Daphne groaned and remained flat on her yoga mat, staring up at the ceiling. This was hell, right? This had to be hell. Unfortunately for her, hell came around at seven every morning to put her through an intense workout, and then shadowed her for the rest of the day. “We just did fifty crunches,” she panted.
“Which is why we need to get your heart rate back up,” Wesley—aka Satan—said. He patted her arm and then sprang to his feet as if made of air. “Come on. Thirty burpees and then we’ll do some weight training.”
“I don’t have another thirty in me,” she whined, even as she crawled to her feet and put her hands on her hips, glaring at her trainer.
“You do,” Wesley said cheerfully. “You’re strong. Come on, now.” And he jumped into the air, indicating she should follow along.
“Fucking hell. This is what I get for showing up at the studio in sweatpants,” she grumbled, but flung herself into the air. Thirty burpees. She could do thirty. Hopefully. “Fucking . . . label. . . . thinks I’m too fucking . . . fat . . .” she panted as she went through the motions of each burpee. Arms in the air and jump, then fling herself back down to the floor into a push-up, then fling herself back onto her feet again. It was torture. It didn’t help that Wesley—gorgeous, studly, workout god Wesley—did them like he was born to it. He bounded through each one while she limped along, huffing and puffing like she was dying.
But then the thirty was over, and she bent in half, groaning.
He patted her sweaty back. “You’re doing great, Daph. Drink some water and then we’ll get on the free weights.”
She headed to her water bottle and towel while Wes did a few more sets of burpees. Since he was her trainer and personal shadow, he took a bit more time in the gym every morning—and that was after being up and running for two hours—to keep his gorgeous physique in shape. She sipped her water and leaned against the wall of her private gym, trying not to stare as he put an arm behind his back and started to do one-armed push-ups. His tank top was open on the sides and loose, showing ripped abs and rock-hard muscles. Dear god, she was going to start drooling if he kept that up. She dabbed at her face and forced herself to look away, out the window into the gray Manhattan morning.
It was wrong to be crushing on her trainer and life coach. Seriously, a very bad idea, and even Daph—who excelled at poor decisions—knew it was bad. He was her nutritionist, bodyguard, trainer, and constant companion. When she’d gotten out of rehab four months ago, the label had paid through the nose to assign Wesley to her. This was what he did for a living—he shadowed troubled celebrities and helped them get their lives back on track, and then he moved on to the next. And so, even if he was the most mouthwatering of beefcakes, he was not for her.
Which was for the best, she told herself, watching him work his way through another set of backbreaking reps that only showed how fit he was. Wesley was smart and funny, and intensely disciplined. He was also completely different than anyone she’d ever met. He never drank anything stronger than green tea, never smoked, never lit up, never partied, nothing. She didn’t even think he ate anything with sugar. In fact, she was pretty sure he didn’t, because ever since he’d moved in, she didn’t get sugar, either, and he ate the same things she did. It was all egg whites and asparagus and so much fucking plain water she thought she’d float away.
Every time she wanted something unhealthy, Wesley took it out of her hand. Cigarettes were a gateway drug back to the crack. Sodas were bad for you and led to sugar addiction. Cronuts? Absolutely fucking not. Coffee? Only black and decaf. And Wesley even went through the groceries her housekeeper brought back and threw out ‘poor choices’. He drove Daphne crazy. He drove her housekeeper crazy.
The label? The label fucking loved him, of course, because his methods worked. And she’d been clean as a fucking whistle since he’d come into her life, which was good, she supposed.
The problem was that being clean meant she couldn’t hide from all her issues. And somewhere in the last few drug-filled years, she’d scared everyone out of her life. She told everyone she was fine with it. That fans filled the hole of loneliness. That she didn’t mind that her old partying friends didn’t call now that she was sober, and her family had given up on her a while back. That was okay.
She had Wesley and her music, and most days that was enough.
Except once this Christmas album was in the can for next year, the label wanted to evaluate how she was doing. If she was doing great? Wesley would move on to another client.
And she’d be all alone again.
Her fingers twitched and she slumped against the wall. Just thinking about all that made her really, really want a cigarette. She licked her lips hard and stared out at the skyline again, as if it’d have answers.
“Daph, come on. Time for weights.” He hopped to his feet and moved to the rack. “Let’s start with twenty-fives and see how we handle that, all right?”
“Sure,” she said listlessly, and followed after him.
Wesley paused, frowning over at her. “What’s wrong?”
She marched in front of him, irritated. “What do you mean, what’s wrong? I said I’d lift the fucking weights.”
He handed her a dumbbell. “Yes, but you didn’t bitch about it. Something’s wrong.”
She snatched it from his grasp. “Oh, fuck off, Wesley.”
“Bicep curl, alternate,” he instructed, crossing his arms to watch her. “And tell me what’s bothering you.”