She traipsed up and down each aisle, looking for a machine labeled for beginners, but apparently they didn’t make those. The more she glanced over the equipment, the more uncertain and self-conscious she started to feel. Especially when her slow progression around the room began drawing unwanted attention.

Two buff guys lifting and clanging weights on the other side of the room both wore smirks as they followed her movements with their eyes. Maybe they were fascinated by her inability to choose a machine due to her lack of knowledge. Or maybe they weren’t used to seeing a newcomer who didn’t know what the hell she was doing. Or maybe they were just riveted by the fact that a plus-size girl was going to actually work out. Who knew? But it only made being inside the gym that much more intimidating.

Determined to ignore their beady eyes staring her down, Preslee glanced to the next row over and spotted a stair-climbing machine. Oh, that one looked simple enough. Who couldn’t climb stairs? And she’d probably be great at it given how she ran up and down a set of stairs at work all the time. Her dad’s antique shop had only one storeroom, and it just so happened to be located in the basement. Lucky her.

Excited that she’d finally found a machine to try out, one that even looked like fun, she hustled down the aisle toward it. But just as she careened around the corner, a man stepped out of a doorway and landed directly in her path. She tried to skid to a stop but pitched too far forward and barreled face-first into him, her cheek smacking into a rock-hard chest.

Two strong hands shot up and grasped her shoulders, holding her with a firm yet gentle grip until she steadied herself. “Whoa. You okay, miss?”

Dazed, she shook her head to clear her blurry vision and then nodded. Sure, she was okay. She’d only collided with a brick wall like one of those crash-test dummies from the TV commercials. No biggie.

Man. Now her face hurt. Gym, two. Preslee, zero.

She rubbed at her sore cheek. “Um, yeah, I’m good,” she said, her gaze lifting to his. “Sorry about…”

Preslee’s mouth went dry, and the ability to form words vanished from her tongue as quickly and as quietly as disappearing ink dries on paper.

His unblinking, deep-set brown eyes, the color of warm bourbon, swept lazily over her face and sent an involuntary shiver spiraling through her. His dark brown hair stood on end in different directions, giving him a tousled, bed-head look, and his broad, powerful body towered over her by at least six inches. Yet he appeared relaxed and unimposing, confidence oozing from him in spades.