Page 6

Chapter 6

Flirt Coach

Dell

H ere’s the thing about me: sometimes I dive in headfirst without checking how deep, clean, or safe the water is. But that’s how I go through life, and it’s worked out for the most part. I don’t usually second-guess myself.

But with Robyn staring at me like I’m out of my mind, I do.

I remember so distinctly when I first saw her at Philly’s Pride parade. The second she walked into my gym two years ago, I recognized her. I swallowed my pride and pretended it was our first meeting. I’ve been trying to make a professional name for myself since I opened my gym seven years ago, when I was twenty-six.

Once she came back into my life, I thought I could sweep our chance encounter under the rug and ignore that tiny suspended moment of my life where I was nothing more than a man who wanted to kiss a woman in the street. I wanted to listen to her speak and know everything about her. I wanted to know how she likes her eggs cooked and what kind of music she likes. I wanted to know what she tastes like.

Instead, I’ve ignored my instincts, praying that my attraction to her would fizzle out—but no. I have a big, fat crush on my pretty client. My pretty, Olympian client whose teammates have hired me at her recommendation.

There’s no real rule against personal trainers dating clients. Hell, I know plenty of peers who have. I’ve done it myself too, many times. Nothing was ever serious, not that I do serious anymore, anyway. But I started getting a reputation that I fuck all my clients, which led to me being labeled as unprofessional by some, and, one by one, I lost the clients I messed around with. I decided that’s not what I wanted for this new part of my life. I wanted to get away from all of that.

Therefore, for the last three years, I’ve had a strict No Dating Clients rule in an attempt to stay professional and rebuild my name.

So, that secret crush I have on Robyn Cassidy? It’s gonna stay that way.

And yet, I’ve just offered her lessons in flirting.

These head-first instincts only work if everything else in my life follows suit. Now, I’m mixing two ingredients that should not go together: Robyn, my forbidden fruit, and assisting her with her crush.

What the fuck am I doing?

Oh well. I don’t often second-guess myself; let’s not start now. When I commit, I commit.

“Flirt coach?” she asks through labored breath as I increase the resistance again. “What does that mean?”

I shrug off my internal war and dive in. “It means I want to help you get the guy.”

She eyes me speculatively. “Why would you do that?”

“Because we’re friends. But now that I think about it, how is someone with millions of followers not able to get a date?”

“Trust me, if I was into women, I’d be married by now.”

I chuckle thinking about the ladies in her comments. “That’s true.”

“Netflix reached out to me a few weeks ago about auditioning for some new queer reality dating show.”

“Seriously? What was it called?”

“ Lesbian Lock-Up . The show where contestants are locked in a simulated prison, and compete for the affection of the star. But here’s the twist: there are ten civilians and ten real prisoners. It’s like The Bachelorette meets Orange Is the New Black .”

“Get the fuck outta here,” I laugh. “How is any of that legal?”

“I have no idea, but I’m gonna watch that show if it ever comes out.”

“There could be a spin-off: Breaking Out . The show where the only way the bachelorette and her prisoner girlfriend can escape is with the help of the women whose hearts have been broken along the way.”

Robyn laughs “Like The Amazing Race meets Shawshank Redemption .”

“Alright, hop off.” Turning on my heel, I head for the weight rack. Robyn follows and grabs the weightlifting belt. “So, is that a yes?” I ask, sliding her plates onto the bar. “Can I be your flirt and dating coach?”

“What about your No Dating Clients rule?”

Alright, so I may have told her about my rule at some point over the years. I found telling my clients about this rule helped keep me in check, especially with her.

“This wouldn’t be considered dating. I’m coaching you. It’s different.”

She stares at me.

“Would it be helpful if we put a time limit on this?” I ask. “Like, let’s say we stop this after a month. A clean break.”

She fastens the belt around her waist, but her eyes never drift away—like she’s studying the inner workings of my mind. “But we're still friends? You’re still my trainer? I really don’t want to find a new one.”

“Of course.”

“Promise you won’t make fun of me,” she says, and it’s not a question. It’s a contractual term. She looks so worried, and I can’t tell if it’s because she thinks I would actually make fun of her or if she thinks she looks desperate. Maybe it’s something else entirely. Regardless, I don’t like it when she worries.

I slide the last plate on and level with her, all humor gone. “I promise. On BooBoo Kitty and Chester’s life.”

Robyn’s hand flies to her chest and she gasps, her hazel eyes wide. She knows how much my cats mean to me. “Oh my god. That’s like signing your name in blood.”

“I’m that serious. I want you to be comfortable being yourself. I will not make fun of you. I’m here to help. Saturday night work for you?” Fuck, I sound too eager.

When she smiles like she is now, I’m transported back to the day we met. To the blurring of our surroundings and her strong features shining through. Her heated cheeks and her caught-off-guard smile.

So what if I am eager? I want to help her. I want her to be happy. Friends help friends like this all the time, don’t they?

“Yeah,” she nods. “Saturday night works.”

“Good. I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty. Now squat. Three sets of eight.”

“I think you put too much weight on.”

“Oh yeah? Show me how wrong I am.”