into swimwear beforehand so you don’t have to suffer in a locker room.”
Jesus Christ, he was right on the money.
“It’s second nature to you to eliminate moments of discomfort and signs of poor health,” he continued. “You don’t want others to see your back is hurting. You don’t like it when strangers can see you sweat or get flushed.” He stopped a few feet away from me. “I had a client once who called me four months before her anniversary trip, in a complete panic, because she was afraid she wouldn’t fit into her seat on the plane. And another client of mine admitted she waited for her friends to taste the food in a restaurant before her, because she didn’t want onlookers to think, there goes the fat person stuffing her face while the others are enjoying their water. She was always mean to herself.”