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‘You were just pimping your book in my gym, uninvited.’
I fold my arms across my chest and glare at her as she takes a step back. When she looks down at the ground, guilt strikes me. I went in too hard. I don’t know why. It’s not like me.
An apology of some sort is on the tip of my tongue when she whips her head back up and there’s bloody murder in those blue eyes. They no longer shine; they’re cold as an ice queen’s.
‘You know something – I’d heard about this gym, and about you, Mr Brooks Adams, Trainer to the Stars.’ She puts on a mocking tone that makes her sound petty. ‘Kerry wanted me to come here because she said the gym, and you, are the best in the city.’ She throws her head back on a fake and damn annoying laugh. ‘Well, at least I understand why now.’ She gestures with her free hand from my head to my toes. ‘It’s obvious, isn’t it? When a personal trainer looks and talks like you, there are no distractions. Your clients can focus 100 per cent on working out because there’s no risk of them falling for their trainer.’
Now it’s my turn to laugh. ‘Really? You’re throwing out cheap shots about my looks because you’re having a tantrum? For a moment there, I almost forgot that you’re a wannabe with a hell of a lot of attitude. Thanks for the reminder.’ I turn to Angie, who is watching the show with an empty blender cup held midair. ‘Give her what she wants just this once, Angie. It will be the first and last time.’
Shaking my head, I abandon the lunch idea and turn to leave the bistro. But it seems Izzy Coulthard just doesn’t know when enough is enough.
‘You really are precious over a piece of bloody cucumber!’ she shouts after me.
‘At least cucumber tastes of something. I mean, kale? Really? Be original.’
Her jaw drops before a childish scowl takes over her face. ‘Yeah, well, kale tastes better than those shitty protein shots.’
‘That’s BS. And, for the record, you don’t need to salsa yourself slim if you eat like a goddamn rabbit in any case.’
I leave the bistro as she shouts something about the diet of a gorilla.
Did that really just happen? In front of customers? Did I just argue with a woman over cucumber and kale?
By the time I reach the mezzanine level, I’m laughing. For some ungodly reason, I’m in kinks. I really did argue with a woman I don’t know over cucumber.
I have a flashback to her childish pout. Like Kirsten Dunst in that cheerleader movie that Cady watches. What was that,Bring It On? That’s it. I swear Izzy’s pout was worse than teenage Kirsten Dunst. I laugh harder. Damn, it feels good.
It could be her pout. It could be the realization that, while I was having an argument with a hot woman over vegetables, I didn’t think about Cady going off the rails, or the fact the only woman I’ve ever loved is having another man’s baby.
Either way, give the most obnoxious woman in the world her due, I never laugh after I’ve heard from Alice. Never.
6
BROOKS
I see Drew and Kit walk into the gym. I watch their reflections hover while they wait for me to finish my last reps of bicep curls. Although I spar with people and do a piecemeal workout during the day, when the gym is quiet, I like to fit in a full body workout whenever I can. Sometimes that’s at 9.00a.m., sometimes right after lunch, or like tonight, it can be around 9.00p.m.
I grunt through the final curl and lean close to the mirror to put the weights down on the rack. As I wipe sweat from my neck and arms, Drew and Kit come closer, both wearing jeans and button-downs. Both with wet hair from showering.
‘Do you want us to wait for you?’ Drew asks.
‘No, don’t worry. I’m about done. I’ll clean up and see you at Black Velvet.’
It’s not like I’m out every night of the week. I was out over the weekend. And Monday night with Jake. Now, it’s Wednesday and I’m going out again, so I guess I can see why some might think I’m a drunk. I’m not. Generally, I drink a couple of times a week. I don’t get wasted. But Jake is heading back to London tomorrow, so the gang is getting together for a send-off. The good thing about the city is, whether it’s Wednesday, Friday, or Sunday, there’s always life in the bars.
After stretching, I head into the men’s changing rooms. I take my shower, then pull on my jeans and boots with a long-sleeved T-shirt that doesn’t hide the tips of the ink from my shoulders and chest that sneak above the neckline.
A quick check of my watch tells me it’s been twenty-five minutes since the guys left. I need to get moving.
In my office, I dump my dirty clothes into my laundry basket and lock up. As I’m heading out, my cell starts ringing.
Taking the stairs two at a time, I slide my thumb to answer without looking at the screen. ‘Yo! I’m on my way. Get me a beer and whatever Jake wants.’
‘Who would have thought the most miserable man alive has friends?’
I pause at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Who is this?’
‘Kerry. Izzy Coulthard’s publicist. We met today? You were extremely rude?’
