A Girl Like You by vinnie Kinsella (good books to read for 12 year olds .TXT) 📕

monitor that flashed units in bright red lights: miles completed, heart rate, calories burned. I brought in a hand towel to cover up the monitor, because it did me no good to know I’d only walked .08 miles, burned eleven calories and had the heart rate of a camel.

I didn’t bring headphones like most of the crowd; instead, I watched the 6 o’clock news. I got accustomed to the ’90s music and caught myself humming along to Madonna songs. I was chasing that runner’s high, but so far, the best part of working out was being done and going home.

My goal was to recapture my fitness to the level where I could muster up the guts to even approach the locker room scale. At no time did I put bands on my ankles and walk sideways across the room. Nor did I yell out the number of miles I’d done like a small group of sprinters were in the habit of doing.

One night I was reaching the end of a long haul on the bike, sweat sticking my bangs to my forehead, nearly breathless, when a tall man with sculpted calf muscles walked by me, stopped, and pointed to his chest.

We were wearing the exact same T-shirt. Mine was an old St. Patrick’s Day Marathon shirt of Ian’s from six years before, with the name of the race emblazoned on the chest over a leaping leprechaun. Calf man’s was the same, maybe a little more broken-in.

Among the sea of T-shirts in the workout room, most were athletic labels, making it even more odd to be wearing the same one as anyone else. Of course, he was a man and I was still the only woman who didn’t wear sports bras and spandex, but that’s another story.

Matching shirts had to be a sign something was meant to happen!

“What are the chances of this?” he said, settling into the bike next to me.

“Slim to none.”

“Right?”

I knew having the same shirts had to be a sign.

“Did you run the race?” he asked.

“What? Oh, no, this is my son’s shirt. I borrowed it,” I overexplained.

I discreetly slowed my pace to stop panting. What to say?

“I’m Brant,” he said.

“Jessica,” I said, holding out my hand. Good Lord! Who shakes hands at a gym? And how did I not notice how clammy and wet my hand was before offering it to Brant Beautiful Calves?

Gamely, he shook hands with me.

“You come here often?” I wanted to kick myself, but both feet were on the bike. I was resorting to 1970s bar pick-up lines. WTF?

“It varies from day to day. Now that I’m retired, I can go anytime.”

Retired? Hmm. He didn’t look a day over forty-five. The only wrinkles he had were completely adorable smile lines around his green eyes.

“Lucky you,” I said, attempting to brush my bangs back, but my sweat was like super glue. I thought about mopping my face with the hand towel, but there was an off chance I still had mascara on, and I didn’t want to smear it all over.

From the back of the room, someone dropped a heavy weight onto the floor, a thudding sound that always made me jump. Marvin strolled in to chat with the personal trainers in the front of the room. I waved, but he didn’t see me, so I pretended I was just fixing my ponytail.

Cathy’s Kitchen was on the screen nearest me. She was making a bacon, potato, and cheese frittata that looked amazing and also a zillion calories per forkful. I looked away, as if watching Cathy would make me look too into food.

I brushed my sweaty forehead with the back of my hand and stealthily wiped it on the hand towel. I could tell by the fire in my calf muscles I’d been on the bike at least 45 minutes, but hell if I was quitting now. I was determined to ride it out with Brant.

“What do you do?” Brant was outpacing me like crazy but still able to carry on a conversation.

“I work for the Town of Meredia.”

“Downtown? I run there some mornings and stop for coffee.”

“Brew Coffee?”

“That’s the place.”

Good god, he could know the Three Stooges!

We pedaled in silence for a minute. Maybe the shirt thing wasn’t a sign. But Brew Coffee had to be.

“How do you stay busy?” I meant, aside from the marathon training.

“Gardening, mostly. I have some beautiful apple and fig trees. Ever had a fresh fig, right off a branch?”

“I’ve had Fig Newtons.”

Brant tipped his head back and laughed, so I did too. “I like to show the grandkids how to grow their own fruit; they like the getting-dirty part.”

Grandkids? Retired? Clearly, I had to rethink my vision of what today’s grandfathers look like. I pictured Brant in an orchard of trees (did they look like apple trees? I had no idea) picking figs with several blond grandkids, all with green eyes like his. In my mind, the sunset made the whole scene look like a Sonoma Valley wine country commercial.

We pedaled in silence for a few minutes. I was glad for the chance to catch my breath.

“You have kids?” Brant asked, showing no signs of sweat.

“Two, both in their twenties.”

“Nice.”

“Yeah,” I said. “My kids are both single. We’re all single, actually. Single and ready to mingle.”

I turned my face to the wall clock so he couldn’t see my red face after sharing that unnecessary info.

Without warning, Brant was done biking, and incredibly, I was still breathing. He climbed off and stretched his calves again in a way that made me almost drool.

“Nice talking with you, Jess,” he said, smiling.

“You too.”

He turned to walk back to the weights area.

“Hey!” I called out before I could stop myself.

Brant turned back.

“It might be nice to talk sometime when we’re not both sweating,” I said. “Maybe Brew Coffee sometime?”

He hesitated and I immediately wished to take back the invitation, pluck it right out of the space between us.

“I’m really not dating right now. Nothing against you. I’m just not into