Its design reflected Parker’s efficient style and unassailable taste, both of which Emma bitterly detested at that moment. CNN muttered away on the flat screen while Parker, her phone’s earbud in place, racked up her miles on the elliptical. Emma scowled at the Bowflex as she stripped off her sweatshirt. She turned her back on it and the recumbent bike, on the rack of free weights, the shelf of DVDs with their perky or earnest instructors who might take her through a session of yoga or pilates, torture her with the exercise ball, or intimidate her with tai chi. She unrolled one of the mats, sat down with the intention of doing some warm-up stretches. And just lay down. “Morning.” Parker glanced at her as she continued to pump along. “Late night?” “How long have you been on that thing?” “You want it? I’m nearly done. I’m just hitting my cooldown.” “I hate this room. A torture chamber with shiny floors and pretty paint is still a torture chamber.” “You’ll feel better after you do a mile or two.”
