I curl my arms in another set of bicep exercises and watch my movements in the mirror. I look good. I don't fucking care how vain you think I am. I'll admit it. It's no wonder I've banged nearly every type of woman there is—co-eds, professors, housewives, and even the President's daughter, which I now sort of regret.

Besides, after the last two days since Jocelyn’s birthday, I need to clear my head.

We’ve been fucking too close to the fucking fire. Twice. The first time, I could understand. Her fight or flight response was kicking in and she was going through adrenaline after her close call. I was there.

The second time, on her birthday. That was a fucking different animal. We kissed. And held each other fucking close.

No, I fucking need to shake myself of her.

I look around the gym at the odd mix of people. Even though this gym offers up a strange, and sometimes annoying blend of gym goers, I never miss a day of working out. Let's face it; you don't get the ripped body of a gladiator by just sitting around, right? I'm a fucking machine, and I plan to keep it that way. As I'm curling my rock-hard muscles, I overhear a couple of teenagers next to me.

"No way. Steroids are expensive. You know what you need bro?"

"What?" the other kid asks.

"You need some McDonald's in your life."

"Now you're trippin'."

"Here me out. I'm not kidding. Just eat the chicken nuggets every day. There's a lot of growth hormones in those nuggets; it's borderline unnatural. Those chickens are all breast and no legs and shit. It's an easy way to get steroids. I'm telling you."

I chuckle a little as I hear their conversation, and then my eyes immediately fall on a group of women standing a few feet to my left. I overhear them talking too.

"I don't like lifting weights. I'm afraid I'm going to lose my breasts," she says, slightly massaging them with her fingertips.

"That's a misconception. Weight lifting is one of the best ways to stay in shape. You don't want BMI problems, do you?"

"Girl, I definitely don't have BMI problems! I've got 99 problems but my ass sure as hell isn't one of them."

When she says that, I can't help but check her ass out. She's right. Her ass is nice. Not as nice as Jocelyn's ass, but still nice. Shit. There I go again. I really need to stop thinking about my dad's wife—my stepmom. But I can't. She's way hotter than I ever expected. But my mind is jolted back to reality when I overhear some of the worst pick-up lines that I think I've ever heard in my life.

From a sweaty, hairy-chested middle-aged guy on the bench press to a woman nearby: "We should train together because I hear it's good for bone density."

And then from another man: "My personal trainer told me I had to come talk to you."

This line seems to work for a minute because the woman stops, and gives him a confused look, and then the man continues, "He said I should talk to you for a few minutes as part of my routine. If I told you that you had a beautiful body, would you share your training regimen with me?" And then it dawns on her that this guy is talking out of his ass, and she walks away. I swear, these men are clueless—it's embarrassing. And you know what? That's fine because it gives me a leg up. They should watch me in action and learn a thing or two. I decide to do one more rep before leaving, and as I reach for the weight, I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn around and see her. That perfect outline of the female body could only be one person. It's Jocelyn.

"Hey stranger," she says. "What are the chances? I had no idea you worked out at this gym."

She's being cordial, and I appreciate that. She could've easily seen me, and quickly slipped out the back door, or at least out of sight.

"I guess New York isn't so big after all," I shrug with a smile.

"It might not be as big as some things," she replies, and I swear she takes a quick glance at my cock. Did that really just happen, or am I imagining it?

Are we really going to go down this road a third time?

"I guess you could say that," I say, deciding to play along.

There’s only one way to find out. I’m going to give her an opening and see how far she fucking wants to take this.

"So tell me. Is the rumor true?" I ask.

She doesn't respond, but just furrows her brow, so I continue, "Do all women really love retail above all else?"

The confusion dissipates from her face. "Retail therapy is a thing." The way she responds with her head cocked back, and a slight smile parting her thick, juicy lips, makes my cock twitch. Damn. She's something else.

"Then I have a proposition."

"Oh yeah? What's that?"

"I say we get out of this place and indulge in a little retail therapy."

Sometimes you've got to be bold. I watch as she determines whether or not this is a good idea. I can almost picture the inner workings of her brain. One side urging her to stay at the gym and do the sensible thing—get her workout in and not fraternize with the ill-behaved stepson. The other, wilder side of her brain—and I'm now beginning to think she has a wild side—urging her to leave. I begin to wonder which side will win when she responds.

"Sure, let's blow this joint." I can't believe my luck. And did she just emphasize the word blow?

"Let me grab my things from the locker room," she continues. "I'll meet you out front."

I watch as she walks away, her perfect ass sashaying across the gym and I can't fucking believe she's agreed to hang out with me. I drop the weights and quickly grab my things from the locker room as well. By the time I walk outside, I see her standing there, carefully applying lipstick. I feel like I'm on a roll, so I say, "I have an idea. Let's count shoulders."

"What are you talking about?"

"Watch me," I say, standing directly in front of her. I start counting, tapping my shoulders first. "One, two…" and then I move my hand to her shoulders, "Three, four." And now that I'm done counting and I've created an excuse to touch her—see what I just did?—I drape my arm across her shoulders and say, "Let's go."

She smiles, but pulls away. "Easy there," she laughs. "I'll give you credit. You are bold. I like that in a man."

Good. At least she sees me as a man, and not a kid. I know there's a sizeable age difference between us, but it's no different from the one between her and my dad. "Would you expect anything less from the Lance Anders?" I reply.

"How much woman can you handle?"

Holy shit. The way she just asked that made my heart leap into my fucking throat. I can't even answer that question, so instead I smile and order an Uber for us. She watches as I pull the app up on my phone.

"What kind of ride are you? Long or short?" she asks.

"I'm the longest ride you'll ever need." Like I said, two can play this game.

She raises an eyebrow and simply smiles.

We take the Uber to Saks Fifth Avenue. I figure I can't go wrong with this store—there's designer apparel at every level—shows, accessories, housewares, and when we step out of the car, I see her face light up and I know I've definitely made the right choice. I follow her into the building as she walks at a fast clip to the women's clothing, her heels clicking against the floor. She changed at the gym and is no longer wearing yoga pants. She's wearing a tight black dress and heels, and honestly, I can't keep my eyes off of her. Does she always go the gym with an extra change of clothes? I wonder to myself.

"Here's what I'm looking for," she says. I look around and see we're standing in the women's blouse section. "What do you think of this one?"

I honestly think any fucking blouse would look amazing on her, but I simply say, "I like it."

My answer doesn't seem good enough because she gives it another critical look. She holds the shirt in front of her, one hand on her hip. "I think I should try it on."

I nod my head and follow her to the dressing rooms. I find a bench and sit down.

"I'll wait right here," I say. I lean back and check my phone—no calls or texts, which is good—and I wait.

"Lance? Can you come here?"

I make sure no one is looking before heading into the dressing rooms. Are men even allowed back here? "Where are you?" I ask, just above a whisper.

"Right here."

I look to my left and I see her holding one door open slightly ajar. I slip inside. The room is small and it's forcing us to stand unusually close to each other. I watch as she starts to unzip her dress.

"I just need your opinion."

With her dress unzipped, I watch as she pulls it off of her shoulders. Her perfume fills my senses. My heart is seriously in my fucking throat. It's beating at a frenzied pace and I can't believe this is happening. The top of her dress is now completely off and hanging at her hips. I can't help but gaze transfixed at her perfect breasts. Those two perfect scoops cupped in a lacey bra. Do I dare touch her?

I immediately think back to the question she asked me at the gym. How much woman can I handle?