Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 62095 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 310(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 207(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62095 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 310(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 207(@300wpm)
I’d fucking developed feelings for the woman.
It’d hit me like a ton of bricks the other week when I realized how often I thought about her. It was beyond frustrating. If she was down in her studio, I worried she might hurt herself. If I was making dinner, I wondered what it would be like to cook with her. If she was at the gym, I wanted to go over to her and tell her how fucking proud I was of her progress. Her attitude kept impressing me. She was such a fighter. She slipped here and there and tended to beat herself up too much, but she was quick to get back on the horse and keep going.
Recently, I’d introduced her to preplanned indulgences. Once or twice a week, I wanted her to buy something she really loved. Something small, like a little dessert or whatever. It would help her regain control when she could say, “I’m gonna have that on Friday,” rather than, “Fuck my life, I caved yesterday and ate cheesecake.”
Yesterday had been a great day. She’d come down to the gym with a gorgeous smile and a T-shirt that sat loose on her. I’d obviously wanted to hug the shit out of her, but I’d settled for a PT-friendly high five.
That was all I was. Her trainer.
Trainers weren’t allowed to ask what made her smile at her phone, if she’d met someone, or if she was still mourning her dead fiancé.
Instead, I fruitlessly tried to push her to the back of my mind, and I left my office in the basement for lunch with my brother. Ryan was in town again, and we didn’t get to see him often enough. If you asked me, he should get the fuck out of San Francisco and move back home with his family.
Unlike Darius, Ryan was never late, so he was waiting for me upstairs.
He lifted his brows when he spotted me but didn’t speak until I was closer. “Since when do you wear flannel, little brother?”
Since last week, maybe.
“An identity crisis sometimes comes with a wardrobe change.” We bumped fists, and I made sure I had my wallet in the back pocket of my jeans. “On the days I don’t work out, I figured I don’t always have to wear gym clothes.”
He frowned as we walked out, and he zipped up his leather jacket. “I’m more concerned about this identity crisis. You okay?”
I nodded with a dip of my chin. “I’m getting there.”
My brothers and I were all known for giving one another shit, but when push came to shove, we could listen and be helpful too. That said, Ryan was a fuckload easier to talk to than Darius. Ryan was open and understanding, where Darius was set in his ways.
“Could this have anything to do with your new Instagram videos?” he asked. “I liked the one where you fixed the leak in Lias’s roof. That’s solid exercise.”
I side-eyed him. He’d seen those?
“I thought you followed me on there because Ma smacked you on the arm and told you to be supportive.”
He let out a laugh. “That sounds like somethin’ she’d say to Darius.”
That was literally the case.
Damn, it was getting cold. But I hadn’t bothered with a jacket. We were just going up the street for subs.
“Believe it or not, but I actually give a damn,” Ryan said. “It’s possible Gray lit a fire under my ass. I swear that kid is all abs.”
Yeah, but he was also twenty years younger than us.
“I follow your ten weekly reminders,” he added. “Tell me how proud you are now. Drink your water, don’t drink your calories, get your sleep, lift four times a week, try to eat beans or legumes every day, cardio is for your heart, white carbs only occasionally, half the plate with greens, try to eat thirty different kinds of fruits and vegetables every week, and remove stress factors.” Jesus, he’d learned them all by heart. “I can’t sell my kids, but I did have a big salad with my pizza the other day.”
I cracked up and threw an arm around his shoulder. “I’m beyond proud.” I wasn’t lying either, despite the joke toward the end. No need to sell my nephews, regardless of how stressful those terrors were. “Was the pizza good? Enough protein on there?”
He rumbled a laugh. “Oh yeah, all the pepperoni.” He elbowed me lightly. “On that note, I rarely see you pushing protein on people.”
I shrugged and withdrew my arm again. “I wouldn’t last a day as a vegan, but if you look at the longest-living populations on earth, their protein intake ain’t excessive. We’re talking below ten percent. Do with that what you will.”
I wasn’t one of those nutritionists who lived and died by one diet. People were different. DNA mattered. Culture mattered. Where we’d grown up mattered. Some people responded better to certain ingredients—lactose, for instance—than others, depending on what foods had been a staple in their culture for generations. Same went for protein. We had different needs and different levels of tolerance. But sure, I did believe the fitness industry pushed protein too much. My goal had always been moderation and balance.