Set on You Read online

  Evading him for the duration of my workout is harder than I expected. Wherever I go, he’s looming in my peripherals, taking up precious space with his gloriously muscled body.

  When I woke up this morning, it crossed my mind that he could be an Excalibur Fitness newbie who hasn’t grasped the concept of gym etiquette. I fully intended to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he was simply having a bad day. Maybe he spent the entire night staring into the vast distance, roiling with regret. Lord knows I’ve had my fair share of rage-workouts.

  All of these possibilities lose legitimacy when he conspires to out-pedal me on the neighboring assault bike. When I catch him eyeing my screen, I channel my inner Charlie’s Angel and full-throttle it.

  At the twenty-calorie mark, we both stop, panting, hunched over the handles. My “no-makeup” makeup has probably melted entirely, and I’m seeing spots. But my exertion was worth it—I beat him by a whole 0.02 miles. He practically seethes when he reads my screen. Evidently unable to cope with my victory, he pouts, promptly hightailing it to the machines.

  Not half an hour later, it’s officially game over when I witness him saunter away from the leg press without bothering to wipe down the seat. The darkest places in hell are reserved for those who don’t clean the machines after use.

  Compelled to speak up on behalf of all hygiene-policy-abiding gym patrons, I set my dumbbells down and march forth.

  He’s in the zone as he does a round of effortless pull-ups. I stand, mouth agape, unintentionally mesmerized by the taut, corded muscles in his arms flexing with each movement.

  He gives me a Chris Evans vibe, but with slightly longer, luscious locks. I don’t know if it’s the glint in his hooded eyes or the dimples, but he has a boyish look to him that makes him appear faintly approachable when he isn’t scowling at me.

  When he catches me gawking at him like a crazed fangirl thirsting for a selfie, he pauses, dangling from the bar. “How’s the view from down there?”

  I’m about to say godlike, both because it’s entirely true and because it’s my default to compliment people. I do it for a living. But the last thing this guy needs is a confidence boost.

  I consciously make a flat line with my mouth, channeling Mom’s severe expression when she’s supremely disappointed in my life choices. I hold out a paper towel, generously pre-sprayed with disinfectant, for his convenience, of course. “Are you forgetting something?”

  He blinks. “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “You forgot to clean the leg press.”

  He releases the bar, sticking a smooth landing as he eyes the paper towel pinched between my fingers like it’s been dipped in sulfuric acid. “Keeping track of my workout or something?”

  “No,” I say, a little too defensively. “But you need to wash the machines when you’re done with them. It’s a rule here. People don’t want to touch your dried sweat.” I inwardly cringe. I might as well have an I’d-like-to-speak-with-a-manager angled bob. But I can’t back down now. In fact, I double down, pointing to the sign on the wall to our right that reads Please wipe down machines after use.

  He doesn’t even glance at the sign. Instead, he appraises me, arms folded over his broad chest. “I’m not done with the machine. Are you unfamiliar with supersets? You know, when you cycle through multiple exercises back-to-back—”

  “I know what a superset is!” I snap. Heat rockets from my lower belly to my cheeks when I realize I’ve unjustly called him out. This is mortifying. I silently will myself to disappear into an obscure, nonexistent sinkhole. Maybe this is cosmic retribution for not minding my own business.

  He flashes me a knowing smirk and struts back for another set.

  As if this painful interaction never happened, I slink away into obscurity to film my back workout tutorial on the cable machine. It’s a prime opportunity to promote my sponsored sweat-resistant activewear.

  I’m midway through filming a shot of ten cable rows when Squat Rack Thief materializes out of thin air. He chooses to park his massive body directly in front of the camera, of all places, blocking the shot. In my silent fury, I lose all focus, with zero recollection of whether I’m on the first rep or the tenth.

  He leans lazily against the machine, wearing a smug grin that I’m beginning to think is his natural resting face.

  “Yes?” I ask through clenched teeth, irritated at the prospect of re-filming the entire segment.

  He produces a paper towel from behind his back, swishing it in front of my face. “Here. So you don’t forget to wipe down the seat.”

  His sarcastic tone combined with his sneer tells me he isn’t doing this out of the goodness of his heart. This is a hostile act of aggression, cementing our rivalry.

  Before I can formulate a cutting response, he drops the paper towel into my lap and waltzes toward the changing room.

  chapter two

  SQUAT RACK THIEF has graced Excalibur Fitness with his cocksure presence for the third day in a row. I’ve officially designated him my gym nemesis.

  I’ve been here for less than half an hour and I’m already fantasizing about “accidentally” spritzing him with a bottle of chemical disinfectant.

  It all started with an unfortunate encounter at the entrance. He silently held the door open for me and another patron, as if he’d suddenly transformed into some chivalrous gentleman. I frowned at him, cautiously following while trying not to admire his finely muscled ass for longer than a hot second.

  Turns out, my skepticism of his chivalry was well-founded. Apparently, he’s limited to one act of kindness per day (or so I thought), because not fifteen minutes later, he cut in front of me at the water fountain, where he proceeded to take his sweet time filling his monstrosity of a water bottle. To the brim.

  After unapologetically stealing my place in line, he rushed off to the bench press like a vaguely sexier version of Superman to assist Patty, an elderly gym regular who never misses an opportunity to complain to everyone in her general vicinity about the gym’s various failings (the “frigid” temperature, the “thug” music, and the lack of “ambience”). When Squat Rack Thief flashed her a semi-authentic, angelic smile after saving her from being crushed flat by the barbell, I had to steady myself. Does this man suffer from split personality disorder?

  I shift my focus from his egotistical yet highly confusing self to Mel, my new in-person client. We’re swapping Instagram horror stories during a quick break after a biceps and triceps circuit.

  “There was this guy who DM’d me dick pics every day for months after I posted a bikini picture.” She twists her mouth, gagging at the memory as she shows me the photo on her phone.

  I lean in, feigning curiosity, pretending I haven’t already creeped her entire account back to 2012. The shot is perfectly framed. She’s smize-ing into the distance, lush barrel-curled hair draped over one shoulder, legs dangling in what appears to be some posh, exclusive rooftop pool for beautiful people only. She’s rocking a vibrant Barbie-pink bikini.

  Mel is one of a handful of fashion, beauty, and lifestyle Instagram influencers who isn’t a size zero. All her photos are perfectly curated against the backdrop of her all-white, ultramodern apartment, featuring fresh florals, pastel accents, and weekly high tea brunches. She had been reticent about joining the gym for years due to a high-heel-induced knee injury, but she requested a muscle-building plan after discovering we both lived in Boston.

  We hit it off right away. We’re both twenty-seven. We’re both Chinese, although she’s adopted and I’m half Irish. We’re both staunch proponents of the body-positivity movement. And we also share an unapologetic obsession with reality television, particularly anything related to Real Housewives.

  “Okay, damn. You’re serving some serious looks here. Not that it’s an invitation for dick pics.” I pause, eyeing the bonkers number of Likes on the photo.

  She wipes a sing
le drop of sweat from her forehead with her perfectly polished acrylic nail before continuing her story. “It was the weirdest one I’ve ever seen. It was bent. Like . . . super off-kilter to the side. Like a hook.”

  “A hook?” I clarify through a startled yelp.

  “Like an umbrella hook, Crystal. No exaggeration. Do you think penises can break?”

  I’m about to tell her I haven’t the faintest idea, followed by a rant about how dick pics are never attractive, hook-shaped or otherwise, when Squat Rack Thief parks himself on the bench beside us.

  His mouth is curled upward in amusement, which is shocking, because I was unaware those channeling the spirit of Darth Vader were capable of joy. I wonder how much of our penis conversation he’s heard.

  After Paper Towel Gate yesterday, I vowed not to stress over this punch-worthy, smug stranger. But it’s more challenging than expected when he’s sitting so close, filling my nose with his enthralling, freshly laundered scent, drawing my attention to how marvelous he looks in his maroon hoodie and ball cap.

  I wonder if Squat Rack Thief is the type to send unsolicited dick pics. Once that completely unfounded thought registers, I will it away to the desolate, dust-caked corners of my mind. Why am I thinking about his penis?

  You know what they say about large feet . . .

  As he takes a long swig from his water bottle, our eyes lock in mutual loathing. It feels more like a challenge, lingering before I blink it away. Crystal, be zen. Channel your inner peace.

  I refocus on Mel, who gives him a curious once-over.

  “Anyway,” I say, clearing my throat to defuse the tension, “we’re doing sled pushes next.”

  She grimaces. The last time I assigned sled pushes, she dry-heaved and sweat off her eyelash extensions.

  I cheer her along one length of the aisle as she huffs, puffs, and mutters curse words with each labored stride. I wait for her to begin the second length back, but she hesitates.

  “Looks like I don’t have to finish my rounds after all.” She gestures joyously toward Squat Rack Thief, who is casually lunging with dumbbells directly in the middle of the pathway. Mel’s pathway. Who does this guy think he is?

  My mouth is open wide, like an infomercial mom who’s astonished the detergent removed the stubborn tomato sauce stain on her white blouse. “Sorry. One minute,” I mumble.

  Arms crossed, I storm toward him, blocking his attempt to lunge around me. “Did you not see us just now? We were here.” I manically gesture to Mel, who is observing with keen interest, resting on the sled.

  Without a word, he continues around me, as if I’m a mere blip, a pothole in the road to avoid. I’m on the brink of calling him a pompous prick, but I bite my tongue and walk away, for the sake of maintaining the illusion of professionalism in front of my client.

  “What’s his deal?” Mel asks as I begrudgingly turn the sled horizontally, toward a less ideal aisle.

  “He’s just been pissing me off.” I flash him the stink eye, though he doesn’t notice. He’s mid-lunge, smug face red from exertion, definitely not lamenting the weight of his transgressions against me like a decent human.

  Mel lifts her perfectly shaped brows. “He checked you out earlier. Like full-on head to toe, while we were talking about dicks.”

  “He was probably plotting to assassinate me.”

  “Or he was undressing you with his eyes.”

  Had someone suggested this to me years ago, I would have immediately expressed my doubt. But now, after years of working on myself and my confidence, I don’t doubt it.

  Despite always being into sports, I never had the body of an athlete. I inherited Mom’s genes. Big frame, muscular, with thick thighs, boobs, and no shortage of booty—the opposite of my older sister and Dad’s side of the family, all of whom are slim and petite. For me, a low body fat percentage isn’t in the cards genetically. Accepting that fact and getting to this place has taken some time. I now focus exclusively on de-stigmatizing and demystifying the gym for people who may not have felt they belonged. I prioritize the goal of confidence. Not calorie deficits, and definitely not the number on the scale.

  “Mel, just three more laps,” I instruct like a hard-ass, changing the subject entirely. “Finish strong before girls’ night.”

  Tonight’s glorious plan to re-watch a rom-com on Netflix with my sister, Tara, is just what I need after all this gym and Instagram drama.

  Squat Rack Thief lingers in my peripheral vision as I follow Mel down the aisle. He rests against a machine, catching his breath. When I turn to meet his gaze, he flashes me a shit-eating grin.

  * * *

  • • •

  I FULLY INTENDED to be a mature adult. I really did.

  But after mulling over the aisle thievery in the five minutes since Mel left the gym, all I could picture was Squat Rack Thief’s smart-ass expression. The same one he’d worn as he cut in front of me at the water fountain, and when he brandished the paper towel in my face.

  I’ve been a pushover a lot of my life. Back in grade school, I let the other kids get first pick of my own Barbies (I ended up with Ken doll ninety-five percent of the time). I was relegated to the least favorite Spice Girl (Posh Spice) for themed birthday parties. I always let the procrastinators copy my homework two seconds before class in high school. And worse, I lacked the agency to speak up or demand otherwise.

  When I discovered the gym and the fitness community in college, I vowed that would change. Here in the gym, I’m not a doormat. I’m strong and capable. I refuse to let people walk all over me, especially this infuriating, far-too-sexy stranger.

  So when Squat Rack Thief forgets his phone on the mat when he moves on to the bench press, I feel little moral obligation to return it immediately. There’s a high chance I’ll stew into the late hours, besieged with guilt and regret over this. But then I remind myself: He was asking for it. It was only a matter of time before I snapped. He deserves to sweat a little.

  I imagine myself running off with his phone into the sunset in a baller getaway car, laughing manically as I floor the gas. But then I remember I’m not a petty criminal. I have morals. Which is exactly why I temporarily stash his phone among the shelf overflowing with jump ropes, random accessories, and cable attachments, purely to ensure it’s safe from being crushed under someone’s running shoe.

  Pleased with my good deed, I fasten my own phone onto my tripod and begin to film my latest lower abdominal routine, which involves sitting twists, flutter kicks, and enough leg raises to put Jillian Michaels out of commission.

  I’m halfway through the workout when a large figure appears over me.

  It’s him.

  He kneels on the mat, lips tight, vibrant green eyes firing laser beams at me. From this angle, I have a close-up view of the thick swoop of his eyelashes. They’re unfairly long and lush for the male species.

  He’s so close, his fresh laundry scent mixed with testosterone overrides my senses. The smell of sweat usually isn’t appealing, but on him, it’s marginally addicting. I refrain from purposely inhaling it like a drug addict.

  “What did you do with my phone?” he asks calmly as my legs drop to the mat. He’s ruined my video. Again.

  A doe-eyed, beauty-pageant-worthy expression overcomes me. I even toss in an innocent, slow blink for dramatic effect. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I shift onto my knees to face him, ready for a confrontation.

  He doesn’t fall for my theatrics. “I know you took it. I left it here five minutes ago.”

  “People tend to steal things in this gym. Like squat racks, for instance. How do you know it wasn’t some other random who stole it?”

  “Because.” His eyes roam my face, hunting for any sign of weakness, like a take-no-shit homicide detective. “You’re smiling. You’re breathing hard. And you’re avoiding eye contact.”

  No m
atter how justified, deceit has never been a strength of mine, even if I didn’t actually steal it. To keep my hands occupied, I reach back to tighten my messy bun. “Look, Nancy Drew, I’m trying to film an ab tutorial here. Do you mind?”

  I’m about to cave and point him toward the shelf where his phone is stashed, but I’m momentarily distracted by his gaze flickering toward my phone, which is still recording. With one smooth movement, he plucks it from the tripod and drops it into the pocket of his shorts.

  I lurch forward, but it’s too late. My phone’s gone, deep into the faraway depths of his nether regions. “Hey! What the hell?”

  His lips curl into a satisfied smile. “I’m not giving it back until you tell me what you did with my phone.”

  I don’t let his mesmerizing smile knock me off course. This is war. I won’t be compromised. “I need my phone.”

  “So do I,” he says smoothly.

  “What, for Tinder?” I’m being a complete and total hypocrite right now. In fact, Tinder Joe is on the treadmill again as we speak.

  He scoffs. “No, actually. For important stuff.”

  “Well I use mine for important stuff too. I’m a fitstagrammer.” I have no idea what possessed me to reveal my profession. He could use this against me. Or worse, mock me. I expect him to snort in derision or look me up and down, unable to comprehend how someone like me is qualified to give fitness advice.

  But he doesn’t. His gaze is unwavering. “I need my phone for work too.”

  I’m tempted to ask him what he does. I imagine it’s something physical. Perhaps he’s a lumberjack. Or a Captain America stunt double. Or maybe a pouty underwear model plastered in black and white on a billboard in Times Square. But then again, he isn’t pretty enough to be a model. Maybe he’s some sort of semipro hockey player, given his wavy hair flow.

  Based on my not-so-subtle observation (or glaring), I’ve deduced he may not be one of those fist-bumping frat bros in a neon bro-tank. I’d place him a bit older, maybe late twenties, early thirties.