“You good to go?” I ask, walking up to her. She’s talking to Andy, the fucker douche-bag trainer who has a big mouth and bigger eyes that don’t know how to stay above the chin.
“Yeah,” she answers, saying goodbye to Andy and following me. I don’t know what is happening right now, but this is not how I expected our morning to end up. I look over at her and see her looking unsure as she follows me into the room.
“Wanna tell me what the fuck that was about?” I finally ask when we let ourselves into the private room.
“What are you talking about?” she challenges, walking past me to the storage room, retrieving the gloves and pads.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
“No, really I don’t,” she protests, passing me the pads.
“What the fuck are you wearing?” I finally cave and ask.
“Gym clothes. I picked them up yesterday, do you like?” she sasses, and I’m so fucking close to kissing the sass out of her, but that would just be pushing it. Instead, I drop the pads, rip my shirt over my head and throw it at her.
“Put it on,” I demand as she catches it.
“What?” She jerks back, her eyes growing wide.
“Put the shirt on, now, Holly.” I punch out each word, not in the mood for games. She holds my gaze in anger and my shirt with disdain.
“What’s your problem?” she demands, mimicking my pose.
“You are my problem. You have no clothes on for starters. Why do you insist on making this harder on me when I’m already struggling?” I ask her, wanting an answer.
“It was a joke,” she huffs, putting the shirt on and covering her half-nakedness. The shirt falls to mid-thigh, and I don’t know what’s worse, seeing her in tight fitting gym clothes, or seeing her in one of my shirts.
“Fuck,” I growl, frustrated.
“What now?” she sighs, looking innocent.
“Nothing. Now get your ass here so we can work out,” I boss her, picking up the pads and feeling better that no other fucker can see her. I didn’t realize just how hard this shit would be. I know I need to tread carefully, take it easy on her, but the more time we spend together, the easier it is to lose control. I just have to keep doing what I’m doing and pray she finally comes around. ‘Cause if she pulls any shit like that again, there will be no controlling my reaction.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Holly
“Mom?” I call out, walking into my childhood home. The smell of her famous chicken wing marinade fills the air.
“In here,” she sing-songs from her favorite place in the house: her kitchen.
“Hey.” I round the corner to see her preparing lunch for our Saturday grill out.
“Hey doll, how are you?” she questions, looking up from the kitchen island and giving me a huge smile. She looks beautiful today, not that she doesn’t normally, but put together. Her pale blouse looks new and her tawny brown hair is blown back away from her face. I can see she’s put a light coating of mascara on her eyelashes, making her blue eyes seem bigger.
“I’m good, Mom. How are you?” I come forward around the large stone-top bench and kiss her cheek as she dries her hands on her apron. Our kitchen is huge and holds so many warm memories of growing up. It’s the kitchen where I bonded with my mother. We’d spend our early evenings here when I was a teenager talking about school, friends and boys while she taught me how to cook. If I needed to find my mother, I would walk into this room, and more often than not, she would be here, baking away or preparing something to feed us for our next meal.
“I’ll be better when your father sorts out his new grill.” She rolls her eyes at my father and his new toys.
“He bought a new one?”
“Don’t ask me why. He’s only had the last one for barely a year, but he insisted.” She smiles, shaking her head at my dad. After thirty years, my parents are still happily married. She loves his annoying ways because he continues to be annoying. I know they adore each other. You can see it in the way they are together. Speaking without saying words. The way they move in sync like they know what the other is going to do. That makes me want what they have.
“How’s work?” she asks, moving over to the fridge to retrieve more tomatoes.
“Getting there, slowly building up my clients,” I fill her in. We normally talk every other day, but since I’ve been back at work and spending more time with Sy, I’ve been neglecting her. I know she’s suspecting something is up.
“Well, that’s good, honey. I knew you would do well there.” She continues to chop away, making her famous salad.
“Where’s Sam?” I ask, grabbing a glass down from one of the cupboards and try not to let out a cry of pain. After working out with Sy all week, I feel like a truck has hit me. I’ve never been so sore from exercise. The first day I woke up, I thought I was sick. It wasn’t until I said something to Sy the other day that he told me it was a good thing. After a hot bath every night, I try to stretch out the worst of it.
“Ohh, Sam is bringing a girl. He just called earlier.” She sounds excited, like the thought of her boy bringing home a date is something she has been waiting for forever.
“Sam is bringing a girl home?” I ask, shocked, and then realize why she looks so together today. She dressed up to meet her.
“He didn’t tell you?”
“No, he didn’t tell me.”