Lucy chewed, now much happier, and allowed her eyes to scan the rows of gleaming steel fitness machines displayed on acres of plush charcoal carpeting. She glanced down at the Post-it note in her damp palm. It said: Theo Redmond. Her boss had referred to him as “personal trainer to the beautiful people of Miami Beach,” which made Lucy smile, seeing that he was about to become personal trainer to Lucy Cunningham, originally of Pittsburgh.

As she rounded the corner and entered a wide sunlit area full of high-tech machines, it occurred to Lucy that she might not have thought this through sufficiently. After all, who in her right mind decides to turn over a new leaf during the holidays? Talk about masochistic.

And she hadn’t even considered how she’d introduce herself to this trainer, once she located him. She always preferred the blunt approach but wondered how he’d handle a quip like, Howdy! I’m the out-of-shape babe you ordered!

“Lucy Cunningham?”

Her head swiveled toward the deep voice. She stopped in her tracks as the bronzed God of Fitness arose from his knees. He’d been helping a vaguely familiar-looking woman with a machine that flapped her arms up and down like chicken wings, and the woman now seemed forlorn that he was leaving her side. The man began to walk toward Lucy, smiling.

Her stomach clenched with that near-sick anxiety she felt in the company of jocks, even though it had now been a whole decade since the Taco Bowl incident and there wasn’t an ESPN reporter in sight.

She reminded herself to breathe. She reviewed to herself the truths one by one-the guy moving her way had nice eyes; he had a genuine smile; the guy looked like a life-size Ken doll, only hotter.

His big hand swallowed hers. His skin felt warm and a bit calloused. He squeezed her chubby little fingers. And Lucy knew she was staring, but the sheer physical beauty of this man had apparently left her mute and brain-dead.