“We can pull it off if we’re smart about it,” Taylor returned.

“You do realize this sounds like a romance novel, don’t you?” London asked. “I mean, it’s adorable, but it is such a romance novel. In the book, you two would end up getting married.” London lifted one shoulder. “I’m just saying.”

Taylor immediately dismissed London’s theory. There would be no ugly bridesmaid dresses, or sugary wedding cake in her future—at least not with Jamar Dixon. Or any client.

She’d learned that hard lesson two years ago, when she’d made the mistake of hooking up with Chad Lewis, an asshole of a client who’d decided that once they slept together it meant he no longer had to pay her to be his trainer. She’d discovered that the only reason his best friend hired her is because Chad had told him that she would probably sleep with him too.

They’d laughed at her. Taylor could still hear their disgusting cackles as she confronted Chad about this idea of passing her around to his friends. No amount of positive self-talk could expunge those memories, and she hated that the experience still affected her so much.

That incident had been the catalyst behind her move to Austin. She had been so afraid that she would acquire a reputation of being open to sleeping with clients, or that Chad and his friend Brandon would put that lie out there. It had seemed like the smart thing to just get the hell out of North Carolina.

She’d also decided to put dating—and men in general—on the back burner for a while. She’d had a couple of coffee meetups and flirted online a bit, but that fateful date with Craig Walters back in August had been her first real date in over a year.

Maybe she should just give up on men altogether. Her track record wasn’t worth shit.

“That’s not happening,” Taylor assured London. “This story ends with Jamar making it onto an NFL team and telling all of his teammates how he owes his success to his amazing personal trainer.”

“Work that hustle,” Samiah said, holding her hand up for a high five.

“I don’t understand why you can’t do both, but whatever,” London said. She slid off her stool. “I need more wine.”

Samiah caught her wrist. “Not yet. We’re about to start.” She motioned to the front of the room, where the freckled redhead stood. The woman held up a painting of a wineglass on the ledge of a windowsill. It was a completed version of the image outlined in gray on their canvases. Peggy instructed the class to “go with their heart” when painting their own version, but informed them that hers would remain at the front of the class as a guide.