All About Me. Marcia King-Gamble

Dickie isn’t too bad to look at and he liked his women big. Since the way to my heart is definitely through my stomach I thought I’d give him a shot. Feed me and I’ll listen to you bray on any topic. Richard’s gold card had taken a beating on those meals.

      I yawned. My bed waited. I had to be up at the crack of dawn and I needed my beauty sleep. I was already planning tomorrow’s outfit in my head. As my grandmother used to say, “fat does not have to mean sloppy.” She was one smart old lady.

      After I’d left class, I stopped at a discount store and splurged on a new workout outfit. The peanuts I got paid didn’t get me into Macy’s. I hadn’t gone hog wild with the colors and although it killed me, I passed on zebra stripes and polka dots, sticking to black. Black was slimming. I bought two pairs of capris and an oversized T-shirt and spiced up the outfit with hot pink socks and a matching cap that said, Love Handles All.

      I was doing this for Quen Abrahams. I’d noticed the types of women he went for. They were fit, trim and looked like they stepped off magazine covers. I was going to be one of those women soon.

      Bedtime. I was getting overtired and punchy.

      A god-awful racket woke me next morning. It sounded like a freight train was roaring through my head. I hit the snooze button, sat up and looked at the clock. I had exactly one half hour to crawl into my outfit, plug in the curling iron and throw in some curls.

      By the time I left my apartment I had ten minutes to get across town. It wasn’t even summer yet but it was hotter than hell in Florida, this promised to be a steamer of a day. The air-conditioning in my car was on the blink and I would be feeling it. Trying not to think about that, I wedged myself behind the wheel of my Honda, cranked up the engine, and lowered the window. I roared into that parking lot with a full minute to spare.

      Quen was waiting in one of the workout rooms. He had on black track pants with a stripe on the side, and a body hugging T-shirt with a hot pink flamingo emblem that matched my socks.

      “Morning,” he said, glancing at his watch. “You’re right on time. Cute getup.”

      “Thanks.” Boyfriend sure as hell made my mouth go dry. It was going to be one painful hour and not just because of the exercise session.

      Quen was one of those delicious, dark brown men, with a smooth complexion and square jaw. Everything about him squeaked cleanliness. He had wide shoulders, a tapered waist and hands just as scrupulously clean as the rest of him.

      I set my fanny pack in the corner and made my way to the machine in the corner that he pointed out. The contraption made me think of that guillotine I’d read about in my English class, Madame Defart or something. Grimacing, I managed to mount the thing while he barked orders.

      “Tuck your stomach in and sit up straight. Your legs go under not over.”

      Quen stood beside me, his hands on my flesh, showing me where everything went. My stomach fluttered and the parts below pulsed. I closed my eyes and inhaled citrus. God I loved how he smelled. Gotta get me a piece of him. Soon.

      Concentrate, Chere. Forget about the fact that you want to eat this man whole.

      I concentrated letting the pain of muscles I hadn’t used in years numb my brain. There was definitely more than sixty minutes in an hour when your whole body ached. Finally it was over. I was crippled but done. Now I needed a wheelchair to get back to my car.

      “Good workout,” Quen said as we cooled down. Of course he could say that he hadn’t been the one peddling or rowing. He hadn’t even broken a sweat. “Come with me to my office.”

      I would go with him anywhere. I limped down a hallway to a glass-enclosed box that was as neat as he looked. A Formica desk held a tray with only a few pieces of paper stacked on top. A filing cabinet was angled in one corner. Framed photos of fitness gurus adorned the walls, and in another corner was one of those medical scales. Tell me he wasn’t planning to have me get on some scale. I liked the guy, okay, wanted him badly, but he didn’t need to see how much I weighed.

      I took a whiff at my pits. Phew! My deodorant was a thing of the past.

      Quen waved me into the chair across from his desk. He crossed over to the filing cabinet removed a card and handed it to me. His finger brushed mine.

      Zap. Zap. Zap. His touch was electric and I was lit.

      “What you got here?” I asked, turning the card over.

      “A list of suggested foods to stay away from. I’m a nutritionist, remember? Normally I give these cards to my clients after weighing them in.”

      We were back to weight again. I had no intention of putting one toe on that scale, not with him standing there. Besides, I’d only hired him to do the personal training bit. I didn’t need no menu.

      “Thanks,” I said, the card still in my hand. I smiled at him. “You can hook me up with some menus soon as I can afford it. If my real estate career takes off then you and I are in business.”

      Quen sat behind his desk, legs propped on the surface, ankles crossed. His brown eyes twinkled. He must find me amusing.

      “Consider that a gift,” he said. “So when did you become a real estate agent? Last I knew you were working for the Chronicle.”

      “I still am.”

      “Hmm.”

      I looked him square in the eye. God, just gazing at him made me want to eat him alive. “That job barely pays the bills so I had to do something. I got my first client yesterday.”

      “Congratulations. Want another?”

      I perked up immediately. Was he teasing me or what? “I’m open.”

      “Available?”

      I swear he was flirting and dang I wanted him to.

      I needed another client. Heck I needed several more clients to make this work.

      Quen took his legs off the desk and rolled his chair forward, looking at me intently. “I own three apartments in the Flamingo Place complex,” he confided. “I need two renters.”

      “You don’t say?”

      This was news to me. I knew Quen was smart I just didn’t know he had business sense. Boyfriend was a real entrepreneur.

      “I bought them at the insiders’ price when the buildings were transitioning from rentals to condos.”

      Forgetting about sweat and my fear of B.O., I leaned in closer.

      “Betcha I could move those condos for you. Are you looking to sell or to rent?”

      “Rent right now. I figured if I can hold on to them for a couple of years I could make a small fortune.”

      “And they’re all waterfront?” My mind was calculating both possibilities and commissions.

      “Yes. I’m keeping the corner unit for myself. It’s the biggest with the best view.”

      Excitement surged through me. When I moved into Jen’s place we would be neighbors. And if I were his real estate agent we would be talking regularly. I won’t need an excuse to call him. I’d be more than the fat woman he was helping to lose weight.

      Quen and I would be agent and client, and later boyfriend and girlfriend. Fantasy was already taking over.

      I was going to be late for work. I stood.

      “You’re my friend,” I said. “For friends I work miracles. You let me rent those apartments and I’ll cut my commission in half.”

      “Three months,” Quen countered. “You’ve got three months to find me suitable tenants.” He named a figure he hoped to get for rent. I blinked. I needed to make it happen.

      He was shrewd. I admired that in a man.

      I pumped his hand when what I really wanted to do was the raise the roof dance.