Within This Frame (8 page)

“Gladly.”

And just like that, her arms were over her head, the material of the shirt twisted around her before it was dragged up and off, and she stood before Lance in nothing but her uni-boob bra. To say that she was mortified would be a drastic under-exaggeration. She was beyond that. He was seeing the top half of her body in a way he hadn’t in close to a dozen years. Oh, how it had changed within that time span. Pudgy, fleshy, pale skin. Maggie wanted to hang her head in shame, so she instead lifted her chin defiantly and met his gaze.

Half of his mouth curved at the silent challenge. He didn’t move or look away. Lance placed a hand over his mouth as he studied her chest with avid interest. She saw no revulsion in his expression, but then, she wouldn’t, if he didn’t want her to. Lance was a talented actor.

Lance touched one of the straps, his fingers drawing across the sensitive flesh of her shoulder. She closed her eyes, pulse picking up, and dug her nails into the palms of her hands. His hand lingered, and Maggie stood still, wanting him to move away and wanting him to move closer. When she couldn’t stand the paused moment any longer, she opened her eyes. Lance watched her, face bleeding emotion like raindrops of sorrow and pain. She blinked, and it was gone, his expression closed.

He went behind her, near enough that she sensed the heat of his body, felt his words as well as heard them. “This should be outlawed. What do you call this, a form of torture under the guise of a sports bra? How can you stand it? I hurt just looking at it.”

Lance stopped before her, movements brisk as he touched and prodded along the bottom of the bra, inches away from her breasts. He snapped and tugged, shaking his head as he examined the garment. The material was flimsy enough that it was obvious that she was cold, and she was. Cold. Nothing else.

He looked at her. “Are all of your sports bras this nipple death trap?”

An unintelligible sound left her. “Nipple . . . death . . . trap?”

Impatiently gesturing to her chest, he said, “Yes. Look at them. They’re crying out to be released. Poor things. And your breasts—why are you being so cruel to them? They need to breathe, Maggie. Be kind to your body. More importantly, be kind to your boobs.”

Mouth hanging open, feeling oddly, properly chastised, Maggie blinked and straightened. “Well . . . well . . . I don’t wear this that much.” Why was she defending herself? Why was he making her feel it was necessary to defend herself?

“Even once is too much,” he said concernedly. “I think, for the benefit of future you, you should remove it. Now. Immediately.” The teasing light flared to life in his eyes as he met her gaze, and he smiled unabashedly, unable to keep up the act.

“You ass,” she muttered, smacking his arm.

“Seriously, you can’t wear this anymore.” Not seeing the tongue she stuck out at him, Lance tapped his mouth with a finger as he turned toward the dresser. “I think before we do anything else, we need to go shopping. What kind of workout clothes do you have? And underwear—what does your underwear look like?” His tone was innocent, but again, when he caught her eye, she saw the amusement he couldn’t contain.

“Socks too,” he continued. “Shoes. All of those things matter. Do you have clothes specifically for working out?”

“I wear tee shirts and shorts.”

He was shaking his head before she stopped talking. “No. If you can’t afford workout clothes, those will do, but you can.”

“How do you know what I can or can’t afford?” she asked suspiciously.

“Do you experience chaffing?” His gaze was aimed at her crotch.

Maggie nervously crossed her legs. Why, she didn’t know. He still had a perfect view of her clothed nether regions. “I’m not telling you.”

“I’ll take that as a yes. So.” He clapped his hands once and focused on her crimson face. “Today we’ll walk to the sports store near Lane Gym. Not much in the way of hardcore exercising, but we need to start out slow. Less chance of injury that way. And please, for the love of all things holy, get rid of that bra before we do. I’ll wait downstairs.”

“The sports store doesn’t even open for over three hours,” she called after him.

He paused near the doorway. “You’re right. Good time to get a physical assessment while we wait. See you in the basement.” His voice was sinisterly as he said that.

“How do you know there’s a basement, or where it is?” she demanded.

“I am a man without limits—and I snooped around the house last night after you went to bed.”

Lance closed the door after him, leaving a sputtering Maggie in his wake. She wasn’t surprised that he’d snooped through her house last night. She was sure he’d even used the gym located in the basement that morning. At least someone did, she grudgingly acknowledged.

With a sigh, she rifled through the dresser drawers, deciding on what to keep, and what to toss. She had no suitable underwear for working out; most of them were thin and miniscule, and the majority of her bras weren’t supportive enough.

It was a struggle to get out of the bra she’d squeezed into, arms bent at odd angles and grunts leaving her as she fought with the apparel. It got stuck somewhere between her armpits and the top of her breasts, and with a cry of fury, she pulled it over her head, causing her arms to ache in the process. Out of breath and sweating, she heaved the sports bra to the floor and put on a slightly better one that didn’t make her look like she had one boob instead of two.

Clothed in her customary exercise shirt and shorts, shoes on feet and hair up in a ponytail, Maggie stopped in the upstairs bathroom to brush and floss her teeth and wash her face before meeting Lance in the basement.

Maggie had the makings of a workout room in the semi-finished basement. So far the area had a treadmill, elliptical machine, and a punching bag. She’d had most of the equipment for over three years and had used a combination of it less than a dozen times. She stood in the middle of the cream-toned room and stared at her reflection in the mirrored wall. The mirrors were supposed to work as a motivator, but they worked as the opposite most days. A television and DVD player were set up in a corner of the room with a yoga mat, free weights, and resistance bands.

It came as somewhat of a surprise that there weren’t cobwebs covering the majority of the contraptions.

Lance had a set of pink ten-pound free weights in hand, back to the mirror as he lifted and lowered, muscles forming and releasing as he moved. She was surprised that he wasn’t staring at his reflection, preening at his physical perfection, although it wasn’t like everywhere he went, he wasn’t reminded. Women had always fawned over him. Maggie doubted that had changed.

He set the weights down, not in the least bit winded, and wiped his hands on the gray athletic shorts gracing his muscular legs. A band of black material showed beneath the hem of the shorts, which had to be compression shorts. Lance was a runner. That didn’t surprise her.

“What is your activity level?” he asked, picking up a notepad and pen from the floor.

Maggie frowned. “Are you taking notes?”

“Yes.”

She squinted at his hands. “That’s the notebook I use to make my grocery lists!”

“Is it? Nice. Very sturdy.”

“You went through my desk too?” she growled, sounding disturbingly like a bear, or some other large, rabid beast.

There was important, private material in that desk. She could clearly picture him rummaging through her things in the dark of night, thoroughly amused with any information pertaining to her that he could get his grubby hands on. Suddenly it made sense how he would know whether or not she could afford workout clothes—her financial papers and checkbook were in a drawer of the desk.

The glare intensified, to the point that her face was grooved in discontent, all of it aimed at Lance.

“Good thing too, or I wouldn’t have found these.” He lifted the pen and paper with a disarming grin.

There was no positive outcome from getting too upset with him. He wouldn’t notice, or care.

“If you were an average person, you wouldn’t get away with nearly as much as you do,” she commented, more of an afterthought than a direct one.

“Alas, I am so much more than merely average.” Lance held a hand to his chest and closed his eyes.

“In all areas,” Maggie muttered, thinking of the conceited gene he seemed to have in ample supply.

Back to business, he asked, “How active are you, on a daily basis?”

“I don’t know.” She avoided his eyes.

Maggie wasn’t active at all. She wandered around the house during the day, and sometimes sat outside. Once in a great while she’d go for a short walk, but mostly, she led a solitary, sedentary existence. It sounded bad when spoken out loud. Sure, she had her hobbies, but those were done either standing or sitting. All in all, she was a couch potato.

“Tell me how a usual day goes for you,” he pressed, eyes on her.

“Um . . .” Maggie played with her ponytail, careful to keep her gaze trained to the left of him. “I get up, eat, ya know, do stuff . . .” she trailed off, swallowing thickly.

The silence grew, full of unsaid observations and awkward tension.

“Can you elaborate?”

“No,” Maggie snapped. “I can’t.” Instantly remorseful for being snippy, she supplied, “Okay. So. I don’t do much. Okay? Like, anything, really. Judge away.”

“Maggie.”

She finally looked at him, fighting the urge to run from the room and out of the house, even if it was hers. She wanted to get away from him, especially when she saw the understanding on his face.

“I’m not judging you. I’m here to help you. I have to know your history to know where to start, that’s all.”

Nodding, she took a deep breath. “All right. I don’t get much physical activity. I go for walks, occasionally, but nothing routine. I never use any of the stuff in this room. Well, maybe, like, once every six months.”

Lance blinked, but quickly hid his expression by focusing on the paper he held. “What are your fitness goals?”

That one she knew.

“I don’t want to be skinny—I want to be strong.”

He nodded in approval, and it was sad how pleased she was by that.

“With your history as it is, you have to be careful,” he remarked, blazing her with the intensity of his eyes. “There’s a line between healthy and unhealthy, and you don’t want to cross it.”
Not again
, remained silent.

“Don’t lecture me.”

“I’m not. I said my piece, and I won’t mention it again. Fair enough?”

She rubbed her forehead. “Yeah. Fair enough.”

“Height?”

“Five feet three inches.”

“Weight?”

Maggie hedged, not wanting him to know the fatal number on the scale.

Lance sighed and placed his hands on the back of his head. He leveled his gaze on her. “Did you know,” he began conversationally. “That muscle is denser than fat? You can weigh the same as someone else, but look bigger or smaller, depending on the amount of muscle you have. Muscle is good. Your weight is a number. It has no bearing on your fitness level.”

“Except my fitness level is non-existent.”

“Not for long.” He dropped his hands and resumed his brisk manner. “Weight?”

“One hundred and fifty-two pounds,” she mumbled, crossing her arms and dropping her gaze to her blue and white shoes.

He paused, seeming undecided, and then said, “Technically speaking, you’re not that overweight for your height and age. A solid ten to fifteen pounds off and better eating and exercising habits and you’ll be set.”

“If what you weigh doesn’t matter, why do you keep acting like it does?”

“It matters, of course, but not as much as people think. People also think it’s all about the cardio. Cardio is important, but strength training is more important. Cardio burns calories, but strength training burns fat and builds muscle. Make sense?”

“No.”

“Okay, let’s measure you,” he said, acting like she hadn’t spoken.

“Lance.”

“Yes?”

“This is not my idea of fun.” She moved over to where he stood.

A faint smile brightened his face. “I know, Maggie, but you’ll thank me later—or not,” he added at the dubious look she sent his way. “Trust me, once you get into the routine of it, you’ll miss it if you don’t do it. You’ll feel empowered, invincible, and you’ll want to do it every day.”

“In other words, I’ll feel just like you on any given day,” she mocked.

“Exactly.” He roughly spun her around. “Lift your arms above your head.”

She did, staring at their reflection in the mirror. It was like looking at the two of them, fast-forwarded and aged from when they were teens. Maggie never thought she’d be standing so close to him again, let alone have him in her house. He’d gotten taller since the show. Where he’d once had four or five inches on her, it was closer to seven or eight. It wasn’t like she hadn’t somewhat kept track of him through the years, but seeing someone on television was different from seeing them in person.

Lance tugged her top up once more.

“Why do you insist on seeing my stomach?” she grumbled, hands holding up the shirt.

He ignored her, arms going around her torso to meet above her bellybutton. Maggie froze. Lance looked up, meeting her gaze in the mirror. If not for the horrified look on her face, it would be easy to believe they were intimate, with the way he was wrapped around her. Something cold touched her skin and she jumped. Lance smiled and his head disappeared from view. Holding the body measuring tape to her frame, he walked to the front of her, the bendable plastic gliding along her skin with him.

“This is the proper spot to measure. At the juncture of your natural waist,” he said quietly.

She was imagining the faint roughness to his deep voice, not to mention the way his fingers lingered on her skin. It was all in her head, obviously.

Lance bent down to read the tape, putting his dark head disturbingly close to her breasts. Her fingers curled, wanting to touch his silky hair. She didn’t trust herself around him. Next thing she knew, she’d be begging him to seduce her. They’d run through that scenario before. His hair brushed her skin as he straightened and she swallowed. He wrote a number on the paper and told her to remove her shirt.