"All you'll be breaking is a sweat. Omar is an amazing trainer and he's going to take good care of you—and your juices."

  "Stop talking about my juices," I hiss just as he comes over, man buff and masculine. His shirt strains against muscles made of rock: my mind flashes to the scar and tattoo on Carrick's chest. I wipe my forehead and dab my chest.

  Omar shakes my hand, his bicep flexing. From over his shoulder, Kat winks and then vanishes into the descending night.

  "Kat said you were sick," he says, concerned.

  "I had the flu, but I'm feeling much, much better. Don't worry I'm not contagious. I'm well past that. In the clear," I say, bouncing on my toes. My attention darts from machine to mat to Omar. "Not to worry, not at all." The coffee in my system evaporates the exhaustion of the last few days. I feel perky. Energized. Stimulated!

  "I heard it was going around."

  "At least nine people at my office were out sick last week. More recently, I've been having trouble sleeping. It's been a few nights and days. I've tried napping, meditating, counting sheep, counting backwards, cool sheets, warm blankets, reading…" I bubble, fizz, and effervesce.

  "Studies show there are many great things about physical fitness and one of them is a stronger immune system and better rest so I feel confident our session will help." Omar's muscles pop as he walks over to a weight station. He's a cyborg, impossibly perfect.

  "I also hear it helps get the juices flowing." There's a delay, like the broadcast of a live event when I clap my hand over my mouth, realizing, too late, the sugary and caffeinated drink amped me up a little too high.

  Omar clears his throat. "I have a standard program I like to start new clients on, but I want to ask you a few questions before we get started." He swipes the screen of his iPad and opens to his client database.

  "Go for it. Shoot. I'm ready. Fire away. Whatcha got?" I rub my hands together, and march in place, perhaps discharging some of my potential energy.

  "Please describe your current physical activity."

  "Zilch. Zero. Nada. Nothing. None."

  "Yoga?"

  "Only when Kat makes me. If she had her way I'd be in class every day, but she doesn't get her way, except now."

  His eyes widen as though trying to make sense of the words dribbling from my mouth.

  Pull it together, Carrington. I take a shallow breath. "I mean rarely. I played field hockey in high school, but that was a long, long time ago. Recreationally, I don't do much of anything, unless you count eating brownies."

  "I'd say no, but they are my favorite dessert. My grandma makes a mean double fudge brownie."

  I wave my hands. "No, no, no. I have the best recipe for you. I got it from a drug dealer I know. Wait. That didn't come out right. They're not those kind of brownies. He assured me. And it's not as if I know him. We just had dinner a few times. He's an amazing cook and it turns out also sells illegal substances."

  Omar's eyes widen.

  "Blame Kat. She arranged it." I clap my hand to my forehead. "She didn't know. She's not like that. I mean you know her. She's totally into yoga and wellness, green juices and meditation. But the brownies. I'll bring some by. Actually, wait. Do trainers eat things like brownies? They're full of fat and sugar. I saw a recipe on Pinterest once that had black beans and spinach as ingredients. Hmm. I could try that, but I don't think you could replace the candy…"

  "Brownies are fine once in a while," he breaks in. "Tell me, what do you enjoy doing that gets your body moving and blood pumping?"

  And juices flowing? Sex with Spencer probably isn't the answer he's looking for, but that was the most cardio I've had in ages. "Sleeping doesn't count does it. I'm not answering these questions right am I?"

  "There are no right or wrong answers. Just be honest. I want to come up with the best plan for you. Last one, what are you current fitness goals?"

  I reach into the bullshit bag for this one because if he wants me to be honest, I don't have goals: not for fitness and not for life. That makes me feel like a loser and more than a little off track. "Improved immune system and rest."

  "Excellent. That I can help you with." He goes on to outline his philosophy and approach to stretching, strengthening, cardio, and general conditioning.

  My attention flits from his biceps to his abs to his lips to the Valentine's Day streamers curling and waving next to the heating vent, a reminder of why I'm here and all that's lacking in my life.

  "You ready?" he asks.

  "Huh? Oh yeah. Let's do this."

  The caffeine cocktail pushes me through a warm up routine that progresses to press ups, plank holds, squats, and other resistance based moves.

  Omar encourages me, cheers me on, and urges me to keep going when my muscles shake. We move onto a weights circuit, and then spend twenty minutes doing cardio. Omar is hands on, providing resistance, to stabilize, and show me how high to kick or how low to lunge. With every touch, I think of another set of hands, the power of Carrick gripping my cheeks, the possession of his fingers lacing mine, and thrill of his lips brushing my mouth.

  Sweat pours from my brow, my tank top is damp, and even my ass is sweating. I tug my shirt down to hide the stain.

  "You're doing great," Omar says, resting his hand on my arm. His dark fingers blur into a pair that are kissed by the Italian sun or wherever Carrick was before returning to the United States. You're with Omar, I tell myself. Strong, sexy, Omar. "Let's stretch you out for a warm down and we can schedule another session."

  I swallow, my vision coming back into focus. "I'm fucking tired," I say, still high from the caffeine and the endorphins. Also maybe slightly delusional from the lack of sleep.

  We go to the front desk and we agree to meet on Tuesday at the same time.

  He nudges my arm with his elbow. "Let me get you a juice," he says. "Protein for repairing and building in the first half hour after a session is crucial."

  I study his pillow-like lips with soft curves and a smooth kissable texture as he speaks. Perhaps Kat wasn't wrong about him getting my juices flowing. My eyes flutter shut as I lean forward.

  "Green machine with matcha for Navy," a voice calls from somewhere far away.

  Strong arms catch me and I jerk to consciousness. Omar looks at me with concern and lines form on the forehead of the woman behind the juice bar counter. "Are you okay?" she asks.

  "I think the caffeine wore off."

  "See, you're already reaching your goals to get better rest, best get home," Omar says.

  I spring for a cab so I don't fall onto the subway rails. Once home, Kat perches on a stool at the counter, waiting for a full report.

  I slurp the last of my green juice. "Keep me pumped full of double mochas and I should be ripped in no time. Oh, and he got my juices flowing." I shake the empty cup.

  Kat lifts an eyebrow.

  "Power greens, celery, green apple…" I list the ingredients.

  "The Green Machine."

  "Yeah, I think that's what it was called. He was talking about muscle repair. Very sexy."

  "I wasn't talking about that kind of juice," she hints. "So…"

  "He's very sweet, a great trainer…"

  "Great lips, ass, abs…" she says, listing off his more noticeable attributes.

  "The total package."

  Kat smiles. "Just leave it to me to find you the perfect Valentine's date."

  "And leave it to me to make a fool of myself," I reply, giving her a quick recap of the training session and my caffeinated babbling.

  *

  The promised rest finally comes that night. I sleep like a baby—well, if babies slept soundly without waking up crying and in need of a diaper change every couple of hours. Last Christmas, my cousin, a new mom, griped to me about the expression after having twins, saying whoever made that up must not have been on overnight duty.

  I'm sore from the workout the next day, but relieved that my brain rebooted, no longer stuck on the night spent with Carrick. The burning in my chest is a little duller.

  I blog a recap of my foray into the world of personal training with an up close and personal description of Omar's best assets.

  #3 The Gym Stud (name changed for privacy)

  Appearance: ripped, buff, beefcake. Read: biceps, abs, quads, pecs, lats, delts, calves, and glutes. The glutes are killer.

  Behavior: in depth knowledge of, along with familiarity and comfort with the human body. Invested in health and wellbeing. Concern and care about my activities and goals.

  Connection: apparent tolerance of an overtired, over-caffeinated, out of shape office employee. Given the circumstances, he had a gentle and firm touch that covered nearly every inch of the public parts of my body.

  My readers reply instantly, inquiring about which gym I visit. I answer a few other questions about the status of the dare, including if I'll be seeing the Gym Stud outside of regular training sessions.

  From the living room Kat calls, "I got you guys tickets for the basketball game Tuesday night."

  I march into the living room.

  She tosses me her best get out of jail free smile.

  "You did what?"

  "Omar is a big fan of the Knicks. You're a basketball fan." She shrugs. "I thought you'd enjoy a game of ball."

  "Kat," I say, slouching onto the couch.

  "Navy." As though spelling out something for a four year old she says, "It will be fun."

  She does have a point. Fun was what I found myself lacking in life and what attracted me to the UBoss program. "Fine."

  "That's not how you spell fun," she teases. "Hmm, let me check the dictionary. Oh, here it is," she says, pretending to flip through the pages of an invisible book. "S-E-X. That's how you spell fun. There are also a few variations. I see Omar's name is listed."

  Chapter 25

  Kiss Cam

  I imbibe significant amounts of frothy, caramelized caffeine, not because I'm tired today, but because I'm not adverse to performance enhancing substances when it comes to getting through work out number two with Omar.

  While he finishes up with another client, I check my email, approving blog comments when I find one from cdog93@Kennely.com. Of course, the family has their own @. The subject says chapter one. The body of the email simply says Did you get past the first page?

  I haven't even cracked the spine and have no plans to. It was difficult enough getting the conversation from one night out of my head. Three-hundred pages worth of Carrick might kill me. As they say, the pen is mightier than the sword. There's also part of me that might be a wee bit jealous of the fictional romances Carrick creates. He said it himself: write what you know.

  Two things about this bother me.

  1) I don't want to know about his steamy scenes with other women, even if they're told through a fictional lens.

  2) If I were to write what I know, it would be this: I don't know.

  I don't know what I want to do with my life now or when I grow up, or what my big, world-changing purpose is.

  "Hey," a baritone voice calls, pulling me from my mind-suck. "You ready to get sweaty?" Omar asks.

  "Pumped," I say, slurping down the rest of my beverage.

  Omar puts me through a high intensity interval training circuit, not once, not twice, but three times. I collapse on the black foam mat and say, "I tap out."

  "On your feet. One more time, soldier."

  "If you want me to be on my feet at the game tonight, I need to rest," I say, catching my breath. I belatedly realize I gave him a perfect segue to comment about how he doesn't mind if I'm off my feet later, or something more sexy and eloquent, but he doesn't take the flirt bait. Maybe there's a gym policy about not hitting on clients even if you're going on a date later.

  Like an arthritic dog, I get on all fours and then clamber to my feet. "Okay, one more time," I say.

  "Then we stretch," he says cheerfully.

  To Omar, stretching isn't an idle, static hold with one arm draped over a limp shoulder. To Omar, stretching means dynamic, energized, yoga-like postures. By the end of fifty-five minutes, I'm spent and nothing about a large arena filled with screaming basketball fans and the squeak of sneakers on parquet appeals to me.

  However, that's exactly what I'm going to get. And a gargantuan tray of nachos. The singular hope of salty chips smothered in cheese, beans, peppers, salsa, and sour cream is the only thing that keeps me going.

  After a shower at the gym and a quick change into skinny jeans and a sweater, I make the most of a can of dry shampoo I borrowed from Katya, but give up, pulling a knit hat that may or may not have found its way into my collection via Tori, over my unruly hair.

  Omar and I set out into the brisk night. True to his personal training form, he insists we walk to Madison Square Garden.

  "Think of it as a cool down."

  "More like a freeze down," I mutter. After the piping hot shower I took, loosening my aching muscles, the shock of cold chills me to my core. I chatter, mostly so my tongue doesn't freeze to the roof of my mouth, not because I drank too much caffeine.

  I zone out during the first quarter of the game, munching on nachos while Omar enthusiastically gets to his feet, cheering every time the Knicks score. Other than that, he commentates, explaining the plays, the rules, and sharing his take on the fouls.

  I'm too polite, exhausted, and more often than not with a mouthful of corn chip cheesiness to explain that I know basketball intimately. Not that kind of intimately, though I wouldn't say no to player number seventy-one. I'm more than familiar with offense, defense, boxing out, posting up, and picking and rolling. I cut my teeth on the Boston Celtics' sidelines. My grandfather was their manager for the better part of my life and as his favorite, and only grandchild, he paraded me around like the team mascot. He was disappointed I didn't play basketball in high school, but I didn't inherit much in the way of height or absorb any talent via proximity when I was growing up.

  During half time Omar asks, "Want something to drink?"

  "I'm still absorbing the coffee I had earlier, but I'll go with you," I say, coming off my caffeine high, but not looking forward to the line for the bathroom.

  He goes in one direction to get drinks and I go toward the wash room where the line does indeed snake around the entrance.

  While I wait, I spot him by the concessions stand cooing at a baby with its hands and feet waving from the carrier strapped to his mom's chest. From the line I'm in, not moving at game pace, I watch Omar balancing our beverages in one hand as he helps a woman in a wheelchair get ketchup for her hotdog.

  His muscles ripple in his tight-fitting V-neck sweater, hugging him in all the right places as he glances around for me. I try to flag him down, but a group of teenagers with orange and blue painted faces parade past.

  I miss part of the third quarter, regretting the giant coffee earlier. Finally back in my seat, not risking more liquid, I save my bottle of water for later.

  When the Knicks score again, leading the game by twelve points, the fans go bananas and the JumboTrons shower digital confetti as real confetti drifts over the crowd.

  The energy ratchets up a few notches during a foul deemed in our favor. Then the room goes bonkers when a jump shot appears as if it's going to be an in-and-out, but somehow sinks through the net.

  I get to my feet, joining in the excitement and cheer.

  For the next minutes of play, the opposition scores several points, with the help of a questionable call from the referee. Everyone is on their feet, stamping and shouting in disagreement, but the game resumes and the spread narrows with the other team catching up.

  The last quarter is so intense it's no wonder my grandfather had a heart attack before he retired. I white-knuckle Omar's sweater sleeve as the final shot leaves the forward's hands, sails through the air, the timer ticking down with mere seconds to go. The buzzer is going to sound at any moment. We hold our collective breath. Five, four, three, two—it's as though the ball hangs, suspended in the air, and then whoosh! It slides through the net before the buzzer signals.

  There's madness, mayhem, equal parts applause and booing from the losing team. Without thinking, I turn to hug Omar, as one does during exciting moments like this, and despite his pronounced pecs, his washboard abs, and his basketball player biceps, I get a floppy, weak hug, sort of like wrapping my arms around a giant, wet noodle.

  There's no time to think about how strangely awkward that was because our faces are on the JumboTron, outlined in an orange and blue heart with the throbbing words kiss, kiss, kiss.

  I've been to several pro games since I was younger—one memorable time when my grandfather scored courtside seats for the playoffs when I was in high school. I brought Zach, Claire, her boyfriend, Carrick and his girlfriend of the week. Of course, I had to watch them make out on the larger than life screen while everyone chanted kiss, kiss, kiss, and cheered. Although I wish it had been us then and a secret part of me wishes it were us now, the fighter, the victor in me hopes he's watching. It's not every day your image and that of an insanely handsome and athletic stud are framed in a screen broadcasting to millions.

  I go up on tiptoes, close my eyes, and land my lips on his. I inhale his male scent topped with a fresh splash of aftershave.

  I'm ready for the action of his mouth pressing against mine. I wait for movement. I signal with a quirk, a twitch, a quiver of my lips for him to kiss me back, but his plump, kissable lips do nothing to return the gesture mine so willingly make.

  I lower down onto flat feet, my fingers reflexively moving to my mouth.

  To say the audience's lackluster response matches my own is an understatement. I don't have tons of experience, but Spencer seemed to think I was a good kisser. I recall him referring to me with a word that rhymes with Nixon, the last name of player number seventy-one. I discretely cup my hand over my mouth, checking to see if I have bad breath. I wriggle my nose—it doesn't seem like there are any bats sneaking out of the cave.

  As we exit the Garden, I'm thankful the Knicks won against the opposition—there's nothing worse than a guy sulking after his favorite team loses. But what's infinitely worse is a girl sulking because the guy didn't kiss her back. My concern grows once we're back outside, our breath puffing little clouds as I hop from foot to foot to keep warm.