Set on You Read online

  A JOVE BOOK

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  penguinrandomhouse.com

  Copyright © 2022 by Amy Lea

  Excerpt from Exes and O’s copyright © 2022 by Amy Lea

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  A JOVE BOOK, BERKLEY, and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Lea, Amy, author.

  Title: Set on you / Amy Lea.

  Description: First edition. | New York: Jove, 2022.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2021039424 (print) | LCCN 2021039425 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593336571 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9780593336588 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCGFT: Romance fiction. | Novels.

  Classification: LCC PR9199.4.L425 S48 2022 (print) | LCC PR9199.4.L425 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021039424

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021039425

  First Edition: May 2022

  Book design by Daniel Brount, adapted for ebook by Cora Wigen

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  pid_prh_6.0_139899378_c0_r0

  contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Excerpt from Exes and O’s

  About the Author

  To everyone who rarely sees themselves represented in books and movies. To everyone who doesn’t conform to mainstream beauty standards. You are worthy of an epic love story. We all are.

  author’s note

  Dear reader,

  I can’t thank you enough for choosing my debut romantic comedy, Set on You, as your next read. While this book is written in a light, humorous, and sarcastic style, I would be remiss if I did not provide content warnings for my readers regarding the serious issues it explores: fatphobia, cyberbullying, and references to racism, fitness/diet culture, and cancer.

  Crystal’s journey as a curvy, biracial Chinese woman is one single, fictional experience, filtered through my own worldview as a Chinese Canadian who grew up in a predominantly white community.

  I cannot underscore enough how important it is to depict heroines of all marginalizations who practice self-love and body positivity, particularly in romance. Similarly, Crystal isn’t a heroine who needs to learn to love and respect herself, because she already does. That being said, this book explores the nuance—the “in-between”—that self-love is not a tangible thing you achieve and hold on to forever. Loving oneself all day, every day is an individual journey, with vastly different outcomes for everyone.

  In Set on You, I tried to avoid depictions of the unhealthy side of fitness culture. Crystal is an advocate of working out and lifting weights as one of many means to living a healthy and balanced lifestyle and does not count calories or keep track of her weight. However, the very theme of fitness and gym culture may be triggering to some readers.

  As you read in the dedication, this book is my love letter to anyone who, like myself, doesn’t often see themselves represented in mainstream media. In an industry that is starved for representation, I do not take this responsibility lightly and have consulted beta and sensitivity readers while writing this book. That being said, I am not perfect and I emphasize that the fictional experiences portrayed are not intended to be prescriptive, or representative of a single community or marginalization.

  With love,

  Amy

  chapter one

  THE GYM IS supposed to be my safe place. The place I de-stress, reenergize, and ponder random wonders and mysteries, like: how was I delusional enough to think I could rock a middle hair part circa 2011?

  That’s why I’m equal parts horrified and appalled that my Tinder rebound, Joe, has sprung onto the treadmill to my right.

  I brace myself for an awkward, clunky greeting, but thankfully, his attention appears fixed on the treadmill’s touch pad. As he presses the dial to increase his speed, I catch a whiff of eau de wet dog. He not-so-subtly glances in my direction before averting his eyes.

  Sure, Tinder Joe was kind enough to order me an Uber after our lackluster quarter-night stand two weeks ago. But it’s highly coincidental we’d end up at the same gym, in all of Boston. I wonder if he’s stalked me. Maybe I blew his mind in bed? So much so he went FBI on my ass, located my gym, and staged a casual run-in? Given my social media presence, it isn’t out of the realm of possibility.

  At every opportunity, Dad warns me of the dangers of posting my whereabouts on Instagram, lest I be kidnapped and sold into sex slavery, Taken style. Except Dad is no Liam Neeson. He doesn’t have “special skills,” aside from his legendary sesame chicken recipe. And so long as the Excalibur Fitness Center continues to sponsor my membership in exchange for promotion on my Instagram, I’m willing to risk it.

  Tinder Joe and I lock eyes once again as I catch my breath post–sprint interval. Our shared gaze lasts two seconds longer than comfortable and I can’t help but notice how his perfectly coifed boy-band hair remains suspiciously intact with each giraffe-like stride. Whether he stalked me here or not, my first instinct is to flee the scene.

  So I do.

  I take refuge in the Gym Bro Zone, aka the strength-training area.

  As a gym regular, I exchange respectful nods with the other patrons as I enter. A familiar crowd of ’roid-pumping frat boys loiters near the bench presses while simultaneously chugging whey protein shakes like they’re on the brink of dehydration. Today, they’re donning those cringey neon tank tops that hang too low under their armpits. To their credit, they’re nothing if not devoted to their daily routines. And after catching a glimpse of my sweaty, tomato-faced s
elf in the wall-to-wall mirror under harsh fluorescent lighting, I’m not in any position to judge.

  A guy man-splaying on the bench press grunts excessively, chucking a set of dumbbells to the floor with a loud thud. Normally this would grind my gears, but I’m too busy bounding toward a majestic sight to care. My treasured squat rack is free. Praise be.

  The window squat rack is one of exactly two racks in this facility. It boasts a scenic view of a grungy nightclub across the street, a long-rumored front for a murderous motorcycle gang. The natural light is optimal for filming my workouts, especially compared to the alternative—the rack cloaked in shadow next to the men’s changing room, which permanently reeks of Axe body spray.

  The window rack is close enough to the industrial-size fan to let me savor a stiff breeze mid-sweat, but not close enough that I’ll succumb to wind-induced hypothermia. It’s also in the prime position for gawking at the television, which, for unknown reasons, is cruelly locked to the Food Network. I worship this squat rack the way Mother Gothel regards Rapunzel’s magic hair. It gives me life. Vigor. Four sets of squats and I’ll be high on endorphins for at least a day, fantasizing about the strength of my thighs crushing the souls of a thousand men.

  Giddy at the very thought, I stake my claim on the rack, setting my phone and headphones on the floor before heading for the water fountain. The man with a goatee, who rocks knee-length cargo shorts and an actual Sony Walkman from the nineties, approaches at the same time. He graciously waves me ahead of him.

  I flash him an appreciative smile. “Thanks.”

  My back is turned for all of three seconds while I take a sip. Freshly hydrated and eager to crush some squats, I spin around to find an exceptionally broad-shouldered figure stretching directly in front of my window rack.

  I’ve never seen this man before and I’m certain I’d remember the shit out of him if I had. He’s tall, well over six feet, with a muscular build that liberally fills out his unassuming gray T-shirt and athletic shorts. One look at his enormous biceps and it’s clear he knows his way around a gym. A black ball cap with an unrecognizable logo shadows his face. From the side, his nose has a slight bump, as if it’s been broken before.

  I shimmy in beside him to pick up my phone, purposely lingering for a few extended beats to transmit the message that this rack is OCCUPIED. He doesn’t get the memo. Instead, he proceeds to clasp his massive hands around the barbell, brows knit with intense concentration.

  Either he’s fully ignoring me, or he genuinely hasn’t noticed my presence. The faint beat of his music is audible through his earbuds. I can’t identify the song, but it sounds hard-core, like a heavy-metal lifting tune.

  I clear my throat.

  No reaction.

  “Excuse me,” I call out, inching closer.

  When his gaze meets mine, I jolt, instinctively taking half a step back. His eyes are a striking forest green, like an expanse of dense pine trees dusting untouched misty mountain terrain in the wilderness. Not that I’d know from personal experience. My exposure to the rugged wild is limited to the Discovery Channel.

  I’m nearly hypnotized by the intensity of his eyes, until he barks a “Yeah?” before reluctantly removing his right earbud. His voice is deep, gruff, and short, like he can’t be bothered with me. He momentarily lifts his ball cap, revealing wavy, dirty-blond locks that curl at the nape of his neck. It reminds me of the scraggly hairstyles worn by hockey players, the kind you just want to run your fingers through. And he does just that. My throat dries instantly when he smooths his thick mane with one hand before dropping his ball cap back over the top.

  Deliberately ignoring the dip in the base of my stomach, I nod toward my headphones hastily strewn at the base of the rack. “I was here first.”

  Expression frosty, he arches a strong brow, regarding me with contempt, as gym bros tend to do when women dare to touch what they deem as their equipment. “Didn’t see your stuff.”

  Undeterred by his brush-off, I take a confident step forward, laying my rightful claim. When we’re nearly chest to chest, he towers over me like a behemoth, which is more intimidating than I anticipated. I expect him to back off, to see the error of his ways, to realize he’s being a prick, but he doesn’t even flinch.

  Swallowing the lump in my throat, I find my voice again. “I’ll only be a few minutes, max. We could even switch in and out?”

  He sidesteps. For a second, I think he’s leaving. I’m about to thank him for his grace and humanity . . . until he dares to load one side of the barbell with a forty-five-pound plate, biceps straining against the fabric of his T-shirt.

  “Seriously?” I stare at him, hands on hips, gaze settling on his soft, full lips, which contrast with the harsh line of his stubbled jaw.

  “Look, I need to get to work in half an hour. Can’t you just use the other rack? It’s free.” As he ruthlessly balances the rack with another plate, he barely spares me a passing glance, as if I’m nothing more than a pesky housefly.

  I pride myself on being an accommodating person. I wave other cars ahead of me at four-way stops, even if I have the right-of-way. I always insist others exit elevators in front of me, as my parents taught me. If he had just been polite, half-decent, even the slightest bit apologetic, I probably would have let him have it. But he isn’t any of the above, and I’m shook.

  “No,” I say, out of principle.

  His jaw tightens as he rests his forearms on the bar. The way he leans into it, stance wide and hulking, is purely a territorial move. He gives me one last, indignant shrug. “Well, I’m not moving.”

  We’re locked in a stare-off with nothing but the faint sound of Katy Perry singing about being “a plastic bag drifting through the wind” over the gym sound system and a man grunting on the leg press a couple feet away to quell the silence. My eyes are dry and itchy from my refusal to blink, and the intensity of his stare offers no sign of fatigue.

  When Katy Perry fades out, replaced by an Excalibur Fitness promotional ad, I let out a half sigh, half growl. This guy isn’t worth my energy. I retrieve my headphones from the floor and stomp to the less desirable rack, but not before shooting him one last evil eye.

  11:05 A.M.—INSTAGRAM POST: “ASSHOLES WHO THINK THEY OWN THE GYM” BY CURVYFITNESSCRYSTAL:

  Real talk: This morning, an arrogant dickhead with nicer hair than me callously stole my squat rack. Who does this? And if you’re guilty of this crime, WHO HURT Y’ALL?

  I don’t know him personally (and I don’t want to), but he struck me as the kind of person who loathes puppies and joy in general. You know the type. Anyway, I ended up channeling all my anger into my workout while blasting my current jam, “Fitness” by Lizzo (trust, this song is fire).

  Final thoughts: Most people at the gym aren’t assholes. I promise. 99% are super helpful and respectful, even the steroid frat boys! And if you do encounter that unfortunate 1%, just steer clear. Never give them power over you or your fitness journey.

  Thanks for listening to my TED Talk,

  Crystal

  Comment by xokyla33: YAS girl! You’re sooo right. You do you!!

  Comment by _jillianmcleod_: I just don’t feel comfortable working out at the gym for this reason. Would rather work out at home.

  Comment by APB_rockss: U promote embracing your curves/size but all u do is work out and live at the gym? Hypocrite much??

  Reply by CurvyFitnessCrystal: @APB_rockss Actually I spend one hour in the gym working out each day. Devoting time every day for yourself, whether it’s at the gym, taking a walk, or in a bubble bath is hugely beneficial for all aspects of your life, including mental health. Also, you can both love your body and go to the gym. They aren’t mutually exclusive.

  * * *

  • • •

  AFTER YESTERDAY’S INCOHERENT Instagram rant, I took a much-needed soul-searching b
ubble bath. My response to the person who called me a hypocrite unintentionally sparked a fierce debate of epic proportions between my loyal followers and my haters. I try not to pay the trolls an iota of attention, but after Squat Rack Thief and two glasses of merlot, I was feeling a tinge combative. And it’s been building for months.

  For seven years, I’ve striven to shatter harmful, fatphobic stereotypes in the fitness industry. I’ve built an Instagram following of two hundred thousand based on my message of self-love, regardless of size. The drama over me being “too big” to be a personal trainer yet “not big enough” to represent the curvy community is typical in the abyss of the comments section. There’s no in-between.

  The crass body-shaming and occasional racist slurs have become more commonplace with the growth of my following. For the sake of maintaining a positive message, I’ve ignored the hateful comments. The fact is, I love my curves. Most of the time. I’m only human. Occasionally, the trolls manage to penetrate my armor. When this happens, I allow myself a short grace period to wallow. And then I treat them to a proverbial middle finger in the form of a thirst trap (a full-length body shot, for good measure).

  But last night, sometime before my rainbow glitter bath bomb dissolved entirely, it occurred to me that my followers are probably equally, if not more, hurt by the comments. If I want to stay authentic and true to my body-positive platform, maybe it’s time to start speaking out.

  Today’s workout is the perfect time to ruminate over my strategy.

  But to my displeasure, Squat Rack Thief is back again, for the second day in a row. He’s stretching in the Gym Bro Zone. Must he have such magnificent quads?

  He narrows his gaze in my direction as I shimmy through the turnstiles. Instantly, his expression goes from neutral to a deep scowl, as if my mere presence has derailed his entire day.

  I eye him sideways before shifting my faux attention to the generic motivational quotes plastered on the wall in an aggressively bold font: If it doesn’t challenge you, it won’t change you.