Chapter 9
brooks
It just keeps going. The verbal diarrhea.
The best gym in the city, I was told. Everyone wants to be trained by Brooks Adams, I heard. Well, while I can vouch for the perfectly adequate facilities of his gym, the man himself leaves a lot to be desired. I’d heard he was like diamonds to women, irresistible. In this woman’s opinion, once you look beyond the allure of bulging biceps, there’s nothing but an ill-mannered, arrogant ape.
Putting the beast’s personality aside for one second, I must say, I find it hard to believe that he looks the way he does (read: extremely buff), if he follows his own advice. The man was annoyed at me for requesting a green smoothie from his new bistro. Even though I offered one of my new recipes to the server (see links below to my new book Be Green. Be Clean—preorder quick, hard copies are selling out fast), Brooks Adams saw red (not green, at all). I won’t go on about the quarrel we had over the matter, which was not only embarrassing to me but also other clients in the bistro. My point is this, Brooks Adams doesn’t believe in good nutrition, so what is he really doing to get that body? I’ll let you draw your own conclusions. All I’m saying is, I’m guessing he doesn’t practice what he preaches.
Why not try a fitness and nutrition regime that works? *winks*
“Is she for fucking real?” It’s a rhetorical question but Charlie answers, her tone as wary as her stance as she hovers at the doorway of my office.
“I’m sorry, Brooks. I thought you would want to know.”
I finally take my eyes off the smug face of Izzy Coulthard on my screen. “I do, Charlie. Thanks.”
She leaves me shaking my head. I don’t know if I’m shaking my head in disbelief—how can anyone, especially in the same professional circle as me, be such a jackass? Or because I thought I recognized something in her today, something that said there was a good side to her, and I’m surprised at my own enormous misjudgment.
I push back in my desk chair too harshly, sending it crashing into the wall. And I actually felt sorry for the woman. While I was arranging for Sarah to go to Barnes & Noble, Izzy was probably posting this blog from her cell.
What a fool. When will I learn that women, even the prettiest women, with the most beautiful accents, can be…poison?
My hands are balled into fists on top of my desk as I stare at the blog post, still certain this cannot be real. It would be one thing if she didn’t like something changeable about the gym. If she thinks there are better health and nutrition methods than mine, that’s okay. But to trash my methods and my gym. Then to attack my character. All in fucking public!
I don’t bother reading the 111 comments already amassed in the hour this thing has been published.
“Goddamn it!”
I throw out an arm and knock a pen pot from my desk, scattering stationery across the floor. That only pisses me off more because now I have to pick the damn things up.
As I crouch to refill the pot, it occurs to me I’m not even maddest about other people reading the post. My clients are loyal. I’m more annoyed that I feel like a fool over a woman. I’ve spent eighteen freakin’ years being crazy over a woman. But this one…she’s something else.
Replacing the pen pot on my desk, I switch my jeans for shorts and head down to the boxing room. I dip my head to two guys sparring in the ring and mutter acknowledgments to others hitting speed bags and body bags.
I find one free hanging bag, strap my hands, and put every drop of anger I feel into my fists, as I burn up the bag. When my anger doesn’t subside, I thrust a roundhouse kick at the bag, sending it swinging. The taste of salt pushes through my lips and onto my tongue. Sweat drips into my eyes. I can feel the focus of the faces in the room trained on me. I realize I must look insane, going hell for leather over nothing. But this is what I profess—take your shit and put it into your workout. She wants to know why I look the way I do? Because I have a lot of fucking anger and hurt to put into a workout. Because I’m fed up with always trying and failing to be something for one person. One person who will never take me back.
And for some goddamn reason, Izzy Coulthard has managed to bring my shit to the surface more fiercely than I’ve felt it for a long time.
“Brooks. Brooks!”
I grab hold of the punch bag and look at Charlie, not prepared to see the person standing beside her.
“I’m sorry,” Charlie says. “She was adamant about coming to see you.”
Izzy eyes me cautiously. If she can see on my face the burning rage I feel at the sight of her, I don’t blame her for being wary. “Brooks, I’m so—”
I hold up a strapped palm and break the glare I’m giving her, trying to cool my temper. I won’t do this again. I won’t prove her and her pretentious, childish blog to be right. With professional resolve, I all but growl, “Go to my office. We’ll talk there.”
She nods and turns on her feet. I watch her walk away, noting the black filth on the bare skin of her heels and the shoes she’s holding in her hand.
I have no idea what I’m going to say to her. All I know is that my anger usually simmers, quietly. But with this woman, for some reason, I feel out of control with rage.
The AC in the stairwell chills my saturated shirt and my body in the process. I pull my shirt over my head, flick it across my shoulder, and start to unwrap my hands. I see Izzy pacing the floor of my office.
Taking a calming breath, trying to put myself in my usual mind-set, I move into the room and knock the door shut behind me. I don’t meet her eye as I continue unstrapping my hands and drop my shirt onto the rim of my laundry basket to dry.
“Brooks, I’m so sorry. Those words weren’t all mine. I sent the post to Kerry and—”
“Did you write it?”
“Yes, but—”
I turn to her now, trying not to focus on how beautiful she looks in her green dress, which is patterned with vines of exotic flowers and butterflies—sweet and expensive looking. Ironic, given this woman is anything but sweet. I push the image of her sitting alone in Barnes & Noble from my mind. The moment in which I thought she might be something other than a loudmouthed fame chaser.
“Is that really how you want to get book sales? By trashing my gym and my advice?”
“No, I—”
“Why? All over a kale smoothie? I let you into the gym to film. I noticed you didn’t mention in your little blog post that the reason I didn’t just let you walk right into my gym to work out is because I respect my clientele too much. Because I don’t think that you should take the space of someone who has waited on a list for months, just because you have a book deal. Just because you’re…” I gesture to her with my hand and stop short of calling her stunning, or saying that she has the most mesmerizing smile I’ve ever seen, that her body is exactly what I would savor in a woman—svelte and feminine, while being strong and lean.
Her jaw drops and her eyes narrow. “You know something, I ran here. Yes, ran, barefoot, from Fifth Avenue. I wrote the beginnings of that blog post but that was before…”
She shakes her head and seems to find another line of attack. She steps close to me, her finger pointing in my face. “You! You. You…”
I inhale and instantly find out what a mistake that was as her darkly sensual perfume assaults my senses and travels straight to my libido, blurring my thoughts.
She drops her finger and steps closer to me still, so she’s right under my nose, looking up through her lashes. Her eyes widen now, with surprise or perhaps knowing, and her chest rises and falls quickly. I feel her breath against my bare chest. And I want to rip that fucking dress from her with my teeth.
“Would you please put on a shirt?”
I force my eyes shut, killing the link, murdering the moment. Murderous. Yes, murderous, that was how I was feeling before her perfume. I put a hand on her shoulder and take a step back from her.
Grabbing a clean shirt, I pull it over my head and tell her, “You’re better than this. You must be. Look what you’ve managed to do already. Your name is out there. You have a book deal. Don’t let yourself fall into the trap of having to put others down to succeed.”
Her tongue slides along her bottom lip. Thankfully, she drops her head so I can’t see any more. All the same, I can feel blood rushing to my cock at just the thought of where I’d like to feel that warm, wet tongue.
Christ.
“Don’t crave fame and fortune so much you forget how to be a decent person, Izzy.”
Her head snaps up and her hands come to her hips. “I am not craving fame and fortune. I want to put my work out there. I want to help people get fit. Unlike you, I want people to do it in a healthy, sustainable way.”
I scoff. “We’re back to this. Right. You don’t even know the people I train, how they feel, or the advice I tailor to them. You run around professing that kale and cucumber work for everyone. Let me tell you, if you advise people to eat like pigeons, they will lose weight. But they won’t feel good, it isn’t sustainable, and they won’t tone up.”
“How dare you!”
“How dare I? At least I’m saying it to your face and not on some pathetic blog.”
“My blog is not pathetic.” She’s all but screaming at me. Her cheeks are flaming red. It starts to tickle me.
“Please, you don’t even follow your own advice. There’s no way you eat lettuce leaves and have an ass like that.”
She spins around on the spot like a dog chasing its tail. It’s hilarious. I bite my lip and cover my mouth with my hand to keep in my amusement.
“What’s wrong with my bum? And why have you been looking at it anyway?”
I can’t help the short chuckle that escapes me. “You have a fine ass, Izzy Coulthard, but you didn’t get that from eating kale. Admit it or not, you like protein. As for why I’ve been looking at your ass, ibid.”
“Huh!” She straightens her already straight dress then points her damn finger in my face again. I contemplate taking it between my teeth. “You just wait, Brooks Adams. You thought the first post about you was bad. You just wait!” She stomps her foot like Thumper, making my laughter bubble out of me.
Ah, Jesus. I can’t decide whether this woman is the best or worst thing that’s happened to me in a long time.