Dirty Saint
"I'm tired."
Within two hours, I'd been on the treadmill, I'd lifted weights, and I'd tried the rowing machine too, all of which tired my arms out.
Luigi's eyes lifted to the clock on the wall. "I'm afraid we still have an hour to go."
Luigi was a fairly attractive man. He looked my age, or even a year older, with dirty blonde hair, charming blue eyes, and had the thickest British accent I'd ever heard. I wondered how long he'd been in Europe and why he moved to Chicago. I tried asking him during one of our three-hour sessions, but he shut the topic down pretty fast.