Almost. I still see her three times a week for personal training sessions. She still hollers obscenities at me, the treadmill, and all other areas of the gym except for the water cooler, which she’s started referring to as “Sweet pea.” I still tease her about her hair; she still calls me Beefcake. But there are differences between us, too. She no longer tries to cop a feel, and I no longer catch her shamelessly checking me out in the mirror. Which is too bad, because I can’t seem to stop checking her out. I can’t stop looking at her, because I can’t stop remembering what it was like to touch her. I can’t forget the way she felt beneath me, or how perfect her mouth tasted, or how when she all but begged me to take her, it had been the hardest thing in my life to say no. Even harder to try to explain to her that I didn’t deserve what she was offering. Because the shitty part of all this is, I want to deserve a girl like Chloe Bellamy. “We done here, Beefcake?” Chloe says, pulling her turquoise towel off the bench and mopping back her forehead.
