I shot up in surprise, did this fast and thus slammed my head into Jake’s jaw. Luckily, through this, he released my hair. Unfortunately, the crack to my head (and his jaw) was hard and caused a sharp pain but it was thus and it went away almost immediately.

So I scooted so that my back was to the scrolled iron headboard and stared at Jake who had not moved except to lean back a few inches.

“I-I’m sorry,” I stammered. “Is your jaw okay?”

“It’s fine, babe. Serves me right for freakin’ you out.”

I said nothing.

Then it occurred to me I was the one apologizing but he was in my bedroom for reasons unknown first thing in the morning.

Therefore, I asked, “Um…what are you doing here?”

He didn’t answer. He was busy and what he was busy with was that he seemed rather taken with examining the entirety of the vicinity of my head.

“Jake?” I called when this lasted some time, and his eyes came to mine.

“Hair looks good down, honey,” he said softly and his tone was not one I’d ever heard from him before. It was quite low and very rumbly. Indeed, it was so much of both it had a physical effect on me that was not good when Jake was sitting on the side of my bed in all of his big man beautifulness. “Real good,” he went on and that sounded like an actual growl.

Oh my.

“Well…thank you,” I whispered.

We stared at each other, me finding it difficult to breathe. I didn’t know what Jake was experiencing.

Finally, I forced myself to speak but the only thing I could get out was, “Uh…”

“Right,” he stated, his voice now sounding hoarse. He cleared his throat and went on, “Before you’re off to the Weavers, I’m takin’ you to the gym to work out.”

I blinked at him.

Then I asked, “Work out?”

“Yep,” he answered.

“I…well…” I stopped talking because I didn’t know what to say.

Jake didn’t have the same problem.

“First, we gotta get food in you so we’re gonna do that and then you’re comin’ with me to my gym to work out.”

I belatedly saw that he was wearing a pair of navy track pants with one wide white stripe down the side and a white long-sleeved shirt made of breathable material that fit snug to his shoulders, chest, arms and abdominals.

At this vision, my mouth went dry.

“You got something to wear to work out?” he asked.

Although there was much I would do with Jake Spear just to be with Jake Spear, for instance, watch football while partaking of a dip that was made from Velveeta and, say walking to the ends of the earth and jumping off hand in hand, working out was not something I wished to do with Jake or…ever.

Therefore, I latched onto the excuse given to me quickly.

“No, Jake,” I replied. “I don’t have workout clothes.”

“Then how do you keep that body?”

“Well, I walk,” I informed him and usually I did. Quite often. Most specifically after an evening meal. I hadn’t been doing that lately because I was out of my normal schedule but I did it because I enjoyed it but also because it helped me to stay active and increased my daily energy levels.

“Today, you’re gonna do more than walk,” he returned.

“I’m afraid I don’t have the attire to do this, Jake.”

He grinned, bent to the floor at the side of the bed and I heard rustling. The rustling continued as he straightened and dumped a plastic grocery bag filled with clothes on my lap.

“Amber got a wild hair last summer that she wanted to get fit. Mostly, she wanted another reason to buy clothes. So she did. Figure what’s in that bag’ll fit you and doubt any a’ that has even been worn.”

I stared down at the offending bag in my lap and this was a mistake.

It was a mistake because my hand was seized as was the bag and, not paying attention, this came as a surprise. The bag was dumped by Jake on the bed beside me and my hand was tugged by Jake, so I had no choice but to come to my feet at the side of the bed.

When I was standing, I looked up at him to see he was looking down at me and that would be down…to my nightie.

I looked down too, taking in the midnight blue silk with its simple bodice and deep hem of delicate smoke-gray lace.

“Fuckin’ hell, Slick,” Jake muttered, his voice holding a nuance of how it sounded earlier and I looked up at him to see an unusual look on his face that could be displeasure or possibly, and strangely, acute pain.

“You don’t like it?” I asked stupidly because it didn’t matter if Jake liked my nighties or not. I’d never have the opportunity to wear one for him in one of the particular ways nighties were designed.

At my words, his eyes sliced to mine and he replied, “Babe, a man tells you he doesn’t like that nightie, he’s either gay or lying.”

I had no earthly idea what to do with that other than to feel relief (and other things) that he liked my nightie.

He let my hand go and ordered, “Suit up,” as he began to walk to the door.

I searched for any excuse not to go work out with him and if not that, at least delay so I could find an excuse not to go work out with him. This was difficult seeing as I was enthralled with watching his shoulders move in that tight white shirt as he sauntered away.

I finally found an excuse and called, “I need coffee before I do anything in the morning, Jake.”

“Then it’s good there’s a cup of it on your nightstand,” he returned as he disappeared out the door.

I looked down to my nightstand and saw a cup of coffee, its color black, like I took it at The Shack.

I would need milk and sweetener.

I moved my eyes to the plastic grocery bag, finding myself oddly intrigued with the idea of discovering what kind of athletic apparel Amber had chosen.

Therefore, I decided to peruse what was in the bag before I went to prepare my coffee.

Ten minutes later, I found myself in said apparel (skintight black capri leggings with a thin piping of lavender down the side, a skintight tank top in lavender that had a built in bra and a racerback, a rather attractive zip up jacket with gathers at the bottom side seams and at the bottoms of the long sleeves as well as Vs made of netting along the shoulders and coming up from the back hem, and I’d added my walking shoes).

I also found myself carrying my coffee downstairs to prepare it.

But when I did, I did this in a travel mug.

* * * * *

“What d’you want, Slick?”

I tore my eyes from the wall of donuts on display and looked up at Jake standing at my side.

“You eat donuts before you work out?” I queried.

“Not every time, but do it occasionally to remind myself why I’m workin’ out,” he responded.

This was absurd but I had to admit, it also made an absurd kind of sense.

“Josie, need to get to the gym to open it,” he told me and prompted, “What d’you want?”

I looked back to the wall. There was a large variety and donuts were donuts. It was impossible to make a split-second decision when donuts were on offer.

“Um…” I mumbled.

“Fuck it,” Jake mumbled back, then louder and to the counter assistant. “Two Boston creams. Two glazed. Two cinnamon twists. Two maple glazed. Two chocolate glazed. Two buttermilk.”

“You got it,” the counter assistant assured and moved to the back, grabbing a box.

“Is it necessary for us to have that amount of donuts?” I asked and Jake looked back down at me.

“It’s necessary for me to open my gym which means it’s necessary for me to get you to get a move on, so yeah. You got choice. And what we don’t eat, the boys will.”

“Oh.”

He tipped his head to the travel mug I was still carrying with me, holding it like it was a lifeline, even though we’d entered an establishment that served coffee and he asked, “You need that warmed up?”

I absolutely did.

I nodded.

His lips quirked and he looked back to the counter assistant. “And my girl here needs a warm up.”

His girl.

Oh my.

“No problemo,” the clerk assured again and dropped the box of donuts on the counter in front of us.

I got a warm up.

Jake just got a coffee.

I ate a Boston cream in his truck on the way to the gym.

* * * * *

“Right, now, skip rope,” Jake ordered and I stared at him.

Donut consumed, travel mug sitting on a ledge beside where we were standing in his gym, I stared at him.

Suffice it to say, my perusal of his gym from my car through a dreary day was not thorough. I knew this when we entered it from the back ten minutes ago and I looked around, taking off my jacket, while Jake walked around, turning on lights and unlocking the front door.

It was much larger and that was to mean cavernous.

There were not two boxing rings but three.

There was also a good deal of equipment. Further, there was an office at the back that was several steps up from the main floor and was made mostly of windows so you could see the gym from there. Beyond the office were doors that had words on them that I assumed described what was behind them, one declaring it was the Locker Room, another declaring it was Equipment and the last that it was Utility.

And finally, on the walls in the gym proper in very big script quotes were painted, including:

“Life is like a boxing match. Defeat is declared not when you fall but when you refuse to stand again.”

And “Champions aren’t made in gyms. Champions are made of something they have deep inside them—a desire, a dream a vision. They have to have the skill, and the will. But the will must be stronger than the skill. - Muhammad Ali”

And “I can show you how to box. I can teach you every technique and trick I know, but I can never make you a fighter. That comes from inside, and it’s something no one else can ever give you. – Joe Lewis”

And my favorite “Impossible is just a big word thrown around by small men who find it easier to live in the world they've been given than to explore the power they have to change it. Impossible is not a fact. It's an opinion. Impossible is not a declaration. It's a dare. Impossible is potential. Impossible is temporary. Impossible is nothing. – Muhammad Ali”

I had no time to share with Jake that I thought his inclusion of these quotes was quite clever. He took my coffee, set it aside and gave me a jump rope. I noted he had another one in his hands.

This was when he ordered me to use it.

“You wish for me to skip rope?” I asked.

“You gotta warm up,” he informed me. “You also gotta work off that donut.”

I stared at him some more then asked, “By skipping rope?”

“Babe, not much you can do that’ll burn more calories than jumping rope. Also gets the heart beating, increases stamina, challenges agility and works the entire body.”

“Skipping rope?” I asked incredulously.

He grinned at me and commanded, “Josie, just do it.”

I studied him a moment before I prepared my rope and started skipping and I did this by literally skipping over the rope, one foot and then the next, like I learned decades ago on the playground at school.

Jake watched my feet and he did this smiling big then he looked at my face and he was still smiling big.

And his voice was shaking with humor when he ordered, “Stop.”

I stopped.

He kept ordering by saying, “Now watch.”

I watched.

Jake started skipping rope but not like me. I was pretty certain my lips had parted in wonder as the rope went so fast it whistled through the air and he jumped on the balls of his feet, sometimes lifting one but an inch to jump on one foot, then moving to the other, then using both of them.

He ceased doing this and asked, “Can you do that?”

“Absolutely not,” I answered truthfully because I…could…not. I might kill myself and this was not an exaggeration. Me, rope, speed and jumping was not a good mix. I knew this about myself completely.

He was smiling again when he noted, “Slick, it isn’t hard.”

“Jake, I think it isn’t lost on you that I’m not the most graceful of females,” I pointed out.

Or males. Or any being with legs.

I didn’t go on to include these options.

“Yeah, in heels,” he replied.

“Also not in heels,” I shared.

“And when aren’t you in heels?” he asked.

“This morning, when I slammed my head into your jaw.”