Clearly, it’s been designed for people with half a foot more height and fifty percent more muscle, and even on the lowest of settings, I fumble my way through biceps curls like an uncoordinated inchworm.
I can barely reach the handles, so I have to kind of stoop to get in position, but the newly formed curve of my spine makes me have to arch and wiggle to complete the curl. If it weren’t for my kick-ass Metallica T-shirt, I might start to worry that I look foolish.
The ten-pound weight clanks as I drop it the inch and a half I managed to lift it in the first place, and I stand up to find a different machine. Surely there’s something in here I can operate without having a special license.
I find some kind of seated thing with weights on one end and a padded face rest on the other. I sit, lay my face down, and attempt to slide my legs underneath the weighted bar. But it’s completely awkward and uncomfortable, and I start questioning what in the fuck this thing is even supposed to do.
Just before I give up completely, a throat clears deeply beside me, and I look up to see a far too muscular man staring down at me in confusion. “Uh…wow…I didn’t realize you could use it that way…”
Huh?
I nearly ask him what he’s talking about, but his actions answer any and all questions I might have.
He sits down on the machine beside mine—an identical machine to mine—and it’s then I realize the face rest is not a face rest.
It’s a seat. For asses.
A seat for sweaty, workout asses.
Jesus Christ. I shudder and disentangle myself from the machine.
“You okay?” Arnold Schwarzenegger’s long-lost brother asks, but I just nod off his question and put some much-needed distance between us.
Also, I scrub my face with the hand towel I brought down from my room like it’s a fucking Brillo pad capable of removing the ball sweat that’s probably found itself a home in my pores.
Note to self: take one thousand scalding-hot showers tonight.
With a deep inhale, I try to regain some of the pride I lost back there to Mr. Muscles and peruse the room until I find a machine that’s labeled with instructional pictures to boot.
Hip. Abduction.
Do I need aliens to use this thing?
Against my better judgment, I study the pictures and peptalk myself into sitting down on the seat and swing my legs over to the inside of the knee pads.
No face-to-butt-sweat mistakes happening here, folks!
The weight is set on one hundred and fifty pounds from the person before me, and it makes me wonder if Thor is staying at this hideous hotel too.
I pull out the pin and put it on forty instead.
After a quick test push with my legs, the setting seems doable, so I take out my phone and start scrolling through it to set up some music to accompany me.
Yes. Yes. That’s exactly what I need. Some workout jams.
Of course, once I’m on it, I get distracted by Instagram, and five minutes go by before I realize I’m sitting on a machine, not a couch, and the purpose here is to do something other than lounge.
I glance up from my phone and scan the room, wondering slightly if anyone knows how long I’ve been sitting here. Mr. Muscles has moved on to a new machine, but a different guy across the room makes eye contact and smirks.
Busted.
Normal human decency dictates he should let me off the hook and go about his day, but this fit, Adonis-looking, sweat-covered, brown-haired, green-eyed—good God, he’s attractive—man apparently has no manners.
Shit.
His sleeveless white T-shirt clings to his tanned body as he strides my way, and his athletic shorts conform to a muscular set of thighs and ass.
I look everywhere but at him, fiddling with the machine as though I’m doing something productive, but he still doesn’t get the hint.
Raspy and firm, the clearing of his throat sounds right next to me.
I look up as innocently as I can manage and pull out my earbuds as though I had music playing.
“Um, hi,” I say with a cute little manufactured laugh. “I’ll be done in just a second.”
He laughs too, but his seems genuine and undeniably directed at me. “If you keep up your current pace, I think it’s going to be a little longer.”
“Excuse me?”
“Come on,” he says good-naturedly—the prick. “You’re just pretending to work out.”
Oh no, he did not just say that….
“I’m not pretending to work out,” I deny. “I’m just getting warmed up.”
He nods knowingly.
“And setting up my music,” I continue.
He hums.
“I’m just about to catch my stride.”
“Sure you are.” He calls bullshit with his smug, green-as-fuck eyes, and for the briefest of moments, they glance down at my chest and my legs before meeting my gaze again. “But there are people who would like to really use it, so if you’re done…”
What. The. Fuck.
Who does this guy think he is?
“Are you always this rude?” I question, and his green eyes lighten a bit.
“All right, you’re right. I’m really not trying to be a dick,” he says and runs a hand through his hair.
Should it really take that much effort not to be a dick?
“Let’s start over…” He pauses and pushes a small smile to his full, kissable lips. “How are you enjoying the hotel?”
Start over? How about let’s never have started at all?
Still annoyed, I don’t censor my answer. “It’s…swell.”
He laughs at first, but when I raise an eyebrow in contention, he frowns. “You don’t like it?”
“Maybe ugly décor and a whole buttload of pretention are good for some people, but not for me.”
“Ugly décor? Really?”
How can he be shocked by this? Anyone with eyes could see the design flaws here.
“Are you kidding? I feel like I’m in my ninety-year-old grandmother’s living room, except it’s a waking nightmare and I’m about to be eaten alive by the curtains.”
“I don’t think it’s that bad. It’s timeless.”
Normally, I’m not such a snob about design, nor do I make a point to make other people feel bad for their likes and dislikes, but for some reason, this handsome prick and his dickish attitude just bring it out in me.
Before I know it, I’m channeling Regina George.
“Well…” I pause and scrunch up my nose dramatically. “I’m sorry to break the news to you, but the design of this place looks like it was done by a blind rat. Gilded sailboat pictures and tapestries with oxen on them aren’t timeless. They’re old.”
His eyebrows pinch together, highlighting the otherwise perfect features of his face. Goddamn this ugly hotel for housing such perfect-looking humans.
“What did you say your name was again?”
Shit. Emory will absolutely murder me if she finds out I got into some kind of confrontational tête-à-tête with a random Romeo in the hotel gym.
Let’s also not forget this hotel gym is located inside a hotel that is owned by the company you’re about to interview with…
Shit. Yeah. I’d better cut and run while I can.
“I didn’t.” I jump up from the machine with the exact agility I’ve lacked during the rest of my workout and offer a saccharine smile. “But, hey, good news. Machine’s all yours.”