by Laura Carter
“Half of it was the parents. If they had the smartest, prettiest, slimmest daughter, they somehow had elevated social status. Being skinny became something that I had to do, not for me, but to please my mother. It’s hard for me to change that mind-set. I mean, I love feeling clean but I wish I could eat out without feeling guilty. I want to drink alcohol sometimes. God, I’ve lost so many friends, or at least people I used to think were friends, because I’m just no fun anymore.”
I don’t know why but I feel compelled to touch her. I drop my hand to her thigh. “We’ll work on it together.” She looks down at my hand and I realize it is touching her bare skin. Energy powers into my fingertips and courses through each vein and capillary in my body. I pull my hand away. That’s dangerous ground. “Your sense of humor failure, I mean.”
She hits me harder this time. “Bugger off!”
* * * *
I’m spotting for my PT client as he does bench presses. We’ve upped his weight today and he’s feeling the increase as he grunts and barks his way through each lift. He’s doing well. The problem is, I’m not. It’s past lunch and I’m still surviving on this morning’s shake. My hands are trembling, my arms are weak, and I’m wondering whether I’d be any use to this man if he were to get in trouble.
I’m fucking annoyed!
This whole damn PR stunt is making me put my own health on the line, but worse than that, it’s making me take risks with my clients. One of my other trainers, Leon, is doing his own workout on the multi-gym.
“Leon, can I borrow you, buddy?”
He comes over. “Sure, man, what’s up?”
“Can you spot for me? I’m not feeling great.”
“You got it.” I move aside and let Leon take my place. As I watch him assist in my session—the first time this has ever happened—the dull ache that’s been building in my head for the last few hours starts to throb incessantly.
Once my session is finished, I trudge up the stairs to my office. I’m drained, I’m irritable, and I’m in a lot of fucking pain with this headache. I close the door behind me and sink into my desk chair. It feels like my brain is pounding against my skull. The room shifts around me and begins to move in and out of focus.
I’m going to faint.
Bending across my thighs, I drop my head between my legs. Sweat beads form on my temples as I take deep inhalations.
“Brooks! What’s wrong?”
I feel Izzy’s hands on my shoulders. I want to slap them away. This is her damn fault. “I need some goddamn food, Izzy.” My words are little more than a mumble toward the ground but she must hear them.
“Are you feeling lightheaded?” she asks.
“Understatement of the fucking century.”
“Do you have a headache?”
“I’ve never had a fucking headache like it before. I’m fairly certain this is a migraine.”
She presses her thumbs into my shoulder blades as she massages me. “It’s withdrawal, that’s all. Your body is craving sugar and fat you’re not getting. It’s the detox working. You’re fine.”
That’s it. I dart up from my seat. “Fucking fine? Look at me. I’m a mess. You’re feeding me like a petite woman. I can’t even spot for—” Whoa, shit.
I plant my hands on my desk as my body sways. My vision starts to tunnel. I do what I tell my clients to do when they overexercise; I lie on the floor of my office and raise my legs. I’m vaguely aware of Izzy leaving the room. Probably finding this whole scene fucking hilarious.
When I start to come around, and stop sweating like a racehorse, I pull myself up to sit against my desk. The very last person I want to see returns. “Izzy, not now, all right. No more of your shi—”
She bends down in front of me. “Here. It’s your afternoon shake. I had them add a spoonful of protein powder.” I take the glass from her and immediately sip through the straw, feeling like a patient to her nurse. “You can have these too.” She opens a packet of almonds and I dive right in, groaning as I chew.
“Real food.”
“You’re such a wimp. Do you know that?”
“Don’t be pissy with me because your plan doesn’t work for anyone other than a one-hundred-pound child, Izzy. This is exactly why I said your methods don’t work. When it comes to your exercise, I’ll admit I can feel muscles tightening around my waist and hips that I don’t usually work out. But your nutrition advice is way off the mark. You need to tailor your plans to suit individuals, like I did for you.”
“I told you this morning that I feel fat. How is that tailored?”
“You only feel fat because you normally eat like a mouse. As your muscle builds, you’ll be using that extra protein. Honestly, I’ve added about four hundred calories to your diet, and you needed them. No one can survive on the shit you recommend.”
“Shit?” She stands, and the version of Izzy I know best—pouting, hands on hips, childish attitude—is back. “You’re an arsehole.”
“Oh, real mature, Izzy. Walk away because you hate the truth.”
“Get your arse up. You’re working out in half an hour. Kerry and Madge are here to speak with us before then.”
I tip my head back and fill my mouth with nuts, not caring that I’m starting to drool or that I have hamster cheeks. Hey, that’s a thought. Maybe I should store some for later.
Chapter 17
brooks
Recovered from my episode and feeling a hell of a lot better after some real protein, I head into Studio A. Kerry, Madge, and Izzy are sitting on the chairs that have been set out for reporters, who seem to want to watch me make a fool of myself every day.
I kiss Madge on the cheek, make a barely audible grunt in the direction of Kerry, and glower at the British sadist as I take a seat.
“Ah, glad the weakling could join us,” Izzy says, pretending to check out her nails, which are perfectly manicured and painted, in case you were wondering.
“If I could make someone mute with my mind, it would be you,” I snarl.
I look from Izzy to Madge and find her smirking. “So, you two are still playing nice.”
“The reason we’re here,” Kerry begins, “is to let you know that this hate thing is working out well for book sales, and Madge tells me your gym isn’t suffering, either.” She flicks a hand in my general direction. “But, what’s really working, is this....”
She hands Izzy and me each a printout of a trashy online magazine. I read the headline:
FROM HATERS TO LOVERS
There’s a picture that takes up half the page, of my hands all over Izzy as we dance the rumba. Her hand is reaching behind her to grab my neck. Her mouth is parted, as if she’s panting and wanting more. Hot. As. Hell. The look I’m wearing says I want to devour her.
Well, fuck me, I’m turned on looking at us together. My dream comes back to me. My thoughts as I was jacking off over Izzy this morning. My throat feels dry and my skin hot. I hand the printout back to Kerry and focus on anything other than what is screaming at me from my boxers, begging to be satisfied.
I try to concentrate on something other than my raging cock. I find myself silently singing “A Little Less Conversation.” In my mind, I sound just like Elvis Presley.
“We want you to keep playing with the press like this,” Kerry continues. “They’re lapping it up. Give them more of the same. Heat up the dancing and, I don’t know, think of something.”
“No,” Izzy says emphatically. “I can hardly stand to look at him, let alone hang around his neck.”
“That must be the first damn thing we’ve agreed on. I’m not whoring myself out for her quest for fame. No.”
“It’s helping you both,” Kerry says, impatience obvious in her tone. “Honestly, the way you’re behaving, I wonder if you aren’t secretly attracted to each other.”
Scowling, I open my mouth to retort.
Madge leans toward me before I do. “Brooks, you should consider it. It’s no more than you have been doing. A few looks, a few smiles. In fact, Izzy should come along for drinks tomorrow night. Make sure you get seen heading out together. I could even arrange it.”
“Drinks with my friends on a Saturday night? No way is she coming. I’m not inflicting her on everyone else.”
Izzy glares at me. “Inflicting me? Am I really that bad?”
“Yes.”
Ignoring me, she says, “I’d love to come along, thanks, Madge. Do you have a phone?” Madge hands her cell to Izzy. “There, you have my number; you can let me know the time and place.”
“So, there’s just one other thing I wanted to mention,” Kerry says. “AMTV USA has asked if you two would do a slot on the breakfast show on the last day of your contest. You would talk about the experience, give the results of the two weeks, and so on.”
“I’m not doing a TV show,” I growl. “This whole thing has gotten out of control.”
“You might want to look at these ratings figures before you say no.” Madge hands me a piece of paper. “And that figure on the bottom is what they want to pay you. Each.”
“There’s surely a zero too many on that?” I ask.
“Nope.”
As I exhale, the thought of the things I could use this money for whirl around my mind. I could buy Cady a car. I could provide better accommodation for her while she’s at college. I could keep the money for a down payment on her first pad.
“I’m in!” Izzy declares.
“Of course you’re in. It’s money and attention, your two favorite things.”
“You don’t even know me, Brooks. How can you say that?”
“Because I know people like you.” Like Alice.
She drops her shoulders from their offensive position and lowers her screechy tone. “Come on, Brooks. It will be the last thing we have to do together. Then you never have to see me again.”
“Sold.”
“You’re in?” She bounces excitedly on her seat. It’s not surprising she’s excited. More attention for Little Miss Fame and Fortune.
“I said so, didn’t I? Are we starting this workout or what?”
“I’ll let the reporters in,” Madge says.
As the back of the room fills with reporters, Izzy loads a YouTube video of her and a male partner talking about the basic steps of the tango.
From my lone spot in the middle of the studio, I hold up a hand and Izzy pauses the video.
“How am I supposed to tango alone when the video is you in a couple?”
“Erm, I guess I could dance with you.” Izzy walks over to me.
“Did you plan this?” I ask for her ears only. She opens her eyes wide and looks up at me through her lashes.
“No, of course not.”
“So, this isn’t some game concocted by you and Kerry?”
“No. I forgot this video shows a couple. Let’s just get on with it, shall we?”
Feeling like I’m being played is doing nothing to soothe my anger. “Fine,” I snap. “Why are you smiling like that?”
“Because that nasty little frown of yours is perfect for the tango. It’s a heated, passionate dance.” She leans in and whispers to me. “Dance it like I get right under your skin.”
As I feel her breath, hot on my neck, I admit to myself she is under my skin, in more ways than one.
I refuse to do the pointed toe shit but otherwise pick up the tango steps relatively easily; at least I think I do. Izzy doesn’t seem to be growling at me too much, so I take that as a good sign.
We watch the full dance through on the big screen twice and I try to follow the steps of the male dancer. All I can think is how fantastic on-screen Izzy looks, with her legs drawing shapes, her hips twisting, her sultry attitude. But something that irritates me even more than Izzy’s damn diet plans is watching her with her hands on another man.
“I think you’re ready,” Izzy says, grabbing my attention. “Let’s try it. Remember, if you mess up, just keep moving to get your workout.”
I miss half the steps, but we manage something like a dance. She’s smug because she knows she is outclassing me in front of the reporters.
When I spin her into me, she raises her leg to my hip and I take hold of it behind the knee, pinning her to me. I lean into her ear and tell her, “For the record, this dance is too slow to be a workout.” I wonder if she feels the slip of my hand up her thigh, the way I pull her pelvis against mine.
She looks at me and her lips part. Her leg squeezes harder against my hip. “And yet you’re sweating, Mr. Adams.”
Like I watched the man in the video do, I move backward, dragging her long straight leg along the studio floor. She wasn’t expecting the move and the glint in her eye tells me so. “As are you, Miss Coulthard.”
Her lips curl, slowly at first, then form a beaming grin. She throws her head back laughing and I fall into it with her. We end the track like that, both of us bent over our knees, neither one of us able to catch our breath. For a second, I forget that we despise each other. I almost forget what a dick I must have looked like dancing the tango.
It’s getting late in the day and we have the reporters around, so we move straight into the gym for Izzy’s session. I set her off on cardio; then we move to weights, adding a small amount now that I know she can cope with it.
We finish on lunges. She holds two eight-pound weights as she sinks for three reps of fifteen on each leg. On the last lunge, she hisses as she pushes up. I immediately put down my clipboard and go to her, taking the weights. I notice a photograph being taken in my peripheral vision. I can imagine the headline now: BROOKS RUSHES TO HELP HIS LOVER.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine. I just felt a twinge in my hamstring, that’s all.”
“Okay, we’re done for today, anyway. Let’s make sure we stretch you out good.”
She follows me to the mats. We do a few standing stretches; then I tell her to lie on her back on the mat. “Keep your base leg straight and lift the right for me.” I take hold of her leg and raise it straight up, flexing her toes toward her body. “How does that feel?”
“Good but I can go much further than that.”
“All right, I’ll push you but take it steady. Tell me if you feel anything.”
I start to lean on her leg, moving it toward her body. It comes so close to her face she’s almost doing a split, and I’m hovering above her, looking down at her with my crotch pressed to her thigh. I’ll be damned if I’m not completely turned on.
There’s a sexy, knowing glint about her eyes. Jesus, I want her. I have to fuck this woman or lose my mind. I have to do this for the sake of mankind.
“Let’s give them a show,” she whispers.
I waste no time moving my body closer to hers, bringing my mouth just inches from her inviting lips. “There’s nothing fake about this.”
Her face creeps toward mine. Then I remember where the hell I am. I’m in my gym. I’m not some fucking performing puppet. I’m a businessman. I’m a father.
“Let’s stretch out your core and arms.” I reach out my hand. She takes it and I help her to stand, but the look on her face is as bewildered as mine. What the hell kind of spell does this woman put me under?
My cell phone rings and I’m so freakin’ thankful for the distraction, I answer without even looking at the screen. “Brooks Adams.”
Izzy plants her hands on her hips and waits for me to get back to her cooldown. “Dad, it’s me.”
“Hey, baby. What’s up?”
“I’m in the city and have half an hour to spare if you want to see me. But it has to be like right now.”
“I would love to but I’m busy.”
“Is it her? Are you with the dancer woman?”
I hear i
n her tone that what she’s really asking is whether she’s being pushed aside by her other parent too. “Hey, it’s just work. You know that. You have nothing to worry about. Any other time and I would have been there. This will be over soon and we’ll be back to normal.”
“Sure. It’s no big deal.”
“Speak soon.”
I hang up and drop the phone into my back pocket. “Right, where were we? Arms?”
“Oh, you can see me now?”
Wow. Where did this new hormone burst come from?
“What? I took a call.”
She shakes her head. “Whatever, let’s just get on with it so you can get to your booty call.”
My booty call? I just turned down a chance to see my daughter. “You know something, Izzy, you can go to hell. I’m done with you and this whole damn thing.”
“Because I got in the way of your sex life?”
“Are you serious? Are you on your period or something? Or is it that you’re so used to getting everything your own way, a fifteen-second phone call makes you act like a spoiled kid.”
She steps toward me and gets in my face. “Spoiled. There it is again. You and this obsession with money.”
“It’s not an obsession with money, Izzy. It’s the realization that you act like you think everything should just be given to you. Some people work their asses off to make their own luck. Even then, they don’t get what they want.”
“At least I have a goal, Brooks. As far as I can see, you just plod through life, with your gym at max capacity but doing nothing to expand, with your apartment and its shitty view when you must be able to afford better. Maybe you should work out what you want; then you might have a shot at getting it.”
“What are you even arguing about? I took a call.” I drag a hand through my hair. “Oh, I get it. You’re jealous.”
“I am not jealous.”
I close the space between us. It isn’t just me who gets hot under the collar. This gorgeous, infuriating, sexy-as-hell woman wants me too. “You want me,” I whisper close to her lips.
