Emille was working her way through her final reps of barbell bench presses when she turned her head to glance in the mirror. As her body became leaner and more toned, Emille couldn't help taking every available opportunity to check out her reflection. For a woman who used to wince every time she caught a glimpse of herself, she felt she'd earned the right to check out her guns when she lifted. There was a good bit of loose skin on her arms, belly, and inner thighs; but beneath all that, she was building a rock solid body. She'd never felt sexier in her life.
Since her talk with Peter three weeks before, she'd lost another twenty pounds. Because she worked while he slept, and slept while he worked, Peter had dropped dinner off at her place a few times after she'd gone to work. For a chef, he was a faithful believer in that crock-pot, so when he brought dinner for her, he made sure there was a stew going for those in between nights. Listening to his advice wasn't so hard when they were on the same page. What Emille appreciated most was the desserts. The cleaner her diet became, the easier it was to make wise choices. During follow up conversations, she'd mentioned that she loved fruits. Peter had gone to the trouble of preparing a miniature fruit basket for her. She'd never forget the pineapple topper that he'd carved into the number eighty to mark her eighty pound milestone.
Who knew that a diet needed to be healthy, not just skimpy for a person to lose weight? She certainly hadn't. Portia had understood though. Though she'd never been diagnosed with diabetes, once upon a time, Emille's trainer had been three hundred and forty-five pounds at five feet and six inches tall. She'd even shown Emille a photograph of her at that weight, describing herself with one word, 'round'. You wouldn't be able to tell today. You wouldn't even know that Portia had ended up with tons of skin. She'd opted for surgery herself, but had assured Emille that she wouldn't have enough skin to merit it. In fact, she firmly believed that if Emille was patient, her skin would bounce back within a year or two. Emille was starting to believe it. Nor did she really care if her skin ever tightened up. For the first time in her life, she could wear a sleeveless top in public. She'd never thought that was possible.
A guttural groan escaped her mouth as she put her full concentration on completing the last three reps. With a sudden burst of exhalation, she finished, sat up and readied herself to wipe down the station. She was a complete wreck. From the crown of her sweaty head to the tips of her sweaty toes, she was a dripping, exhausted mess. But she'd never felt more awesome. Today, her doctor had told her that she was no longer diabetic. She still had to work to get out of the category of pre-diabetic, but for the first time in years, she felt optimistic about her future.
"What's up, you sexy beast you?" someone growled behind her.
She glanced in the mirror to verify that the voice she heard did indeed belong to who she thought. Laughing, deep-set gray eyes met her own beneath his longish pompadour style haircut. Though it was out of place in the gym, this clean-cut look suited him better than the dreadlocks of a dozen years before. Even then, he had been a gorgeous star in the making. It wasn’t until he'd given up on trying to shake his country roots in his pursuit of rock and roll fame that he'd finally broken through to global stardom. He was a phenom.
"Caleb Ryce!" Emille escaped on an overjoyed laugh.
With a wicked grin, Ryce wrinkled his nose. "I'd kiss you, but you're all sweaty."
"What are you doing here? How did you know I was here?"
He grinned and pointed over his shoulder. "Peter brought me here with the promise of a surprise, then bet me that I wouldn't be able to find it."
Emille leaned sideways a little to see Peter working through a series of pull ups. His eyes acknowledged her, but he didn't cease his workout. He was as sweaty as she was. She waved, but a frown marred her smile as she turned her attention back to the people's number one most beautiful man of the year. "How long have you guys been here?"
Ryce flicked his wrist to check his watch. "About two hours now," he replied. "He wouldn't let me come over and say hi. Said I shouldn't bother you until you're done." Peter had predicted that she'd be done after the presses.
She grinned. "Well, I'm done now."
"I see you can bench press a horse now," Ryce laughed. "Let me see those guns."
Emille blushed. It was one thing for her to be admiring her own arms, it was another thing entirely to be flexing in front of her friends.
"I saw you checking yourself out," he teased.
She grabbed her towel and sashayed past him. "Somebody's got to do it."
Ryce wolf-whistled as she walked away. "You make sweaty sexy."
At the last moment, Emille stopped and looked over her shoulder. "Wipe down that bench for me, will you? I'm going to have a shower. And then I'm coming back for my kiss from the 'sexiest man alive'.