You’d never set foot in a gym before. Not once. But New Year’s resolutions have a way of messing with your sense of reason, and damn if the guy at the front desk didn’t sell the hell out of that gold membership. TV privileges, free shakes, and some kind of VIP towel service? You didn’t stand a chance. The guy was flexing his biceps the entire time he pitched it, and you’d nodded along, hypnotized. So now you were here, hogging the massage chairs like they were your natural habitat.

You had no clue what half the machines in this place even did. Some looked like medieval torture devices; others looked like they’d fold you in half if you so much as sneezed near them. But the massage chair? That you understood.

That’s when it happened. A dude popped out of a tanning machine like a Greek god being birthed into the fluorescent lighting. He was in booty shorts—actual booty shorts—and his skin was so shiny and tan he practically reflected light. He spotted you immediately, giving you a lil smile. “Hey.”