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  CURVY FOR HIM: THE TEACHER AND THE TRAINER

  ANNABELLE WINTERS

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  BY ANNABELLE WINTERS

  THE CURVES FOR SHEIKHS SERIES (USA)

  Curves for the Sheikh

  Flames for the Sheikh

  Hostage for the Sheikh

  Single for the Sheikh

  Stockings for the Sheikh

  Untouched for the Sheikh

  Surrogate for the Sheikh

  Stars for the Sheikh

  Shelter for the Sheikh

  Shared for the Sheikh

  Assassin for the Sheikh

  Privilege for the Sheikh

  Ransomed for the Sheikh

  Uncorked for the Sheikh

  Haunted for the Sheikh

  Grateful for the Sheikh

  Mistletoe for the Sheikh

  Fake for the Sheikh

  THE CURVES FOR SHIFTERS SERIES (USA)

  Curves for the Dragon

  Born for the Bear

  Witch for the Wolf

  Tamed for the Lion

  Taken for the Tiger

  THE CURVES FOR SHEIKHS SERIES (UK)

  Curves for the Sheikh (UK)

  Flames for the Sheikh (UK)

  Hostage for the Sheikh (UK)

  Single for the Sheikh (UK)

  Stockings for the Sheikh (UK)

  Untouched for the Sheikh (UK)

  Surrogate for the Sheikh (UK)

  Stars for the Sheikh (UK)

  Shelter for the Sheikh (UK)

  Shared for the Sheikh (UK)

  Assassin for the Sheikh (UK)

  Privilege for the Sheikh (UK)

  Ransomed for the Sheikh (UK)

  Uncorked for the Sheikh (UK)

  Haunted for the Sheikh (UK)

  Grateful for the Sheikh (UK)

  Mistletoe for the Sheikh (UK)

  Fake for the Sheikh (UK)

  THE CURVES FOR SHIFTERS SERIES (UK)

  Curves for the Dragon

  Born for the Bear

  Witch for the Wolf

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  COPYRIGHT NOTICE

  Copyright © 2019 by Annabelle Winters

  All Rights Reserved by Author

  www.annabellewinters.com

  If you'd like to copy, reproduce, sell, or distribute any part of this text, please obtain the explicit, written permission of the author first. Note that you should feel free to tell your spouse, lovers, friends, and coworkers how happy this book made you.

  Cover Design by S. Lee

  CURVY FOR HIM: THE TEACHER AND THE TRAINER

  ANNABELLE WINTERS

  1

  ASTRID

  “Mrs. Astrid, your pants are torn,” says nine-year-old Paulina from the front row as I hastily slip my phone back into my bag. I shouldn’t be nervously staring at a dating app while in class. What kind of example does that set for the women of our future?!

  “It’s Miss Astrid, not Mrs.,” I say sweetly to Paulina. “I’ll be sure to invite you to my wedding when I get married.”

  “Mrs. Astrid’s getting married! Mrs. Astrid’s getting married! Mrs. Astrid’s getting married!” comes the chorus from Paulina and her three front-row friends, and then suddenly my classroom bursts into uncoordinated applause punctuated by the squeaks and shrieks of nine-year-olds.

  I take a long, slow breath, feeling the blood rush to my face. I love these kids, but this job has taken its toll on me, and sometimes I hate it. I don’t eat right. I don’t sleep enough. I don’t get paid enough. Um, why am I doing this?

  Mrs. Astrid’s getting married! comes the chant from my classroom of girls, and I remember why I’m doing this. It’s to help raise these girls right. Yes, you heard me: Raise these girls. Parents can only do so much. Once school starts, a child’s friends and teachers have as much a role as the parents and siblings. Maybe more, depending on the parents.

  I smile and shake my head, waiting for the kids to settle down. It’s only then that I remember what Paulina said before the room erupted with news of my imaginary wedding.

  “Wait, my pants are torn?” I say as the blood rushes to my face again. I remember wriggling my big ass into these pants this morning, but I don’t remember hearing a . . . oh, wait, I do.

  I bury my face in my hands, pressing my thighs together as I feel the rip down the back seam of these slacks. I should’ve known better than to try to get into these without pulling on some Spanx first, but I was running late and I thought maybe I could do it. I couldn’t have put on that much weight over the past six months since I got these, right? And why does my weight go right to my ass?!

  Oh wait, it doesn’t, I remind myself as I glance down at my enormous thighs that I swear are hanging off the sides of this generously sized wooden chair. Of course, I can barely even see my thighs, because my freakin’ boobs are in the way!

  Again that feeling of despair rushes through me—a feeling that’s been hitting me more and more these days. I’m sure it has nothing to do with the fact that I’m in my thirties now. Nope. There’s no clock ticking. I have plenty of time to meet someone and have a child, start a family, do all those things that these girls believe are part of a woman’s destiny, her meant-to-be, her happily ever after.

  And they do believe that, I realize as I sigh and scan the glowing faces of my girls. They’ve all been raised on Disney movies where the girl gets her prince in the end. Yes, the Disney princesses are a bit less helpless nowadays, with more self-confidence. But they’re still princesses.

  I wanna be a princess. Just once. Just fucking once!

  I feel a pout coming on as I slouch in my chair, waiting for the bell to ring so I can slink to the restroom and . . . and do what? Sew my split seam back together? Put a patch on it like some orphan in a cartoon? How about a row of safety pins? Oh God, where did I go wrong? What have I done to deserve this?!

  OK, stop that self-pity nonsense, I tell myself firmly. You are not a victim! You’re smart, witty, and personable. These kids love you, and you’re a positive role model in their lives. They need to see that a woman can be happy and fulfilled on her own. A woman doesn’t need a man to complete her. A princess shouldn’t aspire just to be a prince’s bride. She should aspire to be Queen!

  “Hey, Astrid?” comes the Queen’s voice, and I turn my head so sharply towards the classroom door that I swear I hear something crack in my tensed-up body. I hope that was a good crack.

  “Oh, hi, LuAnn,” I say hurriedly. LuAnn is our principal, but we all call her the Queen. She’s good at her job and fair with her teachers; but she’s also a stickler for rules and discipline. Old fashioned up the wazoo as well. “We’re just . . .”

  Mrs. Astrid’s getting married! comes the chant again from the little monsters in the front row, and I just close my eyes and wonder if I’m going to burst out laughing or just explode into hysterical tears.

  Just then the bell rings, and the girls jump out of their seats and head for the playground. It’s recess, and a moment later I am alone with the Queen, the echoes of Mrs. Astrid’s getting married! still bouncing off the light blue walls.

  “What was that about?” says LuAnn, slowly walking to the front of the desk and stopping, her hands on her tight, boyish hips, her lips pursed in a quizzical smile. “Are you really getting—”

  “No!” I say, snorting as I raise my hands and shake my head. “Of course not!”

  LuAnn sighs and t
ilts her head in a show of pity. I hate pity. I don’t do pity. “You know,” she says in that annoyingly pedantic voice that reminds me she stood in front of a classroom for twenty years before becoming principal, “there’s nothing wrong with wanting to be married, wanting your prince, your happily ever after.”

  “Who said there’s anything wrong with it?” I say, that pout making my face feel puffy. I try to suck in my cheeks, but it doesn’t work. “All I said was—”

  “It wasn’t what you said,” says LuAnn. “It was how you said it.”

  I cross my arms over my breasts and set my jaw tight. I am not listening to a lecture from the Queen. But shit, I can’t stand up and walk out with a split butt-seam, can I? I don’t want to get a lecture on proper classroom attire!

  “And how did I say it,” I say sullenly, settling in for a fight.

  “Like it’s an insult to suggest that you might actually want to get married. That’s not the attitude I want to teach these girls.”

  “Oh, so you want to teach them that they’re all princesses and should spend their lives trying to marry a prince?”

  LuAnn stares at me expressionless. “They are all princesses. And no, I don’t want them to think that finding a partner is all there is to life. But it’s a big part of life.” She pauses, her face softening in a way that throws me off-guard. “And for some, it’s the biggest part of life.”

  I grimace as I feel LuAnn building up to the grand finale. I’ve heard this lecture before. LuAnn’s been married since she was nineteen, and she’s still married, still happy, still in love—or so she says. Four kids and thirty years later. It’s a beautiful story, but not the one I want to hear right now.

  But the lecture doesn’t come, and I frown as LuAnn pulls out her phone and taps on it a few times. She takes a breath, nods, and then taps once more before looking up. “There,” she says. “Check your messages.”

  I blink as I hear my phone beep in my bag. “OK, I don’t do setups or blind dates,” I call after the Queen as she glides to the door like she’s riding a cloud. “You aren’t my fairy godmother, LuAnn!”

  LuAnn stops at the doorway, her tight butt on display. She turns her head and glances down along her super-fit body and then back up at me. “You want to know why my husband still wants to fuck me after thirty years?” she says softly, her language shocking me because I don’t think I’ve ever heard the Queen drop the f-bomb.

  It takes me a moment to understand what she’s trying to tell me, and when I get it, I almost throw a dry-erase marker at my principal. “Did you just call me fat?!” I say in horror, blinking as I try to process what just happened. I’ve been curvy all my life, and it took me years to become comfortable with my body, to be just fine with the fact that I’ll never be a skinny supermodel or a beach bunny, that I’ll always have ripples of cellulite along my thighs, a couple of tires around my belly, boobs that will make my back hurt, a butt that seems to have a mind—and a zip code—of its own. And now this skinny bitch with a genetically engineered ass dares to—

  “You know that I neither engage in nor tolerate body shaming at this school,” LuAnn says firmly. “But I also care about my teachers and staff, about their happiness. A happy teacher is a good teacher. Just give it a try, Astrid. Just give it a try.”

  She walks out, and I shake my head in fury, my jaw set so tight I feel my teeth grinding against each other. I want to scream at LuAnn, but I force myself to take several long breaths until I calm down enough to consider what she said. What she said about happiness, not my ass.

  Have I been sabotaging my own chances to find a man, I wonder as I slowly reach for my phone. Do I want what LuAnn has? A happy marriage, kids and family, a husband who can’t get enough of my ass?

  Maybe . . .

  Perhaps . . .

  Yes.

  Yes, I want that.

  Oh, God, I want that!

  Allowing myself to admit it makes me choke, and then I just burst out sobbing, the tears rolling down my cheeks and plunking onto the tabletop like it’s raining. I let myself cry for a minute, and then I set my jaw again and nod. To hell with feeling insulted. LuAnn wants the best for me, even if she can be blunt sometimes. I’ll give it a try.

  “Give what a try?” I wonder as I look for LuAnn’s text. Some kind of new diet? OK, I am not drinking kale juice or eating avocado ice-cream sweetened with stevia. There are limits to what I’m willing to do.

  Give us a try! is the headline when I click on the link in LuAnn’s text. Your body will thank us! So will your boyfriend! Visit Body by Armand for a free session today!

  “Your boyfriend will thank us? OK, that’s obnoxious,” I mutter as I scroll down and realize that LuAnn has sent me a gift certificate that gives me ten free personal training sessions at Body by Armand. It’s also linked to her membership, which means she’ll probably know if I don’t take her up on the offer. What to do? Give me a sign, someone! What should I do?!

  As if in response, my phone pings as my dating app scores a match. I quickly switch over, my heart racing as I wonder if that’s my prince! Of course, the moment I see his picture I decide it’s a frog, not a prince. Perhaps a toad, based on that double-chin. And what’s with the video-game t-shirt with food-stains on it? Also, is that a beard or did a rat die on his face?!

  I crack myself up, but it doesn’t escape me that I’m being judgmental as hell. Perhaps the dude is a wonderful man, kind and sensitive, intelligent and engaging. Is it right for me to dismiss him based on a bad photograph? Shit, I’m no better than some player dude who grunts and swipes left because the chick isn’t hot enough or her boobs aren’t big enough or whatever. I should give it a try, shouldn’t I?

  But I know I won’t do it. No offence to Toad-face, but I have standards. And yes, looks are part of it, much as I hate to admit it.

  “OK, fine, LuAnn,” I say out loud as I flip back to Body by Armand. “I’ll give Armand a try.” I hesitate a moment, and then force myself to quickly sign up for my first session, clicking the “Submit” button before I have a chance to talk myself out of it.

  Then I click over to the page where it lists all the personal trainers, hoping to find a chunky woman trainer who won’t make me feel self-conscious. But there’s only one profile on the entire page.

  “You’re kidding me,” I say, wriggling in my chair as I stare into the fiercely confident eyes of Armand himself. “Oh, shit, what have I gotten myself into?! I can’t do this!”

  Nervousness flows through me like a river, and I quickly go back to the appointment page, wondering if I can cancel. Yeah, Toad-face is below my level. But Armand is clearly out of my league.

  “Out of my league?” I say out loud, almost laughing when I remind myself that I’m not going on a date with Armand! It’s business!

  Business that involves tight clothes, heavy breathing, and sweaty, glistening bodies, I think as my breath catches at the grayed-out “Submit” button at the bottom of the screen. I flip back to that photograph of Armand, feeling a wave of heat pass through me as I stare transfixed, the word “Submit” repeating itself in my mind like a broken record, a CD with a scratch on it, a sign from the universe perhaps.

  “Submit to Armand,” I drone out in a fake French accent, trying to make myself laugh, to lighten up a bit. But I can’t lighten up. Those eyes did something to me. It’s like I already know him. It’s like I already want him. It’s like I already . . . love him?

  OK, now you know you’ve been without a man too long, I tell myself as I hear the recess bell ring. You see one airbrushed photograph of a hunky dude and you’re like, “OMG, he’s the one!” What are you, some lovesick teenager swooning over a celebrity? Armand is probably some boneheaded loser with big biceps and shriveled up balls from all the steroids!

  “What the hell is wrong with me?!” I mutter out loud as the sounds of children running back towards the classroom get
s louder. “Am I turning into some bitter woman who’s blaming everyone else for the fact that I’m still single, still alone, still so far from being—”

  “Will you really invite me to your wedding?” comes Paulina’s squeaky voice from my left, and I just burst into a big, beaming smile, pulling the innocent girl into my bosom and hugging her hard. I’m probably breaking all kinds of school rules, but what the hell.

  “Of course I will,” I say as I try to hold back tears. “You’ll be my flower-girl! How does that sound?”

  Paulina nods excitedly, and then she is back with her friends, all of them chattering about something that’s either Pokémon or Paw Patrol or Facebook or Snapchat. I have no idea.

  Submit to Armand, I think in my fake French accent, and this time it does make me chuckle. I picture those gorgeous eyes of his going cross-eyed as he lifts some weights the size of a truck, and I laugh again as I feel my anxiety leave me. It’s not a date, I tell myself. He’s just some muscle-bound dude who runs a gym. Probably never read a book in his entire life. Bet his name isn’t even Armand—it’s probably Pete or Quentin. Maybe Ernest. Yeah, let’s go with that. Ernie! How can you be nervous about meeting a guy named Ernie?!

  “Submit to Ernie,” I growl to myself as the kids finally settle down in their seats. “Submit!”

  2

  ARMAND

  “Never submit! Never surrender! Never yield!” I roar at the gaggle of women who are pumping their legs as hard as they can in my spinning class. I hate this class. Sitting on a stationary bike isn’t my thing. But it’s solid exercise, and you can get that burn going nice and strong. Besides, I’m running a business, and I need to give my customers what they want. Not everyone wants to just do weight-machines and sprint-intervals on the treadmill.

  “Oh, fuck, Armand! I think I’m dying!” gasps one of my customers, a young mom in a blue tank top and pink tights. I frown at her and shake my head.