The Dating Playbook

by Farrah Rochon

  Taylor knew exactly what she was missing out on because she lacked a college degree. Just days after the homeschooling job had fallen through, she’d been offered her dream job—the kind of position that would elevate Taylor’d Conditioning in a way some stupid viral video never could.

  But it, too, had been snatched away.

  The server arrived with their bill, and even though London insisted on paying for the fajitas she would be taking home with her, Taylor’s stomach still performed a triple backflip when she added her credit card to the leather check holder. This was her emergency credit card. Dining out at a restaurant she couldn’t afford did not count as an emergency.

  No amount of mental gymnastics could justify her irresponsible spending.

  Night had completely fallen by the time they made it to the parking lot. London gestured to Taylor’s car. “Will you be okay navigating the twists and turns down this hill in that thing?”

  “Hey! Nessie is not a thing,” Taylor said, patting the hood of the thirteen-year-old Nissan Sentra she’d inherited from her brother. Her finger caught on a rust patch, but she’d be damned if she showed any sign of pain.

  “Why don’t you drive ahead of me so that I can keep an eye on you? Just to be safe,” Samiah said. She held up a phone. “Give me about five minutes to return Daniel’s call.”

  Taylor knew any argument would be futile when it came to these two. She had to admit, it was nice to know they were looking out for her.

  Her hands started to tremble as she slipped behind the wheel of her car, the enormity of what she’d done tonight crashing down on her. Now that she’d shared her intentions about earning her degree, she could no longer come up with a reason not to do it.

  Taylor dropped her head on the steering wheel.

  “What did you do?” she groaned.

  Her head popped up. She knew one thing she’d done: She’d spent a shitload more on dinner than she could afford. She needed to make some money. And fast.

  Taylor grabbed her phone and logged in to the Taylor’d Conditioning Facebook page.

  Boot camp circuit training pop-up class.

  3pm tomorrow.

  Zilker Park.

  Only $10.

  She paid an extra five bucks to boost the post in hopes that it would reach a bigger audience.

  “There,” Taylor said.

  She may be down, but don’t ever count her out. In her twenty-eight years on this earth, she had always made a way when there seemed there wasn’t one.

  Now all she needed was a few people to show up for her class and tonight’s dinner would be covered. Who knows, maybe she’d get enough attendees that she would be able to eat something other than ramen for the rest of the week.

  It was a big ask, but she liked to stay positive.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Taylor crossed her arms over her chest and peered out at the group assembled before her. It was a move she learned from her dad when he’d worked with fresh Army recruits.

  The eight people who’d signed up for her class resembled her typical clientele, for the most part. There were four college-age women, a couple of Gen-Xers, and a svelte older woman with sensibly coiffed silver hair and flawless skin. A proud Glam-Ma, as she’d informed the class.

  There was only one member who gave her pause. Dressed in a black long-sleeved workout tee, with gray shorts over a pair of black running tights, Mr. Hot and Fit had proven to be a bit of a conundrum.

  She’d pegged him as a Craighole, the name she’d given to guys who’d sought her out only after her brush with Internet fame. Each had claimed he wanted to get in shape, but what he really wanted was to prove he could succeed where Craig had failed. As if she were the prize in some video game or something. Jerks.

  She was more than happy to take the money they paid for one of her classes, but she found most of them couldn’t keep up with her intense workout after the first ten minutes.

  That hadn’t been the case with Mr. Hot and Fit here. He’d breezed through both the warm-up and core exercises. Of course, she had yet to put her foot on the accelerator. Let’s see how he handled her high-cardio sequence.

  Taylor clapped her hands to get everyone’s attention.

  “Okay, folks. It’s time to get that heart muscle pumping! Now, I understand that fitness levels vary, so you have a choice between burpees and the easier jump squats. I’ll show you.” She demonstrated both exercises, jumping with her hands stretched toward the sky, before quickly making it to the ground and executing a push-up.

  “Do not push yourself to do the burpees if you don’t think you can handle them,” she cautioned. “This isn’t a competition. Work at your own fitness and comfort level.” She gave them an encouraging smile and a thumbs-up. “Ready? Burpees in three, two, one!”

  She was relieved to see the Glam-Ma had opted for the jump squats. She sensed that the older woman had set her sights on the class’s lone male participant.

  “Keep going,” Taylor called out, repeating the burpees again and again and again. “Your heart will thank you for it, but your arms and thighs may not be so happy in the morning.”

  “Mine aren’t happy now!” one woman called.

  “Remember to pay attention to your body,” Taylor instructed. “Don’t push yourself past anything that makes you uncomfortable.”

  The Glam-Ma inched closer into Mr. Hot and Fit’s personal space, “mistakenly” bumping into him as he returned to a standing position.

  “Oh, I am so sorry,” the woman said in a breathless Scarlett O’Hara–style pant.

  “Are you okay?” Mr. Hot and Fit asked, his tone exceedingly patient as he took her by the elbow.

  “I am now.”

  Did she wink at him? Taylor didn’t know if she should intervene on his behalf or high-five the Glam-Ma for shooting her shot with a man half her age.

  “Let’s kick this up a notch,” Taylor said, accelerating her pace just to see if Mr. Hot and Fit would follow. He did.

  “If you want to…elevate your cardio even more…add some height to your jump,” she called.

  Of course, Mr. Hot and Fit went for the high jump. He probably thought he could impress her with his stamina.

  You think so, boo? Let’s see you do this!

  “This is only for the most advanced,” Taylor said. “If you think you can handle it…put one hand behind your back…and give me an alternating single-arm burpee.”

  Surprise, surprise. Mr. Hot and Fit was the only one who attempted—and perfectly executed—the most difficult workout move in her arsenal.

  Well, damn. What would it take to break this guy?

  Sweat poured down his face. His sculpted chest pushed against that expensive high-performance workout tee with each labored breath, but he withstood every challenge she threw his way.

  Taylor was about to add on a few four-way lunges when she remembered that this was not a competition between herself and Mr. Hot and Fit. She had other class participants to think about.

  Instead, she did one last burpee before instructing, “And rest.”

  She derived some satisfaction from the fact that the class show-off looked to be on the verge of collapsing. But so was she. She’d pushed herself close to her own limits.

  Not that she would allow him to see that.

  Shaking out her arms and legs, Taylor pasted on a smile and said, “Do you feel those endorphins rushing through your bloodstream? Doesn’t it feel good?”

  “My thighs are on fire.” This from the college student who had been studying when Taylor and her class of seven gathered for their workout. The girl had pushed her books aside and joined them, paying the ten-dollar fee through Cash App before they got started.

  “But is it a good burn?” Taylor asked. “The key is to listen to your body and to keep things fun. The more you enjoy your workouts, the more likely you are to stick with it.”

  She instructed everyone to sit and assume a butterfly pose; then she cued up her favorite cooldown playlist on h
er phone and guided the class through a series of stretches. She felt good vibes coming from this group. It would be awesome if she landed a few new regulars.

  Once they completed the cooldown, she went over to her backpack and grabbed a handful of the overpriced business cards she’d bought when she’d first started Taylor’d Conditioning.

  Pro tip: Just say no to embossing. Nobody cares.

  “I offer both fitness and nutrition services,” she said as she passed out the cards. “I also plan to offer more group classes in the very near future.”

  As in tomorrow, if she could get them to pay her another ten bucks each. She’d posted this pop-up class to her Facebook page out of sheer desperation. And just like that, her portion of the bill from last night’s dinner was covered.

  She was unable to mask her smile as she handed cards to Mr. Hot and Fit and the Glam-Ma, who was now standing so close to him she could probably gauge his body temperature. Taylor had to hand it to the guy, he’d remained a gentleman throughout the older woman’s antics.

  “Make sure to follow my Instagram account and YouTube channel,” Taylor added. “I provide free tips on both platforms.”

  “Do you offer meal planning?” asked a redhead wearing an I KEEP PRESSING THE SPACE BAR, BUT I’M STILL ON EARTH T-shirt.

  “Yes, I do! I offer both meal planning and meal prep—healthy, nutritious, and fresh meals. And I tailor them to your lifestyle. Whether you’re doing keto, paleo, low-carb, low-sodium, whatever you need.”

  “I took my great-aunt to her diabetes specialist last week, and he recommended we meet with a registered dietician to work on a low-carb, low-sugar diet. Can you do that?”

  “I can,” Taylor said. She could do everything a registered dietician could do. But she couldn’t lie, even if it was by omission. “Although, I’m not technically a registered dietician,” she admitted. “But I can absolutely help you come up with meal plans.”

  “Oh.” The woman frowned. She hunched her shoulders in an apologetic shrug. “I would be more comfortable working with someone who’s certified. Thanks for the class, though. It was so much more fun than the exercise classes I’ve joined at the gym.”

  “Yes, it was.” This from the Glam-Ma. “I travel too much to sign on with a long-term trainer, but I can handle getting sweaty every now and then.” She tossed Mr. Hot and Fit a brazen smile.

  Taylor bit down on her lip in an effort to contain her giggle.

  “Thanks. I’m happy you all enjoyed the class,” she replied, trying to keep the disappointment from her voice.

  You win some. You lose some.

  And sometimes you lose a lot. But she wasn’t ready to give up. She never gave up.

  She pulled the elastic ponytail holder from her hair and gathered the flyaway strands. She’d sweated it out again, which meant at least an hour of blow-drying and flat-ironing tonight. She needed her hair braided in the worst way, but the thought of spending two hundred dollars at the salon was laughable. Braids were a luxury she couldn’t afford at the moment.

  As she watched the class disperse, she noticed Mr. Hot and Fit had finally managed to fend off his new crush. He was now off to the side, performing calf stretches.

  Oh, c’mon. Could he be more transparent? He was clearly waiting for the others to leave so he could shoot his shot.

  Taylor rolled her eyes and prepared for the inevitable corny pickup line. She only hoped he was smoother than the Craighole who’d joined her Muay Thai class last week. He’d approached after their workout, stretched the hem of his sweaty shirt toward her, and said, “Feel this. I wore it for you. It’s made of boyfriend material.”

  Okay, so the old Taylor would have totally fallen for that line. But she’d changed in the last three months. It would take more than a cute, but still corny, pickup line to get her number these days.

  Mr. Hot and Fit was about to learn that lesson.

  He did a couple of side bends while the last two members of the class gathered their belongings. As soon as the women walked off, he made his way toward her.

  “Thanks for coming out today,” Taylor said before he could speak.

  “I knew when I signed up that I would get a good workout, but this was incredible. Even better than I anticipated,” he replied.

  Oooh, he went with flattery. Nice move. It wouldn’t work, but she appreciated the tactic.

  “I’m Jamar, by the way,” he continued.

  “I’m happy you enjoyed the class, Jamar. Thanks again for participating.” Taylor slung the strap of her backpack over her shoulder and started for the parking lot where she’d parked Nessie.

  He followed.

  To his credit, he didn’t crowd her personal space, but she still didn’t want to deal with some kind of awful pickup attempt.

  “Hey, umm…you give one-on-one instruction, right?” he asked.

  Ah, here we go. The old Let’s have some one-on-one fun together line. Gah. She so was not up for this today.

  This was the downside of having to advertise her business on social media. It was all but impossible to avoid the creeps who signed up for her classes with something other than getting in shape in mind. The problem had only gotten worse since that stupid video with Craig.

  Taylor stopped and turned. “Look, I appreciate you taking the class and everything, but this is a really shitty way to hit on women. Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s a smoothie with my name on it.”

  “Hey, wait.” He put his hands up. “That’s not what this is about. I want to hire you as my personal trainer.”

  Of course he did. So did every other Craighole.

  She fought not to roll her eyes. “Look, if you want to schedule a consultation, you should email me or send a message through—”

  He pulled at the waistband of his shorts.

  Taylor took a step back and braced her legs apart, preparing to deliver a swift kick to his groin. “What in the hell are you doing?”

  “Huh? What? No, I’m only getting my phone.” He tugged it out of a pocket sewn into the waistband of the tights he wore underneath his shorts.

  He swiped his fingers across the screen and then turned the phone toward her.

  “I messaged you a couple of days ago through the Taylor’d Conditioning Facebook page, asking about a consultation meeting. See the message from YourFavorite23?” He tapped his chest. “That’s me.”

  She had at least one hundred unread Facebook messages. Including his if he’d only sent it this week. She really needed to get better at checking her inbox.

  “I’m sorry, but I’m behind on reading my Facebook messages.”

  “I was impressed after watching your videos on YouTube, but after this”—he hitched a thumb back toward the soccer fields—“I have no doubt that you’re exactly the personal trainer I need.”

  Taylor couldn’t deny that he’d seemed really into their workout. He didn’t behave like those jerks who only signed up for her classes because they wanted to hang out with an Internet celebrity.

  Okay, so maybe celebrity was pushing it, but whatever.

  She hefted her backpack higher on her shoulder and crossed her arms over her chest.

  “At the risk of stroking your ego, you don’t look like someone who needs a personal trainer. Based on how well you kept up in today’s class, I’d guess that you know your way around the gym pretty well.”

  “I’m trying to take my fitness to the next level,” he continued. “Look, why don’t you let me buy you that post-workout smoothie? I can go into more detail about what I’m looking for in a fitness and nutrition coach, and you can decide if I’m someone you want to work with.” His smile, framed by his neatly trimmed goatee, hit Taylor in a way she was not expecting.

  She gave him a slow and deliberate head-to-toe perusal, making sure he knew that she was sizing him up. How could she be sure he wasn’t a Craighole?

  So what if he was? Did that mean she would turn down a free smoothie?

  “I’ll meet you at the food tru
ck park on Barton Springs Road,” she said.

  His broad shoulders practically wilted with relief. He made a sweeping motion with his hand, indicating she should go ahead of him. “I’ll follow you there.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Jamar Dixon divided his attention between his phone and the ancient Nissan Sentra parked across the street. He stood just to the right of an A-frame chalkboard that listed today’s smoothie selections, watching as Taylor Powell sat behind the wheel of her car and stared intently at her phone. Or maybe she was just pretending to be enthralled by the phone while debating whether to start her engine and take off.

  Her initial skepticism had caught him off guard, but he could also see why she was suspicious of his motives. He tried not to buy into the notion that all professional athletes were superstitious, but when the Facebook post about that pop-up fitness class had appeared on his timeline this morning, he received it as a sign from the universe. Taylor’s no-nonsense training style, along with the right combination of cardio, calisthenics, and a targeted weight-lifting regimen, would get his body back into top physical shape. And if he had any hope of securing one of the coveted spots on an NFL roster next season, he would have to be in the best shape of his life.

  Taylor Powell was the answer to his prayers. Now he just had to get her on his team.

  Some of the tension in his shoulders receded when Taylor’s car door opened and she slipped from behind the wheel. Jamar tried not to stare as she waited on the other side of the street for two cars to pass, but damn! How could he not stare? After all, it wasn’t her exercise moves that had first drawn him to her.

  A couple of months ago, one of his former teammates had forwarded a video of this guy being handed his ass by three women in a local downtown sushi restaurant. The first time he watched it, he’d zeroed in on Taylor.

  He hadn’t been able to tear his eyes away from her exquisite cheekbones or her full lips. He remembered the way those lips had curved upward in a triumphant grin and how she’d sauntered from the table, her head held high after tearing that Craig guy apart. She’d worn her hair in thick braids that day. He liked it now but kinda missed the braids.