VBT# Dirty Books - Carissa Knight
SOMETIMES, LIFE CAN BE STRANGER (AND HOTTER) THAN FICTION.
Carlie Taylor, a shy and (often clumsy) erotic romance author, decides to walk on the wild side at Club Nocté’s latest event – a masquerade party. What’s the harm in a little anonymous fun? Well, when that fun leaves you with flashbacks of a stranger’s kiss and the world’s most baffling case of déjà vu, things get interesting.
Enter Adam, a personal trainer with abs that deserve their own Instagram account (oh wait, they have one). When he starts training Carlie, the sparks fly—but not just from the workout burn. There’s something strangely familiar about those biceps, but where could she have seen them before…?
Cue the drama: Adam’s Insta-famous life is like a soap opera, complete with a villainous ex who could give Cruella a run for her money. As Carlie and Adam’s flirty banter turns into something more, the world watches, likes, and comments. But can their fledgling romance survive the glare of the spotlight and the ghost of masquerades past?
The plot thickens like a good protein shake when Carlie has her
‘aha!’ moment. That mysterious, dreamy guy from the club? Yup, it’s Mr.
Six-Pack himself. Now, the question isn’t just about enduring a tough
gym session, but whether they can flex their hearts into accepting that
their one-night stand might just be the real deal.
“First day?” she asks, her voice filled with the kind of pep that suggests she’s never faced the cruel betrayal of a snooze button.
“Is it that obvious?” I ask, attempting to smile, but it probably looks more like a grimace.
Skye just laughs—a sound so cheerful it practically bounces. “Don’t worry. You’re going to do great. You’re in good hands.”
“Oh, good.”
I hope Skye’s optimism is infectious because I need all the help I can get.
She hands me a schedule, and my eyes skim the bonus classes being offered.
‘Aqua Zumba.’
‘Kettlebell Khaos.’
And ‘Yoga for the Soul.’
They sound like a list of bands that would play at an extremely niche music festival.
With a few minutes to spare before my meeting with certain death—I mean, Ada—I venture further into the facility. Each area reveals new devices of torture.
There’s the weight area, which I promptly nickname ‘The Iron Jungle’. The cardio section is ‘Treadmill Territory,’ and I decide the less said about the free weights area, the better. I’m pretty sure the grunting noises from that quadrant are a form of communication I’m not advanced enough to understand.
There’s an aerobics class in progress, and through the window, I catch a glimpse of synchronized suffering. I entertain the thought of joining, but then I remember my coordination is on par with a newborn giraffe’s.
Instead, I find a corner to stake out—somewhere between a row of stationary bikes and a rack of dumbbells.
Here, I can observe, and possibly blend in with the surroundings. If I stand still enough, maybe I can pass as an out-of-place piece of equipment.
I check my phone, pretending to look busy as I wait for Ada to come find me, but really I’m drafting a mental will.
• To Lily, I bequeath my coffee maker. May it fuel your mornings.
• To my unwritten novels, find someone worthy to tell your tales.
A man locks eyes with me, and I brace myself, only for him to ask if I’m using the dumbbells I’m leaning on. I shake my head, resisting the urge to apologize for giving the impression that I could actually lift them.
I’m about to hunt for a water fountain—hydration is key to survival, after all—when I see her.
Ada.
Or at least, I think it’s Ada. She strides confidently across the gym, a beacon of health and athleticism. She has that personal trainer glow, the kind that says, ‘I eat burpees for breakfast and have more protein shakers than friends.’
I watch as she nears, her gaze locked onto me with a serious intensity. Her physique is nothing short of intimidating, muscles defined under the skin-tight fabric of her gym attire that hugs her like a second skin.
Jealousy flares inside me.
She’s the embodiment of every fitness magazine cover that’s ever made me think twice about reaching for a slice of cake. I can’t help but compare the definition in her arms to the softness of my own, the tautness of her abs to the comfort of my belly.
My stomach knots with nerves, and I practice the smile I’ve been rehearsing—the one that’s meant to say ‘I’m friendly and totally ready for this,’ but probably screams ‘I’m terrified and considering bolting for the nearest exit.’
I wipe my palms on my not-so-spandexy spandex, hoping the sweat doesn’t betray my cool exterior.
This woman is everything I’m not, everything I aspire to be in those secret, vulnerable moments before sleep when the day strips bare my confidence.
My heart rate picks up, not from exercise, but from the sheer panic of having to match her stride for stride. I can almost feel the weight of her expectations bearing down on me, threatening to squash my newly found resolve like a bug.
Why did I think a woman trainer would be better again?
I’m honestly at a loss.
Thankfully, she veers off, heading over to ‘Treadmill Territory’ instead.
I exhale a little too loudly.
Dodged a bullet there.
Before I can breathe a full sigh of relief, my thoughts scatter as a man enters the room and stares right at me.
He’s tall, his build athletic but not imposing—instead, it’s the kind of fit that speaks of strength without intimidation. His hair is a sandy blonde, slightly tousled, as if he’s run his hands through it a few times.
But it’s his expression that catches me off guard—a look of shock or maybe confusion?
In a few fluid steps, he’s standing in front of me.
“Carlie?” he asks tentatively, his voice drawing me in like a seductive embrace. There’s something in his tone, a familiarity that shouldn’t be there, considering we’ve never met.
“That’s me,” I manage to say, feeling a little breathless and more than a little lost.
“I’m Adam,” he extends his hand, which I take, finding his grip firm and warm. “Your trainer.”
My brain stutters to a halt.
Adam?
He seems to read the confusion on my face. “I hope you weren’t expecting a woman. I noticed there was a typo in the schedule,” he explains with a chuckle that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, which are still studying me with that same perplexed intensity. “Unless you’d like to work with Jillian,” he points to the fit goddess across the room, “you’re stuck with me.”
I blink at him, trying to process this new information but my brain has completely malfunctioned.
Can you say plot twist?
About the Author
Carissa is all about bringing the heat in every romance she writes…
but she also enjoys making the journey as angsty and awkward
as possible. (Because come on! What could be more fun than making the
characters squirm?)
While she’s a new kid around the rom-com block, Carissa’s actually been kicking out books for over a decade as Carissa Andrews.
So,
hold onto your panties, ladies. They’re about to light on fire with her
brand new titillating series, “The One Night Stand Club!”
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