by Laura Carter
Dick. Big, massive, huge, enormous dick.
He steps to one side and gestures down the hall. “Shall we?”
“Yes. For the record, I don’t take milk or sugar. And if I did want a ride, you’re the last man on earth I would stroke my tits for.”
“Classy, Coulthard. Real classy.” He chuckles and I have to fight not to laugh with him. “And, for the record, the elevator has been broken for weeks. Come on, Tits, lead the way.”
I try to open the door but the key seems to be sticking, and ramming my shoulder into the wood doesn’t help.
“Don’t do that, you’ll hurt yourself. Here.”
Reluctantly, I move aside and hand the keys to Brooks. He manipulates the lock and opens the door into my temporary home. As he’s staring intently at the lock and wiggling things on the door, I take a look around.
The open-plan kitchen and living room are bright enough, despite both windows looking onto another apartment block. The furniture is smart, for a rental. It’s cold and bachelor-like, all black, white, and chrome, but I will take that over some seventies green velour and psychedelic wallpaper, I suppose. Small mercies.
I head along the hallway to the bedroom. A double bed, not made. Crap, I didn’t think about that. A wardrobe. One small chest of drawers. More of the white walls and dark wood. I cross the hall into the bathroom. Everything is white and looks like someone did a run on IKEA’s entire budget bathroom range, but it’s clean. I turn the shower knob. It works. That’s a plus.
Okay, it’s not the Ritz but it will do.
When I walk back into the living room there’s a cardboard box resting on the kitchen counter. Brooks is now holding a can of oil and fiddling with all three locks on the door.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Fixing your lock.”
Duh.
I lift the lid on the cardboard box. “What’s this?”
He speaks without turning away from his task. “I figured you would need a few things. Water, towels, bed linens. Sorry I didn’t have any kale or arugula in my fridge.”
My mind wants to throw out some quick-fire remark but my heart stops me. It’s kind of…touching, that he thought of me. So instead, I thank him and set about emptying the box.
When he is satisfied with the locks, he opens and closes the door a few times. Then he sets off wandering around the apartment, checking the balcony doors and the locks on the windows. I silently admit it’s nice to have a man in my home, wanting to keep me safe. Maybe Brooks has a decent side after all, no matter how miniscule it might be.
“Is this place like yours?” I ask when he comes back into the living room.
“I have a two bedroom but the layout is similar. Same view.”
I find glasses and pour us each a glass of water, sliding one along the kitchen worktop to Brooks. “I don’t understand why they put the buildings so close together. I mean, who really wants to stare at someone else’s apartment?”
He puts down his glass and exhales while shaking his head. “Sorry it’s not Buckingham Palace, princess.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it. Your gym does well—you could surely afford a view.”
“Wow. When I think you might be human, you prove to me that you’re nothing but a spoiled brat. My place works for me. You have no idea what I have coming in or out of my bank.”
“The lift doesn’t even work.”
He starts to leave and I put a hand on his arm to stop him. Wow, that’s firm. “Sorry. Sorry. I come out with things before I think.”
“Stop saying sorry. Just don’t do things to apologize for.”
I nod. “Sorry.”
“Christ.” He sounds angry but the tiny curve of his lip when I slap my hands across my mouth betrays his amusement.
“I apologize,” I tell him, smirking.
“I suppose you have the best view in London?”
“Not especially, though my folks rent my sister and me a place in a great location.”
“Your parents pay your rent? Are you kidding?”
“I...no. I intend to pay for it when I have a steady income.”
“That’s incredible and yet doesn’t shock me at all.” I want to give him a sassy retort but I don’t have one. Deep down, I know that letting my parents bankroll me at twenty-eight is a little pathetic but it really is the done thing in Chelsea. I open my mouth and close it again without making a sound.
“I’ll leave you to it. You’ve got my number if you need me.”
“W-wait. We start this thing tomorrow. I need to, you know, ask you questions and stuff. We need to set some rules.” The words are true but sound frantic, like I’m desperate to keep him here. I change my tone. “You must need to know things about me to tailor a plan to me?”
His reluctance is palpable. “I guess. But I need to go and get something to eat. I’ll come back after dinner.”
“You said you had a tuna steak before coming to collect me from my hotel.”
“I did. Now I’m hungry again.”
“You’re a beast.”
“And you’re a stick insect.”
“Whatever. Look, I could eat. Why don’t we have dinner together and talk about tomorrow? I need to grab a shower. Maybe we could order in? There must be something healthy around here. I mean, we are in Manhattan.”
“Fine.”
Gosh, he’s hard work. “Fine. Do you mind if I take a shower and wash this grime off?”
“Make sure you wash the sweat from your tits.” I turn to scowl but his head is already lowered as he scrolls through his phone.
I grab a towel—Brooks’s towel—and my toiletries bag and head into the shower. I clean my teeth over the sink as steam begins to fill the room. The door startles me when it pops open. I turn my head to look down the corridor but it’s empty. I close the door again and keep cleaning my teeth. The door pops again. Argh! I close it again and put my toiletry bag on the floor as a doorstop.
I climb under the warm stream of the shower and start to think about some nice healthy food. Maybe sashimi or a tofu broth. I realize I’m hungrier than I thought.
After a shorter time than I would usually take, I step out of the shower and wrap a towel around myself. I pick up my toiletry bag and find my moisturizer. With one leg up on the sink, I start to rub in the new brand of product I picked up in duty-free to try.
Chapter 12
Brooks
I can’t wait to see her face when our extra-large meat supreme pizza is delivered to the door. If I’m going to be forced to spend time with this woman, I might as well entertain myself in the process.
I continue trying to sit on the kitchen stool without thinking about how much I need to take a piss but I’ve turned gray in the time the woman has been in the shower.
Maybe she has an en suite, like in my place. I can’t take it any longer. If there’s no second toilet, I’m going to have to go to my own bathroom. I head toward her bedroom. I don’t hear the shower running but I do hear humming. A sweet, almost angelic sound that makes me think it can’t possibly be coming from such a hostile woman as Izzy.
I’m stopped in my tracks by a sight that has me swallowing hard. The bathroom door is ajar, the mirror above the sink steamed. I follow the foot that is raised onto the side of the sink. I follow it up a long, smooth, damn fine leg. I take a deep breath to calm my racing pulse as I watch Izzy’s hands move over her skin like she’s rubbing in body lotion.
Down, boy! Get the fuck down. She’s bad news.
I turn too quickly, wincing as the floor creaks beneath my feet. I walk straight for salvation, away from temptation. Before I close the apartment door behind me, I hear the bathroom door slam shut. Did she know? Did she want me to see that? Was the hand down the bra thing for my benefit too?
One thing I am certain of, this stupid
PR exercise is going to end in two weeks and that spoiled, hot-as-hell brat is going back to London. Then my life will resume some sort of order. Back in my apartment, I unzip my pants and take my much-needed leak.
Before fastening my jeans again, I give my man a little stroke. Just a small one. I’m sorry, buddy. Give me two weeks, that’s all.
I grab two bottles of beer from my fridge before heading back to Izzy’s apartment, feeling like Tantalus. I shall not be tempted. I shall not.
Izzy is sitting on the sofa, wearing lounge bottoms and a T-shirt. A thin one. A thin white T-shirt. And she’s braless. I think of her personality and it’s enough to quash any sexual thoughts.
“Here.” I hand her a beer. “A congratulatory beer for publication day.”
“That almost sounded genuine. Thanks, but I don’t really drink.”
I lower myself into a lounge chair. “Don’t really?”
“I used to. Since I found fitness, I don’t like to put that stuff in my body. It has so many toxins.”
“Jesus, Izzy. People tell me to let my hair down. Compared to you, I feel like I have long curly locks blowing in the wind on the back of a Harley.”
“Hmm. Nice imagery. I can see you with long hair.”
“Drink it or don’t, but tonight, I need a beer.”
She nudges the beer away from her on the coffee table and I’m reminded of Cady as a four-year-old when I told her to eat her green beans.
Izzy hands me a pad of paper and a pen. “Shall we get started?”
“Sure. What’s your height?”
“Five six.”
“Weight?”
Her eyes narrow. “One sixteen.”
“One hundred and sixteen pounds? What are you, a child?”
“That’s within a healthy weight range. Do you treat all your clients like this?”
“Good point, well made. I’m just saying, you could do with adding a few pounds.”
She stares at me as she scoops up the beer bottle and drinks. “And you have far too much bulky-bulkersome going on.”
“Bulky-bulkersome?”
“I’m just saying, you could do with losing a few pounds.”
“Was that supposed to be my voice? I don’t sound like that and your American accent is way off.”
“Whatever.”
“Ah, back to grown-up Izzy.” Someone might need to check me into AA at the end of these two weeks. “What’s your BMI?”
We work down my usual questions and move on to hers. My stomach is growling fiercely by the time there’s a knock on the door.
“Finally!” I offer Izzy my wallet as she gets up from the sofa.
“I’ve got this.”
I’m already laughing inside as she unlocks the door. “Mr. Adams. Extra-large meat supreme with extra chicken.”
My humor bursts from my gut when Izzy turns to me, white faced, her jaw dropped toward the floor.
She snatches the pizza and pays the delivery guy, all the while mumbling curse words, most of which I miss under the sound of my laughter.
She comes back to the sofa and thrusts the box at me. “Here, I would rather starve than eat that shit.”
“Oh, come on, don’t be such a baby. You’re already drinking beer and we don’t start this farce until tomorrow. Relax tonight. I imagine it’s for the first time in your life, anyway. Try it and see how it feels.”
I open the box on the coffee table. The smell of tomatoes, cheese, and pepperoni hits my nose. I take a slice and sit back with the point of the triangle in my mouth. “Oh my God, this is amazing.”
On a “Humph,” Izzy unfolds her legs from beneath her and leans in to take a slice. “I’ll eat your bloody pizza but only because I’m hungry. You’re a pig by the way. Chew your bloody food before talking to me.”
I’m laughing again, almost delirious. I loathe this woman. I hate her so much it’s hilarious.
Chapter 13
Brooks
Day 1.
Izzy arrives at the gym around nine. She’s wearing large sunglasses, even though she’s inside and looking down from the mezzanine level to where I’m training a client.
“Don’t tell me Tom Ford has started doing shades for artificial lighting,” I call up to her.
She lifts the glasses to the top of her head and scowls down at me as she sucks through the straw of a smoothie cup.
“Steve Sitwell from NYC FM is here. He wants to talk to us about our competition,” she says.
“Yeah, well, he’ll have to wait. I’m busy. And, baby, there is no competition.”
“What have I told you about calling me baby?”
I get a cheap thrill out of watching her huffily stomp away from the balcony rail.
I put my client through one more round of squats, then guide him through stretches. “Nice workout, Jimmy,” I tell him.
“I’m feeling good, Brooks.”
“That’s the aim. It’s week twelve so we should revisit your goals and think about where you want to go from here. Let’s finish stretching those hamstrings and go up to my office.”
Upstairs, the door to my office is closed, despite the fact I left it open. When I step inside, I’m assaulted by woman. A floral scent, not perfume, hits my nose. Izzy is sitting behind my desk with a pink laptop. A bright box of tissues has been placed on the edge of the desk. And the shelves that line the back wall are empty.
“What are you doing? Why are you sitting at my desk? Why does it smell like a beauty salon in here? And where the hell are the tubs of protein that were on my shelves?”
She holds up a finger. “Just one sec.” She continues to type on her screen as my blood reaches boiling. “There. E-mail sent. What was your question? Oh, your protein crap. I removed temptation. You can thank me later.”
“Thank you?” I’m about to lose my shit when I remember my client standing behind me. “I need my office, so you and your pink laptop will have to vacate.”
“But where will I work?”
“I don’t know, Izzy; the bistro, anywhere that isn’t my office.”
She rolls her eyes and closes her laptop. “Are you an only child? I bet you are.”
Pointing out to the hallway, I say, “Out. Now.”
“Fine. Don’t forget we need to speak with Steve Sitwell.”
Lord, give me strength.
“Come on in, Jimmy. Take a seat.”
As he and Izzy pass each other, she tells him, “If you want a clean, refreshing nutrition plan, Jimmy, I’ll be in my new bistro office.” I know she said that for my benefit by the smug look she casts across her shoulder before she leaves.
Jimmy takes a seat on the opposite side of my desk and chuckles when I pick up the pink tissues and throw them into my wastebasket.
“Did you get married and forget to tell me, Brooks?”
“Man, don’t even joke about that shit.”
By the time Jimmy leaves, I’m ravenous. The almond milk, ginger, and carrot smoothie I was allowed for breakfast—which was as disgusting as it sounds—is just an unpleasant memory. In fact, it did nothing to curb my appetite this morning. Silently cursing Izzy, I head down to the bistro. I spot her right away, talking to a man I assume is Steve Sitwell. Not ready to deal with another round of smart-ass quips on an empty stomach, I catch Angie’s attention.
“Good morning, soldier. What can I get you?”
“Eggs, please, Angie. Could you rustle me up two poached on brown?”
“Um, well, you know I never refuse you, Brooks, but…” She glances to the table where Izzy is sitting.
“She told you not to serve me, didn’t she? Well, she needs to remember whose name is above that door. I’ll have the eggs please, Angie.”
“Okay, handsome. Whatever you say. Coffee?”
“Yeah, great, thanks.” I s
it on a stool in the corner of the bistro while I wait, drawing as little attention to myself as possible.
As I’m waiting, a message comes through to my cell from Madge.
HOW IS THE FIRST DAY GOING?
I fire a quick reply.
THE WOMAN IS DRIVING ME CRAZY!
She replies with only five words.
THINK OF THE GREATER GOOD.
It had better be for the greater freakin’ good. Two weeks of this is going to be painful.
“Here you go. One coffee. Two eggs on toast.”
“You’re a star, Angie.” I’m licking my lips as I pick up a knife and fork. But when I look back down at my plate, it is snatched away.
“I absolutely do not think so.” Izzy holds my plate in one hand, her free hand on her hip. “No dairy. No bread or pasta. And absolutely no caffeine.”
Have you ever been told you have tickets to see your favorite band? Like, the band you’ve been desperate to see live all your life. Then, right before you get to the arena, you’re told the concert is canceled? Yeah, well, that’s how I’m feeling about my eggs right now.
“Give me my eggs.”
“No.”
I stand up. “Give me the eggs, right now.”
“No, Brooks. You agreed to follow my plan.”
“Izzy, I’m starving.”
A camera flash draws my attention from my little heaven on a plate. Steve Sitwell is taking photographs of our latest altercation. Great. Fucking marvelous.
“You know what, Izzy? Fine. You’re right. We agreed to follow each other’s plan to the letter.”
“Yes, we did.”
“Great, well, you can eat the eggs. I want you to have more protein for your weight training, so go ahead. Devour my first real meal of the day. Oh, and don’t worry about me, I’m sure I can find some sparkling water to fill me up.”
“I’m not hungry. I had breakfast three hours ago.”
“But we’ve established that hunger doesn’t dictate whether we eat. So, let’s take a seat and you can tuck in.”
