9
While she knew she had to put on a few pounds, she didn’t think gaining them directly in her stomach and hips was anyone’s idea of attractive. There was only one thing to do.
After rooting through one of her still-packed suitcases, she came across a pair of bicycle shorts, a black sports bra, and some serious-looking athletic shoes. They’d been designed by NASA or somebody equally scientific. Apparently if she put in some effort while wearing them, she could jump tall buildings and all that.
“Oh, yeah,” she muttered as she laced up the shoes. “This is me-working out.”
Ten minutes later she’d made her way to the Marcelli workout room. As all the equipment was relatively new and didn’t look very used, she wondered if the space had been created for Joe’s infrequent visits home. Somehow she couldn’t see Grandma Tessa taking twenty on the treadmill.
She bypassed the running machine and went directly to the elliptical. There she punched in one of the existing programs, set the tension for as easy as possible, and pushed the On button.
Exercising was bad enough, but this room made it worse with four walls of mirrors. She got to watch her face turn bright red, then admire the drops of sweat as they formed and dripped off her nose. Talk about fashion forward.
Oh God, she thought nearly six minutes into her workout. She couldn’t breathe. No way she’d gotten this out of shape. She was only twenty-six.
“On the outside,” she wheezed. “On the inside, I’m a hundred and nine. Why does healthy have to be so h- hard?”
She sucked in a breath as the machine increased the tension. According to the heart monitor, she’d barely broken triple digits on her heart rate, but her chest felt tight, and her legs were ready to quit in serious protest. Flames licked up her thighs, and not the exciting, sexy kind.
“Lauren does this every day,” she gasped. “And she runs. She’s sicker than I thought.”
At fifteen minutes into her twenty-minute program, she knew she was going to die. The Secret Service would come looking for her and find her sweaty but lifeless body bent over the machine. Paige would be sad, but everyone else would simply move on to the next assignment.
“I can’t do this. I ca-”
The workout room door opened and Joe walked in.
Suddenly things like breathing and painful muscles didn’t matter. Not when there was an entire buffet of eye candy, not only in person but reflected in the mirrors.
She instantly straightened so he wouldn’t know how close she’d come to quitting and sucked in her gut. A deep breath and a lot of effort allowed her to say, “Morning. How’s it going,” as if she weren’t completely winded.
Joe looked at her, then the door. He’d pretty much avoided everyone for the past twenty-four hours. Would he duck out now?
Apparently he needed the workout more than he wanted to be away from her. He grunted a greeting and walked to the treadmill. He, too, punched in a program, but he set his for warp speed. After about thirty seconds of a fast walk, he started jogging, then broke into a run.
Darcy had planned on doing her twenty minutes, then escaping to her room for some serious relaxation. But with Joe running so earnestly and his loose T-shirt flopping over thick, powerful muscles, she thought she might stay long enough to work with the set of free weights in the far corner.
Her machine beeped, freeing her from its torture. She patted her face with the towel she’d brought, then moved to the bench by the weights. It was in the perfect position, allowing her to see Joe from not only the front but also the back, which was reflected in the mirror.
“Missed you at dinner last night,” she said as she picked up two ten-pound weights and raised them to shoulder height. “Grammy M stopped by, which meant Grandma Tessa was in a snit. She wasn’t talking, but no one could tell because Ian babbled on and on about college and his studies and where he and Mia have been. He made Vegas sound boring, something I didn’t think was possible.”
Joe picked up the pace on the treadmill, which she took to mean that he was really enjoying their conversation.
“I’m here because of the pasta,” she continued. “It’s going all to my stomach, which is bad enough, but I know the next stop is my thighs.”
“You’re lifting wrong.”
She paused in midpush, the weights just above her head, her elbows bent.
“What?”
“Start with your palms facing in, then turn them out as you push up.”
She dropped the weights to her lap because it was too complicated to change position in midexercise. For a half second she considered ignoring his instructions. If she did it wrong again would he abandon the treadmill to sit next to her and show her how? Would he put his large, masculine hands on her damp, hot body and-
Whoa-stop that fantasy train right there. No more sexy thoughts about Joe, she told herself firmly. He wasn’t for her. He didn’t even like her. One kiss did not a relationship make.
She did a set of ten presses, then switched to bicep curls. He continued to run at a grueling pace designed to make her hurt just watching him.
“Why are you mad?” he asked.
“I’m not.”
“You’re scowling.”
She glanced in the mirror and realized he was right. She instantly relaxed her face and tried to think happy thoughts.
“Not a morning person?” he asked.
“I’m fine.”
“You haven’t had coffee yet.”
She didn’t ask how he knew. “I couldn’t fit into my pants. I figured I’d better start working out.”
“You need to gain weight.”
“Thanks for the news flash, but you’ve already berated me for that. You don’t get to do it again.”
He grinned. “It’s not like you can stop me.”
She felt the scowl reappear.
“Yell at me,” he said. “I can take it. Are you sleeping?”
“I’m not talking about that with you.”
“But it’s an interesting topic.”
He was trying to make her mad, and he was succeeding. “Let’s talk about you,” she snapped. “I may be a skinny insomniac with post-traumatic shock or some such crap, but at least I don’t go around hurting my grandmother’s feelings.”
“Good point.”
It didn’t feel like a good point. If anything, Darcy would say it felt small and mean-spirited. “I, ah…” Apologize, she told herself. The thing was, she didn’t do it very often, so she wasn’t very good at it. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Why not? It’s true.”
That stunned her, but the shock was nothing when compared with what he said next. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. The food-is-love connection. You might be right.”
If she’d had any rhythm, she would have stood up and done a little victory dance. Instead she contented herself with a smug smile.
“Gee, thanks for the endorsement. I won’t let it go to my head. Besides, the concept is hardly revolutionary. Most mothers show love with food, mine always did. The Marcelli family is Italian, so they have that gene in spades.” She considered his past. “Didn’t your adoptive mother do the same thing?”
“I don’t remember. I was a kid when my parents died. I barely remember what they look like.”
