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  “Blowing off some steam, huh,” Tami Lynn says knowingly. “Well, I guess you can make a move on gym boy, now that you’re a free woman.” Tami Lynn grins at her provokingly.

  “Oh no,” Savannah protests. “I’m not going to be that girl, hopping out of one relationship and right into another. I am not afraid to be alone. Unlike Jack,” she huffs, agitating over his sneaky phone calls as she briskly exits the cubicle.

  “Oh, come on,” Tami Lynn calls after her, chuckling. “You know what they say…the quickest way to get over someone is to get under someone else.”

  Chapter Two

  Later that evening, when the working day is through, Savannah sweats it out at the local gym. Her earphones deeply lodged and blaring a mix of pump-you-up Hip-Hop and Rock tunes as she performs a series of clean and jerk exercises she picked up in a CrossFit class. Eyeing her image in the mirror, she takes note of the tone her figure has acquired, having taken heavily to the gym over the past year and a half.

  Amazing how many revived bodies abound post separation, divorce, her mind overpowers her music momentarily with the thought, wondering how many other hard-bodies in the gym are fighting the good fight, persistent in their attempt to preoccupy themselves with activities and busy work so as not to focus on their failed relationships. Or better yet, preparing themselves for the dating arena once again, or the occasional meet-up with an ex, the competition ensuing as to who has the better post-divorce revenge physique. Rendering the age-old question, ‘Why didn’t she look that good when she was with me?’

  With her last rep, she stands, swiping at her face with her gym towel—an official Myron Cope Terrible Towel displaying the familiar logo and bold colors of the Pittsburgh Steelers. The towel, symbolism of her late father’s favorite football team, one of few pieces of memorabilia through which she can hold on to his memory.

  Pulling the towel from her face, her eyes catch sight of a proverbial form in the mirror roughly five-feet behind her, the infamous gym boy. Standing about six-foot-four, weighing in at two-hundred-twenty-five pounds, with a chest and shoulders out to there, his waist and hips narrow, chiseling his form into a delightfully attractive V.

  “Focus, Savannah,” she coaches herself, muttering under her breath, “stop staring.” Her eyes dart about the gym, attempting to find a focal point, somewhere other than his direction. This fine specimen has tortured her for the last year, working out regularly at the same time she does four nights a week. Something about the man, a perfect stranger, painfully captivating.

  Every time she sees him, he serves as a reminder that she has gone without the presence of a steady man in her life—most notably without the presence of a steady man in her bed. And what a sight he must be in any bed! “Last set,” she recalls herself to the bar waiting at her feet.

  Surprising herself with the power at which she performs her last set of clean and jerks, her heartbeat and overall awareness enhanced by gym boy’s presence. Maybe there really is something to all of that pheromone talk, she grins, thinking to herself as she racks her weight, swiping at her face again with the towel. A perfect camouflage for her eyes, she can’t help but peek at the righteous image reflected behind her in the mirror, only to find his eyes, strikingly steel blue and zoned in on her behind.

  “Oh my,” she exhausts, spinning a nervous circle with his virile attention. The weight rack clamors as she clumsily bumps into it, drawing even more eyes in her direction. “Oops! Sorry,” she whispers to passersby. Gym boy flashes her a warm, audacious smile, causing her to dash for cover, out of sight, into the corner where the sit-up benches and floor-mats reside.

  Ducking her head, she climbs onto an incline sit-up bench. “Good God, Savannah, pull yourself together,” she scolds, settling her breathing. Alone in the corner, she grows assured of her safety, rolling into her sit-up regimen.

  One, two, three, four, she keeps count consciously, using the bass beat of the song blaring through her earphones as momentum for each laborious sit-up. Half a minute clicks by as she exhales deeply, coming up on number twenty-five. Allowing her body to fully relax on the incline bench, her feet secure at the top, her head hanging toward the bottom, she rests between sets.

  When out of her periphery who should appear, nestling against the other sit-up bench beside her: gym boy. She pulls her focus to the ceiling above, refusing to acknowledge him, his presence, his very closeness, unnerving and thoroughly titillating. Positioning himself opposite of her, he laces his hands at the top of the bench, his lower body hanging below as he performs reverse sit-ups, bringing his legs to his chest working his lower abdominals. Don’t just lay here, do something, she scolds internally, starting up her next set. One, two, three, four…

  Their bodies working in tandem, she sits up, his legs release below, fully exposing his face and chest to her. After a moment’s pause of silence in her earphones, the next song in the rotation comes at her, Kings of Leon—Sex On Fire. She huffs with the irony, powering through her set. Gym boy’s groans, escaping with his every exertion, are impeccably placed with the sexually-hyped lyrics of her song.

  Each primal, deep, red-blooded battle cry causes her to react, wondering if that’s what he sounds like when he’s near climax. Images of his exquisitely sculpted frame dash through her mind like an adult bookstore peep-show.

  “Ugh,” she hears a soft moan escape her mouth, subconsciously responding to him. Biting down on her lip, she quells any further unwarranted feedback. Coming up on her last sit-up, she catapults from the bench, feeling much like a dirty martini—fully shaken not simply stirred.

  Kneeling down on the padded floor mat, she strategically keeps her back to gym boy as she stretches out into full military push-up form. Digging her palms into the mat with intensity, she lowers her body only centimeters away from the floor before pushing up, each push a metaphor to simultaneously push gym boy’s image from her mind. One, two, three, four…

  To her left, a random gym inhabitant appears, choosing to do his sit-ups on the floor mat a few feet down from her. Oh, thank God, she revels in the security and company of another in the tight space, seemingly an added barrier between her and the sexy brute on the sit-up bench.

  Propping herself up on her knees, she rests between sets, grabbing up her towel and burying her face in it to relieve the accumulating perspiration. She stalls in removing the towel, feeling his presence ever-encroaching, as he whittles his way smack dab between her and the random man to her left. His bulky frame fully filling up the space, gym boy stretches, his upper body leaning forward, elongates the muscles of his legs. Savannah chucks her towel down on the mat in front of her, plunging back into push-up formation. One, two, three, four…

  Gym boy intermittently studies her flawless form while he stretches, impressed at her ability. His eyes catching sight of her Terrible Towel, he pulls his earphones from his ears.

  Savannah, all too aware of his attention, pleads internally, No. Don’t talk to me. You’re going to ruin it! Convinced the real man certainly could never measure up to the one she has made him out to be in her mind.

  He points at the towel as she rounds up from her last rep, sitting back on her haunches. “You a Pittsburgh Steelers fan?” the words roll off of his tongue in a rich, deep tone.

  Having no other option, Savannah finally gives in, looking at him. He wears a baseball cap, pulled tight and low, his steel blue eyes peeking out from under it. His smile―that smile―warm, sexy and inviting, surfaces, causing hers to reciprocate. She slowly pulls her earphones from her ears, her eyes unable to look away from his.

  “What was that?” she asks, her voice inherently soft and low, nearly purring.

  “Your towel. You a Steelers fan?” he rephrases.

  She nods, the lump in her throat momentarily holding hostage her reply.

  He extends his hand, introducing himself. “Brody McAlister.”

  Savannah’s wide green eyes hold his as her hand makes contact with his outstretched palm. A surreal mom
ent for her, actually touching for the first time the man she has fully groped in the confines of her mind. Taking note of the girth and gentleness of his hand, contradictory to its rough, calloused texture, verifying her suspicion that he works with them. Brody gently cues her with his curious smile, awaiting her introduction.

  “Savannah,” she says through a full, pouty, upturned mouth, “Savannah Bondurant.”

  “You see the game last night?” He refers to the Steelers first regular season game, breaking the long, drawn-out handshake.

  “Never miss a game, if I can help it,” she says. It was a longtime tradition she and her sisters once shared with their father, every Sunday.

  “They’re looking pretty good,” Brody says. “If my Cowboys get their quarterback situation figured out, maybe we’ll see you at the Super Bowl.” He chuckles.

  The sound of his soothing, indulgent tone affecting her in the pit of her stomach. “Maybe,” she says. Her eyebrow rises challengingly, forcing her confidence to return.

  “So, what do you do, Savannah Bondurant?” He continues stretching amidst their conversation.

  “I’m a writer. For the Savannah Sun Times.” She takes note of the bulk in his arms as he leans back onto them, propping himself up, his body language open and angled toward her.

  He smiles mischievously, leaning further into her personal space. “Do you write about sex and the city?” his tone playful and low, as he references the once popular television series, assuming she may be a fan.

  “Something like that,” she giggles, a mixture of pleasure and nerves. Quickly turning the focus on him, “What about you?” she asks.

  “Guess,” he says, that seductive smile reappearing. “It’s always fun to see what kind of first impression people have. What do you think I do for a living?”

  “Alright.” She accepts his challenge, considering her instincts as a journalist to be quite shrewd. “I’d say by the feel of your hands, you actually work with them. That rules out any kind of desk job.”

  “Very perceptive,” he says. “That’s a good quality.” Inherently tending his dating and mating ‘must-haves’ checklist, he crosses off number three—smart. A runaway bead of perspiration trails from his forehead to his temple causing one of his tell-tale calloused hands to catch it, rubbing it away.

  “Here.” Savannah quickly offers up her Terrible Towel, noting his form-fitting t-shirt is nearly drenched.

  “You don’t mind?” he double-checks.

  “Not at all,” she says, fully aware of the fact that she has already swapped sweat with him, if only in her imagination.

  He peels his baseball cap off, revealing a full head of dark, wavy hair, trimmed high and tight as he mops the cotton cloth across his forehead and around the backside of his neck.

  “Ah, much better,” he says, looking at the rumpled-up towel in his hand. He squints the corners of his eyes, reluctant in handing it back to her. “I can take it home. Wash it. And bring it back to you.”

  “No worries,” she says, grabbing the yellow and black rag from his hand. In a show of support and total lack of conceit, she swipes the towel across her own forehead and down around the backside of her neck, between two long, low-lying braids that sweep over the front of her shoulders.

  The genuine action causing him to grow quite content, releasing another warm, infectious chuckle. Keenly aware of the attractive face smiling back at him, he catches himself, midway between reaching for her, his intent to brush a runaway piece of hair from her lip. Reining in his hand, he searches for a subject.

  “So, you got it figured out? My job?”

  “I’ve got it narrowed down,” she begins, “You’re either in construction, or athletics…maybe football…you’re definitely big enough.” She motions at his long, substantial frame. “Or maybe, you’re a male model.”

  “Shit,” he snickers, completely uncomfortable and too humble to even consider such a notion.

  “If Mark Wahlberg modeled Calvins,” she refers to the once popular underwear ad, “you certainly could. Besides, look at your eyelashes,” she points out the dark, uber-long accessories. “It’s really unfair, you know. Do you know how many of my friends pay to get those lashes?”

  He smiles. “Modeling underwear? Never even made it on my radar. But, if you want a new kitchen table, a hutch, bed frame…I’m your man.” He holds up his calloused hands. “I make rustic furniture. From the tree to your home.”

  “A modern day Paul Bunyan, huh?” Savannah jests, her mind recalling a piece of American folklore, quite possibly a new-fashioned female sexual fantasy.

  “Yeah,” he chuckles. “Minus the full beard and flannel shirt.” His hand simultaneously runs across his budding five o’clock shadow, now conscious of its presence.

  His action draws Savannah’s attention to the ruggedness of his square jawline, wondering what it would feel like against her hand, or any part of her body for that matter.

  More gym-goers have flooded their once private corner, reminding Brody of the time and place. “Well, I’ve probably interrupted enough of your workout. I’ll let you get back to it.” He extends his hand for one more contact with hers. “A pleasure, Savannah Bondurant.”

  “You too, Brody McAlister,” she returns his formal address, getting back to her push-ups as he walks away. One, two, three, four…

  Chapter Three

  An hour later, as the sun is starting to set, Savannah pulls up in front of her house in suburban Savannah. A red sports car sits in the drive, accompanied by its owner, Jack Brigant, who sits on the front steps of the residence.

  “What does he want?” Savannah mutters, gathering up her belongings. Shoving her keys inside her purse, she smiles as her hand makes contact with a note left under the windshield wiper of her Jeep at the gym. Do you like to run, Savannah Bondurant? If so, give me a call sometime. 555-8484. Brody McAlister, male model. Lol! Prepping herself, she takes a deep breath, exhaling as she walks up the drive.

  “You really did it?” Jack asks. Attired in his station #10 Savannah Fire Department t-shirt and matching blue duty cargoes, he sits on the front porch steps, his hands agitating briskly against one another, elbows propped on his knees. “You signed the papers?” his tone still disbelieving.

  “Jack, I don’t want to argue,” Savannah prefaces, mindful of how that’s the only thing she and the attractive, sandy blond-haired man seem to be good at these days.

  He rises to greet her, his arms open wide for an embrace. Savannah dodges his gesture, sitting down on the step next to him. “We can’t even hug anymore?” he scoffs.

  She shakes her head, looking up at the sky, quelling the urge to tell him to call one of his girls if he’s in need of comfort, assured they are dutifully waiting by their phones. “It was inevitable, Jack. Why can’t you just accept that?”

  “Accept it?” he spins around, the look on his face partially hurt, mostly angry. “Separation, divorce, was your idea.” He points his finger at her, accusing and aggressive in its action.

  “Gee, I wonder why?” she throws her arms out, gesturing at him. “I’ve told you a hundred times, I am not a child. Do not point your finger at me,” her voice rising. She calms herself. “Seriously, Jack,” she looks up at him, her eyes anguished, “when was the last time we had a conversation and you didn’t raise your voice at me?”

  “Oh, let’s see,” he pauses, calculating, “probably since the time you told me you wanted to sleep with other men.”

  She chuckles sarcastically. “So that’s what ‘this isn’t working anymore’ translates to these days?” she spars, noting her exact reasoning for their separation.

  “Well, if I’m not doing it for you, basically what you’re saying is somebody else will. It makes me sick to think about some other man holding you. Some other man…” his teeth pressed together, he spews, “in your bed.”

  Savannah stands, fed up with his consistent aversion to dealing with the truth and deflection of responsibility by twisting her word
s, an obvious speed-bump in their ability to reconcile. “I am not having this conversation with you. Goodnight Jack.” She walks toward the door.

  “Savannah,” he calls after her, his voice cracking. “I don’t know what to do. I can’t get over you.” He slumps back down onto the step, holding his head in his hands.

  Against her better judgment, she turns around, rejoining him on the step, her hand familiarly stroking his back. “Jack, please don’t do this. Don’t cry.”

  “Oh yeah, don’t cry,” he sputters. “You sure got that down pat. Shut it all off. Don’t show any emotion.” He looks at her, his eyes now calling on his tears. “I can’t even remember the last time you cried to me.”

  “I guess I just learned to depend on myself.” She reflects on the last year and a half, the endless nights spent alone, crying, second-guessing, wanting him—the man she fell in love with, to be lying beside her. “I think I’m all cried out.”

  “So, that’s it? You’re over it? Us?” His questions more accusations than inquiries.

  “When was the last time you were happy, Jack?” she asks softly. “Truly happy with us?” His somber brown eyes all the answer she needs, he shrugs his shoulders. “Life’s too short not to have what you want.”

  “But, I do want you, Savannah,” he argues.

  “Maybe,” she says. “Maybe you do want me…that girl you fell in love with eight years ago. I’m not that girl anymore, Jack. And you’re not that same guy. It’s okay. People grow, they evolve, and not always in the same direction.”

  He wipes his forearm across the bridge of his nose, clearing his throat, his tears now in check. “How in the hell did we get here?”

  Savannah shakes her head. “I’ve asked myself the same question. Let me know when you find the answer.” She attempts to lighten the mood, her elbow gently jabbing him in the ribs.