His Kind of Perfection

The puff of air from the F-sound punched Bree in the eye.

Made you blink! Her brother Gil’s favorite taunt from childhood scampered across her memory.

Bree clenched the towel that hung around her neck with both hands and jutted her chin forward defiantly. “Oh, come on, Lang. It’s not my fault Todd Howell is a self-centered, conceited, two-timing SOB.” She eyed him levelly. “How do you think I feel...coming back to the gym to work out after hours, and catching the guy I’m dating in one of the private showers with another woman? You want to blame me that he can’t keep his urges under control?”

“I’m not blaming you for his actions. I’m blaming you for your own lack of judgment.” If it were possible, Lang’s voice hardened even more. “You knew it was a bad idea to date a client, but I overlooked your indiscretion because of our history—”

That again. Bree bristled. “You overlooked it because the client happened to be the assistant football coach, and my dating him landed a huge contract with the high school athletic department—”

“Which runs out next week and won’t be renewed according to the phone call I just received,” Lang snapped.

“Oh.” Bree straightened as the shock of that bit of news stiffened her spine. The high school athletics was the gym’s largest account. Losing it was a major loss. “I’m sorry, Lang. It won’t happen again.”

She watched his jaw muscle twitch. “You’re right. It won’t happen again. At least, not with you. I meant what I said, Bree. You’re fired. I’m not sure what made us ever think this would work, but it’s time to admit it doesn’t. Time to call it quits...for good, this time.”

The ubiquitous it Lang referred to was their continued working relationship after their broken engagement. When Lang hired Bree as a personal trainer for his gym three years ago, the attraction had been immediate and undeniable. And when she’d broken the engagement, they’d vowed to make it work. She wanted to stay in western Kentucky where she’d grown up and where her family was, and Langston Presley’s gym in Paducah was the only one of its size in the area.

But since she’d started dating the football coach, things had been stickier. Lang had been pouty and withdrawn. More than once, he’d demanded to know what Todd had that he didn’t.

The question didn’t have an answer Bree knew how to give. There was just something about the attraction between her and Lang that had gone from sizzle to fizzle. He was a great-looking guy with a physique to kill for. But something between them was off.

One man’s trash is another man’s treasure, her mom would quote to her and her twin brother when they were kids.

She had no doubt somebody would view Lang as a treasure. She simply wasn’t that somebody.

Bree was too angry to feel panic at the moment, but what this would mean to her career hovered at the edge of her thoughts. She gave reason another go. “You’re making a hasty decision here. It’s never a good idea to make a decision when your emotions are running high.”

“Yeah.” Another flare of anger shot from Lang’s eyes. “If I’d learned that lesson three years ago, I might not be in this mess now.”

Bree’s hackles rose at the comment. If she didn’t leave soon, things were going to escalate into a shouting match just like they had last night with Todd. She hated when her emotions made her lose control—and she certainly didn’t need any more drama in her life. Tamping down her ire, she moved toward the door. “Okay. You’ve said enough. I’ll go pack my things.”

“I’ll take back the Mr. Fit column, but you’ll need to finish up with any questions or comments from this week’s article.”

Darn! The weekly article was one of Bree’s favorite parts of the job. Working out was therapeutic, and being a personal trainer made her feel she was helping people get their lives under control and on track. But available time set limits on how many people she could help. Writing the column always made her feel as if she was helping the masses.

Making the world a better place.

She jerked open Lang’s door and stepped through it, a symbol of the opportunity that had been jerked out of her hands and left behind.

Grabbing an empty equipment crate, she stomped to her office and made quick work of packing up the few personal items from her desk and her locker, fuming silently at the injustice of it all.

The Mr. Fit fan mail would help her leave this place in a good humor...or, at least, a better one, so she saved that task until the very end.

She pulled up the messages in the account, finding only three this week. That was a bit disappointing but seemed pretty much on par with the rest of the day.

The first two were kind thank-yous about her common-sense approach to love and her uplifting message. Just as she expected, she found herself smiling at the praise she’d garnered from simply laying out her philosophy.

The third one sent her day further south.

Dear Mr. Fit,

Thanks for ruining my life.

Nothing else. No explanation. No signature. Just somebody looking to pin blame on someone else.

She peered at the email address—Kaleb@...—rolling her eyes at the stylistic spelling of Caleb, which obviously belonged to some overly dramatic kid who thought the world owed him something.

Well, it was time for Mr. Fit to let Mr. Kaleb-with-a-K know he needed to suck it up.

Dear Kaleb,she typed. You’re welcome.

She hit the button, sending the message—and this chapter of her life—on its way.

* * *

STELLA RICE TRIED using a mother look on the riding mower—one of those facial expressions that withered the disobedience right out of the errant child on sight.

Click-click, the mower answered sullenly.

She slapped her hand to its seat in frustration and stomped off to the house to allow them both some time to cool down.

The six loaves of friendship bread she’d taken out of the oven an hour before were finally cool. She wrapped them carefully in plastic wrap, going over this week’s recipients in her mind. She’d drop a couple off at the church for Pastor Sawyer and his wife, then take one to Miss Beulah May, whose house was next door to the church.

Stella chewed her lip. It was probably Lester Briggs’s turn to get a loaf, but the last time she’d taken him one, he’d spread it around town she was making a play for him. Silly old coot. As if she could really be interested in the likes of him.

As if she could really be interested in the likes of anyone but her beloved Isaiah, who had departed from this world ten years ago tomorrow.

Thirty-one wonderful years they’d shared. Two great kids. A nice home. A relatively uneventful life until his pancreatic cancer. But even that had been mercifully swift—only three weeks from diagnosis to burial.

Just before he’d slipped away, he’d left her with some final instructions. Don’t remember me with tears, Stell. Show the world how happy we were. Remember me with smiles and laughter.

She blinked away the tears, trying her darndest to honor his request. It didn’t always work, but today it did.

Maybe Ollie Perkins would get two loaves this week. It was Ollie who’d given her the starter for the bread years ago. His macular degeneration didn’t allow him to bake anymore, so he got a loaf from Stella every week.

She was the only one who still made the bread in their small community of Taylor’s Grove, Kentucky. Sure, the bread was a bit of a hassle; the starter needed to be fed, and the large bowl took up space in the refrigerator. And then, of course, the bread had to be made—six loaves every week.

It was a commitment most people didn’t want to make. But Stella looked at the bread as a small way of giving back to the community that had given her so much.

She sighed and rolled her eyes. Even Lester Briggs, the silly old coot. She’d give him a loaf this week—and give Sue Marsden, The Mouth of Taylor’s Grove, something to talk about.

Stella went back outside, hopes running high that the mower had cooled enough to start. The kids were coming tomorrow, and she wanted everything to look nice. Her flower garden had enough blooms open to cut some large bouquets for Isaiah, yet it would still be pretty from the street. And she’d be able to send some daisies home with Bree. Gil wouldn’t care about the flowers, but he’d be thrilled with the extra apple dumplings, which Bree wouldn’t touch.

Her children—so much alike and yet so totally different. The thought brought a smile, and she chose to direct the positive attitude onto the mower. “Okay!” She clapped her hands enthusiastically. “Let’s try this again, shall we?”

She climbed on and turned the switch.

The mower stuck out its tongue. Click-click.