The Jock and the Fat Chick Read Online Free Page B

greasy.”
    “True.” Claire sizes me up and then adds, “And you’re definitely not greasy.”
    Hey, did she just check me out?
    “Okay, how’s ‘don’t tell me you’re one of those carb-counting fitness bunnies’?”
    I grunt, amused.
    “I bet you work out twice a day,” she goes on, stirring the risotto, “and you eat nothing but skinless chicken and steamed broccoli.”
    I shrug.
    She bobs her head, like she’s confirming something. “Yeah, you look like a guy who denies himself pleasure. . . .”
    An unexpected rush of heat spreads across my face. “Well, if you want six-pack abs, there’s got to be sacrifices.”
    Claire glances at my stomach, and even though she can’t see anything under my shirt and apron, she turns her gazeaway and smiles, big.
    That was definitely a check-me-out move. For a second, I imagine what it’d be like to kiss her. If I had one ounce of Viktor’s nerve, I’d ask her to show me just what kind of pleasure she thinks I’m denying myself, but I don’t. If I’ve read her signals wrong and she isn’t playing, we’re talking disaster of epic proportions. But she is, I’m sure of it . . . I think. Claire scoops up a spoonful of her dish and then brings it to her mouth before closing her eyes. She tastes and “mmms,” and this blissful expression lights up her face. She has to be messing with me. Food can’t be that good.
    “Tell Mrs. A we’re done,” she says, pulling another spoon from the drawer. She coats it before handing it to me. “And when she asks if you tasted it, say yes and you suggested more pepper.”
    “Okay, Coach.”
    “And remember, it’s risotto. An Italian dish.”
    I nod one last time and call Mrs. A over.
    “Wild mushroom and halibut risotto,” I announce, still not sure what we made. Mrs. A grabs a clean spoon. She tastes it and also closes her eyes. Now I want to know what all the fuss is about.
    “Scrumptious,” Mrs. A says. “What do you think, Kevin?”
    I deliver my big line. “It’s great, but I said we should add more pepper.”
    Her face grows serious as she considers my point. She nods, accepting my suggestion. “Ladies,” she addresses the class. “Come try the risotto.”
    The next thing I know, dozens of spoons dip into the pan and scrape along the bottom to scoop up samples. Lots of “mmms” fill the room. From where I’m standing, high on the platform towering over everyone, I’m like a fly on the wall, listening in on secret girl stuff. I do the guy thing and picture a sleepover: girls braiding one another’s hair before the big downy-filled pillow fight breaks out.
    I stare at the wild, buttery, mushroom risotto and fish. I’m guessing one decent bite is roughly eighty calories? Ah heck, I can work that off by breathing. I scoop up a spoonful and try it. Multiple flavors fill my mouth. It tastes creamy even though she didn’t add cream to it. It’s good, so good I want to tell everyone to back off because the rest is mine.
    I go in for seconds, even thirds. This extra credit class might just work out better than I thought.
    As long as the guys don’t find out about my new girlie skills.

CHAPTER 3
    I’M AT SHREDS. THE LAST REP, ON THE LAST set, bench-pressing 165, which at this moment feels more like 400 pounds. I exhale and give it all I got as I raise the bar level with its cradle. Viktor stands behind me for the spot. Hands at the ready, fingers grazing the bar in case I fail and he can stop the weight from smashing into my chest. Focus, embrace the pain.
    “Push it, push it, push it!” he yells. “Come on, man! Do! It! ”
    I reach deep, suck in a gulp of air, and tap into my last ounce of reserves. I exhale again and grunt like I’m crapping out a baby. The bar moves five final inches before Viktor’s got my back and guides it into the cradle.
    I sit up and drag my towel across my face. That. Was. Brutal. I joke to myself, blaming the three tablespoons of wild mushroom and halibut risotto and all