Chapter 1
Before she’d left home, the thought of a November vacation in Hawaii had made Stacey Hough giddy. But now that it was actually happening, all she could think about were the drops of sweat wending their way down her spine as her sandals made flapping noises against the concrete walkway.
“Just a few more feet until air-conditioning,” she said to herself, eyeing the resort’s beautiful, air-conditioned tower of hotel rooms that would give her sanctuary. This was less than ideal. Her cousin would pick the hottest November on record to have her destination wedding.
Stacey upped her pace, trying to ignore the beads of moisture tickling her upper lip. That wasn’t exactly fair. Sabrina couldn’t have known how hot it would be. Besides, it wasn’t the bride’s fault that her maid of honor was sweating like a teenage boy who’d gotten caught watching Internet porn. That was all Stacey’s doing.
“I’ll go to the beach,” she’d said to herself after lunch with the bride. It had been years since she’d been on a real vacation, and she had intended to enjoy it. Of course, she couldn’t actually find the guts to put on the new swimsuit she’d bought for the trip. The imaginary confidence she’d been leaning on up until this point went poof in the harsh light of the tropical paradise. No way could she go out in any kind of swimwear. There were way too many witnesses. The trade-off was a nice walk. But what should have been a relaxing hour-long stroll along a beautiful coastline had turned into a hot, sandy trek across what might as well have been the Sahara, and had turned Stacey’s joy at the vacation into a chore. It sucked, but the temporary discomfort would be over soon.
The artificially cooled air caressed Stacey’s cheeks, and she gave a heavy sigh of relief as the glass hotel doors swung shut behind her. Finally. Punching the button for the elevator, she glanced upward.
Crap. Her strawberry-blond hair was frizzing around her forehead. Turning, she looked in the mirror that was mounted on the opposite wall and promptly blanched.
Good Lord, she looked like a nightmare. Red, sweaty, and frightening. If she ran into any small children on the way to her room, they’d probably need therapy for years to come.
This was why she stayed home. Work was safe. Work, she could throw herself into with abandon and not come out looking like a cartoon villain. Oh well. She had planned to shower before tonight’s bachelorette party anyway. There were a couple of hours left for her to make herself look presentable.
The elevator doors glided open, and Stacey’s stomach plummeted through the floor. Shit.
“Good Lord, Stacey, what happened to you? You look terrible!” Aunt Beatrice wasted no time in pointing out the obvious as she exited the elevator.
“I went for a run. I’m training for the Iron Man,” Stacey joked drily as she passed her aunt.
Completely missing the sarcasm, Aunt Beatrice lit up with a smile. “Good! That is fabulous. You do need to exercise, but perhaps next time you should dress a bit differently? You aren’t wearing the right attire, and there are sweat stains on—”
The doors shut then, and Stacey slumped against the back wall of the elevator.
Getting angry was exhausting and pointless. Aunt Beatrice had been dropping comments about her weight and other shortcomings since Stacey was in preschool. Her family had won the genetic lottery, and Stacey was the only exception. Not that she was ugly. She’d gotten the reddish-blond hair and blue eyes, sure, but the height and good metabolism had definitely skipped her. At least her own parents were vacationing in Europe, and unable to join in the fun of pointing out her faults. Fortunately, Bree was nothing like her mother in attitude. Bree was Stacey’s favorite relative, and one of her closest friends. There wasn’t much Stacey wouldn’t endure for her, and that included record-high temperatures and snooty Aunt Beatrice.
When she finally arrived on her floor, Stacey dragged an arm across her cheeks and walked determinedly to her room. Tonight would be just what she needed. Bree always did wonders for Stacey’s mood, and the other bridesmaid, Eliza, seemed really nice. They’d go out for pedicures, a fancy dinner, and then a night out dancing and cutting loose.
Stacey forced a smile. It would be a blast. Just the thing to help her shake off these blues.
* * *
The club beat drove through Stacey’s body, urging her to move. A pleasant haze surrounded her brain, the light curtain of alcohol dulling her inhibitions.
“I didn’t know you were such a good dancer, Stace!” Bree yelled to be heard over the thudding bass.
Stacey grinned and swiveled her hips, lifting her empty glass high. “Only when I’m thousands of miles away from home and slightly tipsy.”
Nodding toward the empty glass, Bree smiled. “Another drink? I’m buying!”
“Seriously, stop it. Between you and Eliza getting me drinks, I’m going to be completely hammered.” Stacey laughed. “I’ve already had enough. Just a water for me.”
“Fine.” Bree rolled her eyes. “Liza, another cosmo?”
Eliza, Bree’s pretty, dark-haired friend from college, shook her head vehemently. Maybe a little too vehemently, because she stumbled backward a bit, knocking into a tall guy with gold chains decorating the space where his shirt was unbuttoned.
“Oh gosh, I’m sorry,” Eliza stammered, regaining her balance. “I didn’t mean to bump into you.”
“No worries,” he said, a wide, eager smile spreading across his face. “I was coming over here to talk to you, anyway. I talked to the bartender, she said you liked cosmos.” He held out a pink cocktail to Eliza.
A brief flash of jealousy hit Stacey, but she tamped it down instantly. It wasn’t like she wanted attention from a guy like Miami Vice here, but it would be nice to have a guy pay attention to her for once. The only men who looked her way were usually retirees or her gynecologist. And the gynecologist she had to pay.
She shook her head. Damn. This trip was really doing a number on her self-esteem. Every time she clawed her way back to her normal, cheerful mood, something else happened to piss all over it.
“No, that’s okay. Thanks anyway.” Eliza turned back to Stacey and Bree, but the guy grabbed Liza’s shoulder.
Stacey’s spine stiffened in anger.
“Hey, I’m talking to you. Don’t be such a bitch.” Miami Vice glared down at Eliza, but Bree grabbed her and pulled her away.
“What’s the matter? Pussy got your tongue?” He laughed at his stupid joke, the sound carrying far in the break between songs.
That. Was. Enough.
Stacey shoved her way in front of Eliza and Sabrina, throwing her arms wide and blocking the guy from coming any closer. “She said she doesn’t want a drink, you dickhead. Leave her alone.”
For a moment, she was brave, she was strong, and the determination felt good. With her jaw clenched tight, she glared up at him, daring him to cross her.
Sadly, her moment of glory was short-lived.
“I was talking to your friend, you fat, ugly cunt. Fuck off.” The guy walked straight into Stacey, muscling her out of his path. His foot hooked behind her heel, and his elbow went straight into her ribs. The ground rushed up at her, much too fast.
The sound of her head connecting with the hard dance floor echoed inside her skull, the pain and sound bouncing from side to side. Stacey blinked, but the club was still sideways. Her heart had stopped, but now it was launching itself into her throat.
It was hard to tell which hurt worse—the pain in her head or the shame of those ugly words.
“Stacey, say something! Oh God, you’re really hurt, aren’t you?” Bree was babbling above Stacey, her cold hand patting Stacey’s cheek.
“I’m okay,” Stacey ground out. God, even speaking hurt. “Just help me sit up.”
Bree’s arm snaked beneath Stacey’s neck, and as she helped her rise into a sitting position, the nausea clogged Stacey’s throat. Slamming her eyes shut, she concentrated on not throwing up.
“Oh shit,” Bree said, and Stacey opened her eyes just in time to see Eliza’s foot connect with the guy’s crotch. She wanted to cheer, but just being upright was all she could manage at the moment.
It seemed like years later that Bree helped her to her feet, and the dance floor spun around Stacey. A ring of spectators surrounded them, and Stacey wanted to sink through the floor. Everyone had seen that, had heard the awful things the jackass had said. They’d seen her fall to the floor, the fat girl who shouldn’t even be there.
There was a crack in her heart as wide as the one in her skull, and all Stacey wanted to do was run home to Atlanta and never show her face in public again.
* * *
Since she’d changed her flight so last-minute, she’d gotten stuck with one of the worst spots on the whole freaking plane. Back corner, in front of the lavatory, window seat. And her neighbor? Dude had to be pushing three hundred and fifty pounds himself.
She stared out the window, wishing the miles to fly by faster. The pressure of the elevation was causing her head to pound even harder than it had before she’d boarded.
“Ma’am, would you care for something to drink?”
Stacey jumped as she realized the flight attendant was talking to her. “Sorry, just ice water please.”
“I like your eye makeup,” the woman said as she dished ice into the plastic cup. “That shade of bronze really makes your blue eyes pop.”
“Thanks,” Stacey said lamely as she took her cup of water. Damn it, she should have taken the time to wash her face after the wedding. No, there hadn’t been time, since she was trying to get out without too many guests noticing, but still. Her wedding makeup and hair probably looked really odd with her comfy pants and long-sleeved Mumford & Sons tee.
Sipping her water, Stacey scooched as close to the window as she possibly could get and opened her tablet. Blessing the free Wi-Fi on this flight, she started Googling.
This wedding had changed something inside her. Being there with her extended family, posing for pictures with the beautiful, perfect bridal party, and ruining Bree’s bachelorette party had shown Stacey that she really didn’t have a handle on life outside of work. In her job, she was confident, happy, complete. Outside of the city-planning department, in the “real life” zone? She really didn’t like that Stacey at all.
It wasn’t a surprise, of course. She’d rationalized it by reminding herself that most people didn’t like themselves, right? It was a normal thing, at least in Stacey’s experience. But when she’d been at the ER, hurting and alone, because she’d insisted she was fine and Eliza and Bree should go on and party, she’d realized that if she were someone else, anyone else, this wouldn’t have happened.
Like it or not—and she didn’t—a big part of her problem was her weight. Eighteen wasn’t exactly the size models sported on the runway. And when she’d glimpsed the note the ER physician was scribbling in her chart, she’d caught the word obese only three words in.
Outside of her work accomplishments, what did she have? The most important thing about her, the most notable, was the size of her ass. And she was tired of it.
Page after page of results came back from her search.
“Good Lord,” she muttered under her breath. How many freaking gyms were close to her apartment? A shit-ton, apparently.
Starting at the top, she clicked the first hit. Oh hell, no. Way too hard core for her. The home page touted the professional bodybuilders who used the gym, showing them in all their bronzed, oiled, and muscled perfection.
“Damn,” her neighbor said, leaning closer to look over Stacey’s shoulder. “She’s freaking hot.”
“Yeah,” Stacey said, tilting her tablet the guy’s way. “She’s my girlfriend.”
“Oh,” he said, then turned back to his paperback.
Clicking back to the search results, Stacey scanned the names. All the common ones were there, the huge chains with instantly recognizable names, the typical eating-healthy groups advertising in banners across the top of each page.
A wave of tension crested over her shoulders. No, no, none of this was right. She didn’t want to roll up into some huge mega-gym with thousands of people running on treadmills and be the fat chick everyone stared at. She needed help. Someone to show her how the heck to operate the stuff, how to do it right, without hurting or embarrassing herself.
A trainer. That’s it. She needed to find a trainer.
As soon as the word popped into her brain, her headache eased off, and she smiled to herself. Yeah. This was right.
Clearing the search bar, she started again. Personal trainers within a five-mile radius of her apartment.
“Bingo,” she said aloud. There it was. The name of the gym she’d be training at come Monday morning, if they had space for her. Healthy Living Training sounded perfect for her. Small, intimate, and encouraging. Training for people of all fitness levels.
It didn’t hurt that the little picture under the Meet Robert Liston, our founder and head trainer tagline looked like it’d been peeled right out of a men’s fashion magazine. The dude was hot.
And even though he’d never look at her twice, if she was going to be running her ass off, and sweating like a hooker in Hades, she’d like to do it while looking at a Greek god.
She might be a chubby girl, but damn it, her hormones worked just fine.