Take a Chance on Me (3 page)

“What about us?” Blake said, feigning indignation.

“You men can get your own desserts,” our sister informed us. “This guy wouldn’t want a piece anyway,” she added, spearing her index finger in my direction.

True enough.

Derek laughed, but Blake narrowed his eyes. “Not fair,” he said, wandering a few paces away.

Olivia was already half way across the field when Shar turned to go. “One sec,” I said to her.

She raised an eyebrow at me. “Don’t tell me you want some baklava after all?”

“Of course not.” But I nodded toward The Gala’s booth at the edge of Eastman Field. It was swarmed with customers and at least as many members of the large Pappayiannis family. Looked like a flash mob was gathering over there.

Lowering my voice so my brothers wouldn’t hear me, I whispered, “Do you know which one is Nia?”

My sister glanced at me in surprise. “Why?”

“New client. Starts tomorrow,” I said simply.

“Oh.” She studied the mob. My sister knew nearly everyone in town. I did not. “She’s not there. But maybe she’ll show up later. You can’t miss her. She’s got really long, really dark hair. Mid-twenties. Smiles a lot.” Shar paused then sent me one of her snotty big-sister looks that she’d perfected during adolescence. “You’re gonna hate her.”

“Because she smiles a lot?”

Shar shook her head. “Because she knows pastries like you know fitness equipment. She’s given me great advice many times on what to bring to dinner parties and various school-district functions. So, try not to be a jackass when you talk to her.”

My sister took several steps away from me before she stopped, mid stride, and turned around. “I was wrong.”

“Of course you were wrong,” I shot back at her. “I’m never a jackass—”

“No. About Nia. She
is
here.” Shar bobbed her head in the direction of the booth. “Over to the far left.”

As Shar finally walked away to get her artery-clogging afternoon snack, I zeroed in on this Nia person.

Oh, bloody hell.

Of course it would have to be
her
. The woman in question was someone I’d seen walking past the gym many times, although she’d never come in. At least not as far as I knew. I’d had no idea who she was until today. I just knew that my pulse raced every single time I saw her. She looked like fucking Aphrodite.

Huh.

So,
she
was Nia Pappayiannis?
She
was Donna’s good friend?

When I talked with Donna on the phone Friday, I’d mostly just listened to her jabber. (When did that woman ever give anyone else a chance to speak anyway?) But I’d been convinced that this pal of hers that I’d gotten cornered into working with was probably as high maintenance and high strung as my pain-in-the-ass ex-girlfriend. Donna had neglected to mention that her longtime friend was
gorgeous
. That seeing her would make my heart stop in my chest.

Derek suddenly took off in a sprint after his youngest son, who’d found something on the egg hunt that may not have been edible and, yet, the kid was trying to eat it anyway.

Blake strode over, nudged me, and said, “What’s up, man? You look weird. Like you saw a ghost or something.”

“Not a ghost,” I replied. “Just something I didn’t expect.”
Someone
I didn’t expect.

Just a Greek goddess come to life.

~Nia~

“And don’t forget your change, Mrs. Lancaster,” I told the older lady, who had already eaten half of the Greek Easter cookie—
koulourakia
—that she’d just purchased while waiting in line to pay for it.

“Thank you, dearie,” she replied. “I’ll be back for more later.”

As soon as she left, my mother squeezed my arm and whispered, “That woman has a son.”

“So do a lot of women.”

“But, Antonia,” Mama replied, using my full name as usual, “she has a
bachelor
son.”

Yeah. I’d met Mrs. Lancaster’s bachelor son—all 6-foot 7-inches of him. He towered over me by more than a foot. But that wasn’t the real problem.

“He’s a little too attached to his computer,” I told my mom.

She squinted at me.

I tried to explain. “Although he’s got a good job—” Mama and I both knew Liam Lancaster was a respected local accountant. “His real passion is gaming. He loves playing videogames. I don’t.” My older brother Dimitri had played pickup basketball with Liam. He knew Mrs. Lancaster’s very tall son and had warned me off. “Besides, I already have a boyfriend.”

To this news, my mother just shrugged. “You talk of him, but I have not seen this person yet,” she said, her soft Greek accent growing thicker as the day wore on.

“Well, Grant Jordan is great,” I assured her. “You’re going to really like him. He’s everything I’ve been looking for. Good with people. Successful in business. Active in charities. And very handsome, too.”

He was a tad
busier
than I would have liked, but when you were the head of an international company, like the Jordan-Luccio Corporation, there wasn’t a lot of free time, was there?

Mama cleared her throat, but she didn’t get a chance to speak.

“I’d like two Cokes and a couple pieces of baklava,” a voice broke in.

I looked up gratefully and saw Sharlene Boyd grinning at me. I grinned back. She’d always been very friendly when she came into The Gala. “Of course,” I said. “Let me grab them for you.”

When I’d gotten her order together, I asked her about how the school year was going. She worked as a junior-high English teacher. With spring break over and the semester zipping by, I figured she must be looking forward to summer vacation as much as the kids.

She laughed at that. “I really am! But I do have a good set of classes this year.” She motioned behind her, to the middle of the field, and her lips twisted into an impish smile. “Just heard you were going to have some workout sessions with my kid brother. I hope he’ll be an excellent fitness instructor for you.”

I swallowed. I’d forgotten Shar was born a Michaelsen. She’d been married and divorced and still used Boyd as her last name. But her family of origin was very well-known in town. In fact, the Michaelsen clan might even be larger than my own. I knew Derek and Olivia vaguely because of their community involvement. Shar was a regular at the bakery. And that radio DJ—Blake—I knew only by his voice. But there were nephews and twins and cousins and other relatives scattered about. It hadn’t occurred to me until just now that the Chance Michaelsen that Donna had once dated could be Shar’s brother.

“I, um…yes,” I sputtered. “I start tomorrow.” I could feel the twinges in my back, aching and pinching at the mere mention of those exercises. I’d been hunching again during the egg hunt. Neglecting to stretch.

Shar swiveled back, indicating the spot where her brother was standing. The man there looked like he was out of his element. A marble statue in the middle of Eastman Field. I could’ve sworn I saw Shar glance between the two of us and smirk.

She paid for her purchases and gathered them up. “Just make sure you get
all
of the attention and guidance you need during your workout sessions. That’s Chance’s job.” Then, with a wink, she was gone.

Oh, yeah. I’ll be sure to insist.
Nothing like taking lessons from a stone sculpture
.

“If he’s really a nice boy,” my mom said, picking up where we’d left off in our discussion of Grant, “you should bring him home to meet us.”

“Okay, Mama. I will. Soon.”

But as I glanced back into the field where the Easter Egg Hunt was finally coming to a close, I caught sight of Chance again—standing several yards nearer to our booth than he’d been before, and staring directly at me.

When our gazes collided, I felt a sudden and very intense sizzle. However cool his sculpted marble exterior might be, something hot and unexpected burned underneath. And this knowledge sent a sharp and zinging twinge through my entire body that had nothing to do with my aching back and pinched nerves.

It had everything to do with Chance Michaelsen and his proximity to me, though.

If he could have such an effect on me at a distance like this, what would it be like when we were standing face to face?

Chapter Three

~ Chance ~

“Nia?” I extended my hand to her because I was a
professional
and that was what we did when we met a new client. It didn’t have anything to do with my desire to touch her. Much.

She looked at me oddly. Hesitant. Like she was afraid I’d try to out muscle her or something. So I added a slight smile.

If anything, she looked even more worried then, but she finally took my hand and shook it.

God, her skin was
so
soft.

“Chance.” She stated my name rather than asked. How insane was it that I was proud of this? That she knew who I was already? Then I looked down and realized I was wearing my trainer nametag.

Oh.

“Yes,” I said. “Nice to meet you.” This was such a freakin’ understatement it was almost a lie. I was usually only attracted to very athletic women, but Nia Pappayiannis had a different style and body type than the typical crowd of single twenty-something ladies I ran into at the gym. She was all softness and curves, dressed in her very conservative white t-shirt and blue yoga pants. Other women wouldn’t look hot in such a plain outfit. Nia rocked the look.

“Likewise,” she said.

A long, awkward silence followed. I wasn’t used to that either. Most of my clients talked my ear off from the second of introduction on. Not her.

I cleared my throat and flashed the clipboard I was holding at her. “On your questionnaire, you mentioned that your doctor prescribed at least ten half-hour fitness sessions, three per week, to work on core strength. Correct?”

She nodded.

“Okay.” I pointed toward the treadmill. “Why don’t we do an easy five-minute walking warm up, just to get your muscles moving, before we head over to the weights?”

“All right.”

I helped her set the treadmill to a moderate walking speed of 3.3 miles/hour and showed her how to adjust the incline. It looked as though she’d never stepped on one of these pieces of equipment in her life.

“Have you belonged to a gym before?” I asked.

She shook her head. “It’s not really my scene.”

I was suddenly very interested to know what
was
her scene, but I didn’t make a habit of asking clients personal questions, and I wasn’t gonna start now. No matter how sexy her ass looked as she walked on that treadmill.

Man, five minutes lasted a long time. An eternity of unexpected fantasizing.

When the warm up was over, she trailed me to the free weights area.

“We’re going to do an exercise without weights first,” I told her. “They’re elbow-knee touches with a torso twist. The focus is on strengthening the abdominals and all the core muscles.”

I demonstrated the technique. Tightening my abs, I squeezed my bent right elbow and my left knee together until they were almost touching, exhaling. Then, on the inhale and without relaxing my stomach muscles, I pulled my knee and elbow apart, switched sides, and twisted so my right knee and left elbow squeezed together. As they came close to meeting, I exhaled. Then I repeated everything several times so Nia could copy me.

She did it. Perfectly.

“Keep your abs tight during the whole exercise,” I instructed, waving my palm near her slightly rounded belly but being careful not to touch her.

Her curviness fascinated me. I was so used to seeing adults who were at the extremes—either significantly overweight and trying to put into place a more healthful regimen, or hardcore fitness enthusiasts trying to define their already well-sculpted figures even further.

Nia’s body appeared firm in all of the important places, but it was the tantalizing sway to her breasts and her buttocks that made me long to cup her to me. To pull her softness against my hardness. To, at once, take her and be taken by her.

Imagining that had me abruptly turning away from her and jogging off to grab a couple of free weights, so I could take a few moments to get my dick to calm the hell down. It was like being in high school all over again. The personal trainer shorts I wore were long and baggy, but I could feel the strain against the fabric.

Note to self: No snug shorts or sweatpants on Monday-Wednesday-Friday afternoons when I was seeing Nia.

“Okay,” I said, giving her a pair of yellow two-pound hand weights. “Take a one-minute break to relax your muscles and catch your breath. Then do the exercise again, this time holding the weights.”

She puffed out some air, tightened almost everything from her jaw to her ankles, and then began repeating the twists. Only problem was that her wrists were loose and they flicked backward when she made the elbow-knee connection.

Instinctively, I reached out to grab her hand nearest to me. To steady it.

She flinched beneath my fingers.

I let go of her like I was holding a burning poker. “Sorry,” I said. “I just—your wrist. That position—I, um, didn’t want you to hurt yourself.”