Chapter 5
Brooks
“That’s twenty. Nice job.” As I take the weight of the bar my client is using for bench presses and lift it onto the rack, he brings himself upright and wipes his forehead. I note for my record the increase in his weights this session. “How are you feeling?”
He drinks from his sports bottle. “I’ve never felt in better shape in my life.”
I drop a hand to his shoulder. “Let’s move on to dead lifts in that case.”
We’re on the mezzanine floor of the gym, looking down over the cardio machines, as I set up Rick’s weights and get him started on his reps, always keeping one eye on his form.
“Brooks, you got a second?”
I turn to see Charlie, my floor manager, coming toward me in chinos and a blazer. It’s her day for dealing with corporate membership renewals so she isn’t in her usual sports gear.
I tell my client to keep going, then say to Charlie, “Sure, what’s up?”
Charlie leans closer and lowers her voice to little more than a whisper. “I’ve got a crazy-ass publicist and a mini-celeb in reception. They’re kicking up a stink because I’ve said they can’t come into the gym without a membership. They demanded to see you. Said they tried calling before they turned up. I wouldn’t bother you with it, but they’re causing a scene in front of the bistro and it’s full down there.”
I can’t help my sigh. It’s always the wannabe celebs who think they have some kind of God-given right to work out here. “You’ve told them we don’t do special treatment here?”
“Only ten times. I could shoot for the eleventh.”
“Tell them to take a seat and calm the hell down. I’m not cutting my session short but we’ll be done here in five. I’ll come down then.”
“Thanks, Brooks.”
As she walks away, I tell my client to rest between sets. Then I call back to Charlie. “Who is this person, anyway?”
She stops and glances down at the clipboard in her hand. “Izzy Coulthard. That Salsa Yourself Slim woman from the TV commercials.”
* * * *
Despite the liveliness of the bistro, as soon as I walk through the double doors to the reception area, my attention is drawn to two women wearing stubborn pouts and sitting on the leather sofas next to the front desk.
Charlie tells them, “Here’s my boss now,” and they stand to face me.
The brunette, whom I take to be the mouthy publicist, is standing on too-high heels, hands on her hips, her nails coated in bright pink polish. She’s striking, yet my eyes flick over her and land on the blonde I recognize from TV. Izzy Coulthard. And good-fucking-God, she’s even hotter in person. The TV did nothing to show that her slim figure, toned as it is, has all the right curves in all the right places. Her purple yoga leggings from the cover of her book have been replaced by jazzy blue print leggings, which she wears with a hot-pink running top. Her hair is tied into an immaculate ponytail, not one wisp out of place. And, oddly, given she is asking to work out, her face is full of makeup. A serious instructor would not work out in a full face of makeup.
I cross to the desk. “Ladies, how can I help you?”
An awkward silence ensues while I stand in front of them, my arms folded across my chest. I look from Izzy to the publicist. Waiting. The publicist opens and closes her mouth without speaking; then slowly, as her gaze runs from my head across my folded arms, she reaches out a hand for me to shake. Is she ogling me?
I take her hand in a short shake. As if the move snaps her out of a trance, she speaks loudly and quickly. “Finally, someone with some authority around here.”
“Excuse me?”
She flicks her bobbed hair from her eyes and flashes me a flirty smile. “Well, I was explaining to this woman, your receptionist, that this is Izzy Coulthard. I’m sure I don’t need to explain to you that Izzy is here on a promotional tour for her new, highly anticipated fitness book.”
I stare at her blankly, as if I’ve never seen the stunning blonde by my side on TV.
She continues to speak. “I’m her publicist, Kerry. Izzy wanted to check out the gym to see if we could…”
I tune her out as my attention shifts back to Izzy. The woman from my hot-as-hell dream. The woman who morphed from herself to Alice and finally to Jake.
Christ. My body shudders as I remember that nightmare.
From the parting of her lips and the widening of her eyes, I’d say Izzy just picked up on my not-so-subtle revulsion, and she is 100 percent affronted. I could fix that easily. I could explain that I’m not shaking off the thought of banging her in my dream but the thought of getting jiggy with Jake.
Of course, that won’t put an end to the incessant ranting of the ignorant publicist who is still talking at me.
“…I tried to explain to your receptionist that it would be good marketing for the gym if Izzy were to be seen working out here, and—”
I dart my focus back to Kerry and hold up a hand. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Kerry, but we don’t have the capacity for walk-ins. I have a full members list.”
She tuts. Actually tuts at me. “This is Izzy Coulthard.”
“Sweetheart, she could be Angelina Jolie. I don’t bow to status or threats from publicists. And, for the record, Charlie is my floor manager, not a receptionist. And if there were any chance of me letting Izzy work out in my gym today, insulting my staff is the last thing you should be doing.”
I resume my folded arm position and glare at Kerry until she looks away.
“Look, we didn’t mean to cause an upset.” Izzy speaks with a British accent. A cute British accent. She glances around the space and the people in the bistro who have gone quiet and are watching our show. When I look at her this time, I notice a small dimple in the center of her chin, and the amazing brightness of her blue eyes. “I just want to work out.”
Don’t be lured in by it, Brooks. She’s just another jumped-up wannabe, whether you’ve fantasized about tapping her or not.
“Do you run?” I ask, before images of her legs wrapped around my waist can penetrate my thoughts. At least I tried to stop them from doing that.
“Ah, yes, I run.”
“Well, since you’re dressed for it, I’ll do you a favor.” I incline my head toward the neon blue sports bag on the floor by the sofa and exhale sharply through my nose as I realize it is a high-end designer label and probably cost my month’s rent. “You can leave your gym bag in a locker here and go for a run. When you leave the gym, run eight blocks to the left. You’ll be in Central Park.”
For the second time, her lips part. This time, her mouth opens wider. On looks alone, I’d be tempted to consider what she could fit in there.
“Are you shitting me?” Kerry chides.
I shrug. “The offer’s there. Take it or leave it.”
Kerry puts a hand on my arm, a move I think is intended to be aggressive, or powerful, who knows? “But I called and told y—”
“I picked up your voice messages before I came down here. All three of them. The first asked if you could come here today. The second gave me an hour to respond. The third said you were on your way.” I take her hand from my arm. “I don’t take kindly to people telling me what to do with my gym, Kerry. Try advance notice and a polite request next time.” I turn to Izzy, who still looks a little astonished. “If you want to borrow a locker, Charlie will fix you up.”
With that, I turn my back on them. Before I reach the double doors, I glance back at Izzy. “Hey, none of my business, but if you want that book to sell, you might want to reconsider your choice of publicist.”
I let the doors close behind me and smirk all the way up the stairs. Who the hell does she think she is?
* * * *
Back in my office, my smirk disappears and it’s easier to tell my hackles are standing up. That attitude. Rude to my staff. Rude to me. Rude about my gym. And all in front of customers.
Without realizing, I’ve started pacing the floor, my usual calm shot. I thought Brits were supposed to be all “pleases” and “thank-yous” and “queues.” Not hoity-toity divas.
I rub a hand roughly across my short beard and crack my neck. Shake it off, Brooksie. Shake it off.
Taking a bottle of sparkling water from my minifridge, I sink into my desk chair and lean back into the padding as I drain the bottle, enjoying the cool, calming effect of the liquid. I fire the empty into the trash can in the corner of the room and stare at my desktop screen saver. A picture of Cady is swirling around the otherwise black monitor.
I don’t know why I do it—morbid fascination maybe. I wiggle the mouse, type in my password, and open the Internet browser. I only type “Izzy C” before Google offers me her full name.
Hitting Return brings up multiple images of Izzy Coulthard, a.k.a. Brit with a stinking attitude. I click on Images and the screen fills with pictures of her. Mostly she’s dressed in sports gear. Tight fitting and brightly colored. Her hair is always tied in a high ponytail, as slick as it was today. Her arms are toned, even though her skin is pale in every image. Her face is flawless, yet not made up. She looks better without all the makeup she was wearing today. More natural. Like a real fitness instructor. I wonder why she was wearing makeup today—it surely wasn’t to mask a lack of confidence.
In all the shots, she’s working out or looking at the camera, straight faced. Figures. I’ve spent minutes in her company and can’t imagine her smiling.
As I scroll down, the images keep loading. Finally, one picture makes me pause. I click it to zoom and take her in. Her head is thrown back, her mouth is open, her perfect teeth are on display. She’s laughing, hard. It lights up her eyes—the brightest, bluest eyes I’ve seen. Her dainty hands are wrapped across her waist.
I rest back in my chair and take in the image. Everything about her. I’m still staring when my cell phone rings, stealing my attention.
The name on the screen causes me to do a double take. It’s surprising it hasn’t gone to voice mail by the time I slide my thumb across the screen and put the phone to my ear.
“Alice. Hi.”
She clears her throat. Good, this is awkward for us both, then. “Hi, Brooks. How are you?”
I shrug, not that she can see me. “I’m fine. You?”
“Mmm-hmm, good.” Cue uncomfortable pause. Hey, I didn’t make the call—it’s not on me. “Well, I mean, I’m good generally. You, ah, I guess Cady told you I’m pregnant?”
“Right, yeah, she mentioned it. Congratulations…by the way.”
Did she just snort? “Thanks. So, that’s not actually… I’m calling about Cady.”
“Of course, right.”
“Brooks, I don’t know what to do with her. I’m going out of my mind. She’s got this older boyfriend, a college guy. She didn’t come home on Saturday night. She called and said she was staying with a friend but I saw her friend’s mom yesterday and she said they didn’t stay there. Cady stank like a brewery when she finally did come home.”
I take a breath. Part of me thinks Cady’s just being an eighteen-year-old kid. The other half of me wants to wrap her up in cotton, so I get where Alice is coming from. “I’ll talk with her. I spoke to her on Saturday but I’ll try again.”
Alice sighs. “Brooks…I… How would you feel about her coming to stay with you full-time? Just for a while. I can’t. I mean, I’m pregnant and…”
I feel my brow scrunch. She wants to kick out my daughter? “Are you kidding me?”
“I just think she’d be better off—”
I scoff, feeling my blood boil in my veins. “She’s a kid, Alice. She might give it the tough eighteen-year-old routine but she’s just a kid.”
“She’s your goddamn kid too, Brooks.”
“Hey, calm down. You know I’d have her with me twenty-four/seven if I thought it was the best thing for her, so drop the attitude. Maybe ask yourself why she’s acting out now, of all times. She feels pushed out. You’re pregnant. She needs to know she’s still your girl, Alice.”
The line goes silent and I know she’ll have her fingertips pressed to her soft lips, her eyes closed. “I just don’t want her to…”
“Make the same mistakes as you did. I know.” What she doesn’t know is that those words hit me like bullets to my chest, blazing through me, breaking bones, burning a hole in my heart, piercing my lungs, and making it hard to breathe.
She blows out slowly but heavily, as if through pursed lips. “You always could read people, couldn’t you?”
Nostalgia Lane? Really? That’s not my address.
Suddenly uncomfortable in my seat, I stand and move to the window, looking out over the city. “I’ll talk to her. Just try to include her. Maybe set up a girls’ day. I’m sure she could use a woman to talk to. You set something up and I’ll pay for Cady. Don’t push her out, okay? Don’t make her feel like she isn’t welcome in your home.”
“You know she is. Of course she is.”
“I know that. Just make sure she knows it.”
“Okay. Thanks, Brooks. It’s good to talk to you about her. You know, when I try to talk to Richard he—”
Richard. We’re going to talk about the latest husband? “I’ve got to go, Alice. If you need me for anything to do with Cady, you know how to find me. Anything at all.”
“Oh, yeah, ’course.”
“’Bye, Alice.”
“Good-bye, Brooks.”
I end the call and lean into the sides of my fists, pressing them against the cool glass of the window. I fill my lungs with one steady, calming breath, reminding myself that she’s not my Alice. She’s not the Alice I was in love with eighteen years ago. And I will never have her again.
My melancholy is replaced when I see the bright Lycra of the British diva, heading back toward the gym. So, she did go for a run. Her hair swishes as she runs. Her arms move parallel to each other, drawing perfectly straight rotations. Her style is good, efficient. Her thighs look strong. Her stride is set at a solid pace. She moves effortlessly, but I know she’s working her body hard.
When she stops outside the gym, she presses the phone holder that’s strapped around her bicep, presumably to turn off or change her music; then she starts to stretch. Her top rides up as she takes her arms above her head and leans to one side, stretching the sides of her torso from the hip. Her stomach is perfectly flat. Her skin inviting.
It is such a shame she’s an obnoxious—
“Brooks, I’m done for the day. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I spin quickly and feel as guilty as I must look. I feel like I’ve been caught red-handed with contraband. “Thanks, Charlie. Have a good one.”
When I turn back to the window, Miss Attitude has vanished from the sidewalk.
I check my watch and get a little buzz when I see it is second lunchtime. See, I train folks who work office jobs over actual lunchtime, so I eat two smaller helpings of lunch before and after that time. Meh, small for me. I guess you could call it a little Brooks quirk—I’m always hungry.
The bistro is still busy. Adding the café to the premises was one of the best business decisions I’ve made. People fill the seats all day, whether it’s breakfast, brunch, snacks, coffee, smoothies, dinner. There’s a cheerful vibe about the place—people high on endorphins putting the world to right.
Dipping my head to the familiar faces around the bistro, I move toward the smoothie bar. Before I get to the counter, my ears find the English girl first, then my focus lands on, well, her ass, then the rest of her. She’s leaning on the counter with both palms, standing on her tiptoes for no apparent reason, as if she’s been walking on eggshells her whole life.
“Oh, no, those combinations don’t really do much for me. Let’s make it easy. I’ll take the green roots smoothie but leave out the shot of that Xcell protein. I don’t rate that stuff at all. Could you also switch out the cucumber and add kale? Do you have asparagus? That would be great in there. You know, I could leave you one of these…”
I watch, one brow raised, my teeth digging hard into my cheek, as she takes one of her books—the one from the TV commercial—from her sports bag and holds it out to Angie.
“This is my new book. It has great recipes. I think they would do really well here.”
I try to keep my cool, since that’s what people expect from me—hell, it’s what I expect from me—but my words are sharp. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Izzy jumps and spins quickly, leaning back when she realizes how close my face is to hers. “I was just—”
“You were just shitting all over recipes I put together. You were just bad-mouthing one of my sponsors, when I’ll bet you’ve never even tried their products.”
“I—”
“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 one hundred percent 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 my bistro? 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.