The bite of disinfectant mixed with remnants of colognes generations of males who still hadn’t learned to correctly apply it. Why was that? What was it with men and too much cologne? Was scent application something mothers instinctively taught girls, but fathers just blew it off? It really should have been a coming of age discussion, right up there with condoms in the wallet. At least at this hour, it only lingered instead of overwhelmed.

Traces of sweat permeated the rubber floor mats and the vinyl of every workout bench in the room, which, being a freak, I thoroughly disinfected before using. The strange thing, though, was this place—even with its musty, uncirculated air—had become my sanctuary. My gym qualified as the only other place where I felt relatively calm outside of my house.

I picked up the twenty-pound dumbbells and set up in the same spot I did every morning.

Four sets of twenty hammer curls. Here we go . . .

Jesus. When did twenty pounds start feeling like fifty? No weakness—push harder.

A quick burn shot through my biceps with each agonizing repetition. Not even halfway through the first set, I instantly regretted not running out last night for pre-workout. The coffee I’d substituted wasn’t coming close to getting it done. Sleepless nights had manifested in a systemic lethargy. Most weeks I worked out seven days, unless my body genuinely rebelled, which it seemed committed to doing right now.

Hardwired not to do anything half-ass, I pushed through all four sets, dropped the weights after the last rep, and collapsed on my bench. The terrycloth towel scratched at my tender face as I wiped my wet cheeks. And damn it to hell, I couldn’t fight the impulse to glance up at the wall-clock.

3:45 a.m. He should walk in any time . . .

Checking the clock now? That’s what we’ve resorted to, huh?

I jerked my head back and forth.

No men. No men. No men!

Arms—check. I heaved my bag over my shoulder and moved to the free weight leg press. A hard leg workout it is. My legs needed the work, anyway, and I hadn’t maxed out on leg press in over a week.

Two weeks were all I had before my third Krav Maga black belt test. My blood pressure skyrocketed when I thought about failing the first two times. The attack from behind. The millisecond of paralysis always set in before instinct, and damn it, I was better than that. Despite acing the rest of the exam, Instructor Kovov had still failed me, and rightly so. In my world, ninety-nine percent didn’t get rewarded.

What happens when you fail? Work harder . . . failure gets you hurt, or worse . . .

Warming up with 270 pounds on the leg press, I slowed the reps down. My quadriceps strained, heated, and the pressure of the weight up top settled deep into my muscles. The right amount of overexertion got my head straight.

Everyone yelled at me for spending too much time in the gym. But they didn’t understand. Since last week’s meeting with Dr. Rhodes, I hadn’t had another flashback, and I planned to keep busy enough to keep that streak alive. My past needed to stay dead or repressed. I didn’t care which one, as long as it stayed gone.

Finishing my warm-up set, I stood and walked around, letting the blood return to my muscles before I racked one more plate on each side. As I got situated back in the seat, a tall figure in a navy blue hoodie penetrated my peripheral vision. I checked the clock on my phone.

He’s late. 4:10.

A sound similar to tires screeching on the asphalt blared through my head.

Seriously? You actually realize he’s late?

My heart pounded like a double bass drum. Despite this, I was about to deal with 360 pounds up on the press. Time to get focused. Concentrating on pushing from my heels, I began a methodical set of twenty reps, but could still make him out across the gym.

Somehow, just knowing he was in the gym calmed me. His presence—his monstrous, intimidating presence—ironically evened me out. Calm, chaos, calm, chaos. The man turned me into a fucking paradox of emotion—each one stronger than the one before.

Don’t you dare look at him!

But seeing him was unavoidable. He towered over everyone else in the gym and most of the equipment. At least six-foot-six, maybe six-foot-seven, he was just so damn tall—like a redwood. Well done, on that nickname.

He dropped his gear at the squat rack, his shoulders and back taking up most of the square cage. The man was simply mammoth . . . and beautiful. Those were the only two words worthy of him. I tirelessly reminded myself of the mammoth part because it was the important one. The one I couldn’t get around. No matter how stunning he was.

In all my years, I’d never been as fascinated with a man as I was with the Redwood. The contradiction of anxiety and attraction jolting through my body whenever he was within ten feet of me shot all logic straight to hell. My head ached from trying to figure out why my body went nuclear in his presence. I hadn’t experienced anything this intense ever, and I’d been married to a good-looking man for ten years—a first-class dick, yes, but a good-looking one just the same. Not like the Redwood, though.

He wore his mid-shoulder-length, dirty-blond hair in a man-bun at the nape of his neck under a faded blue baseball hat. What man had hair that long and looked that good with a man-bun? And when he turned the hat backwards for certain machines, I lit up like a damn groupie at a concert—humiliation at its best. A tight beard framed his strong jaw and full, sensual lips, which often turned up in the sexiest grin when he said good morning.

I locked the rack back in and dropped the weight with a loud thud before jumping up out of the seat. No. The Redwood was so far out of my league my internal musing was comical. I couldn’t reconcile why someone so wrong for me, whom I’d never met, had taken up a significant portion of my thoughts ever since he’d walked into our gym a few weeks ago. I wanted nothing to do with him. He was too big, too gorgeous, and I had no time.

Men like him don’t want women who look like you without clothes on. Just a fact. For confirmation, see divorce papers.

Clothes hid my shame, my past. I cleaned up pretty good on the outside, like a cracked and taped together mannequin disguised in couture. Without the window dressing though—defective and imperfect. There was nothing I could do about that. I couldn’t change it and thus, I needed to get over my fascination with the Redwood.

I racked another plate to both sides and went to do a sit-up set before tackling 450 pounds. Today was the day. I was determined to work up to 540 pounds before I left this gym—I’d never lifted more than 450, but I felt better than I did earlier and my legs had always been freakishly strong. Perks of being a hardcore swimmer, once upon a time.

Walking out of the sit-up room and back to the leg press, I peeked over at the squat rack. The Redwood’s gear was nowhere in sight.

Shit. Was I gone that long?

“Good morning.”

My breath caught in my throat and I jumped before swinging around to the bent over row bar . . . right next to the leg press. “Hi— hello.” I nodded and gave a little wave. “Good morning.” I smiled, feeling like the awkward ass I was.

Why this machine, Redwood? I like you so much better from afar . . . where I can covertly ogle you.

I squatted over my bag, digging for my leg straps, and dammit it to hell, I’d left them at home. I’d washed them and now had a clear image of them sitting neatly rolled up on my washing machine. Perfect. What was with me? Not double-checking my bag? Seriously? Oh well, not like they were going to magically appear and I’d lifted this much without them before.

I settled back down into the seat, grabbed my phone, and had to hit the code on my lock screen three times before my fingers got with the program. Lifting over 360 required Sevendust or (Hed) P.E., but lifting over 450 with the Redwood not ten feet away? I needed Slipknot for proper concentration.

Shoving my earbuds as far into my ears as I could and double-checking that the volume was maxed, I settled my feet on the platform. I pushed, raising the rack and unlocking the security slats. I forced myself to deal with the weight, to savor the power in my legs as I slowed down the reps, making sure to keep my form correct. Full reps only, or I’d do them again—because that was how I did things—to perfection, or not at all.

I lost myself in the strain, the pressure in every muscle engaged. Beads of sweat dripped down my face as I pushed myself further. My legs weren’t “strong for a woman,” they were just strong, and they could take this weight. This is where I built strength, where I became all power. Strong rather than weak.

The fifteenth rep was a struggle to get up and locked in, but I did it. My chest pumped up and down as I pulled myself up and walked off the burning in my hamstrings, my quads, and my ass. 450 was a bitch, but if I could do fifteen reps with that much weight then I could do 540 pounds—straps or no straps. I’d give myself a few more minutes rest and do at least five reps.

Even with the Redwood right next to me, making me anxious and sweatier than I should have been, I had this!

Damn that man straight to hell!