Page 220 of Trouble from Abroad
Has she forgotten her keys?
I run to the door more excited than a rescue puppy, fling it open, and am hit in the chest with disappointment.
Standing there is the new trainer, whose name I’ve forgotten because my eternal erection deleted all critical memory slots.
Behind him: Mia.
Behind her: a very fashionable woman in thick frames. She must be the interior designer. Also unnamed. Equally unwelcome.
An alarm blares from my phone with one of Mia’s migraine-inducing alerts.
I glance down. “YAY! GYM TIME!” flashes across the screen, surrounded by weightlifting emojis.
I rub my face and utter my most sincere thought out loud, “Fuck, no.”
Mia breezes past the trainer, bumps my hip with hers, then calls back to the group, “What he means is, ‘welcome everybody!’”
I’m still standing there, basically a bouncer with a boner, while our guests politely wait to be let in.
Mia extends a hand to the trainer. “Hi, Linc. I’m Mia. We spoke on the phone.”
Then she turns back to me, and her gaze drops to my crotch.
She cackles.
Full-body, no-shame, can’t-stop-cackling at my very public, very unresolved situation.
“Please don’t injure our guests with that,” she whispers for my ears only. Her eyes glint. “Oh my God, Preston. Don’t hurtmeeither.”
She nudges me backward, and I stumble, red-faced, morally compromised.
She waves the guests toward the living room. “Make yourselves at home. Please give me a minute to get things ready.”
Then she leans into me, lowering her voice. “You? Go change. Splash cold water on your face. Careful, Doctor. Orthat third leg’s gonna throw you off your center of gravity.” She’s wiping tears now. The woman is cracking up at her own jokes and my state. “You’ve got a session, and then the designer will be waiting for you right after.”
She’s still smiling when she walks away, but I spin her toward me.
“Are you finding this funny?”
“Hilarious, actually.” Her hands land on her waist, smug as hell. “Are you planning to train in jeans? I don’t want that poor man losing an eye.”
I scowl, not sharing her humor. “I thought the designer was coming this afternoon.”
“She had an opening,” Mia says breezily, “so I told her she could swing by and check the measurements while you trained.”
“That means we won’t be alone.” I’m frustrated, disappointed—and still hard. Not a great combo.
“Mm-hmm.” She rolls her lips, clearly amused. “I’m on the clock, Dr. Preston. And what I planned for you comes before what you planned for me.”
I’m not sure I agree with her priorities. But I’m definitely not winning this argument at the bottom of the stairs, with people waiting for us.
So once more, I follow her lead, change and meet Linc at the gym. It smells like pine cleaner, thanks to Mia’s obsessive cleaning, old rubber from the floor, and testosterone oozing from my pores.
Usually, that would calm me. Today, it makes me want to throw something.
Linc’s already stretching. I’m not. I can’t.
“Rough day?” he asks.
