Chapter 11
Izzy
“You have got to be kidding me!” My voice is shrill, painful even to my own ears.
The fact that I’m sitting next to Brooks in Kerry’s office is bad enough. Now, she’s saying I have to live with him for two weeks to make this thing work. It will be good for PR and we need to keep an eye on each other, she argues. She’s lost her mind.
Argh, why didn’t I just tell them I couldn’t extend my trip? Or say my grandmother died? Or that my dog ate my gym kit?
Kerry turns her laptop on the conference room table so the screen faces Brooks, Madge—his PR manager—and me. “See for yourself. Your blog hits skyrocketed. You had more comments on your little blogging war than you’ve had in the previous year.”
Brooks sniggers and I swear my palm is twitching to slap his face. But Kerry is right. My presales were low. In the last couple of days, preorders, YouTube views, and new visitors to the blog are all up. Today, my release seems to be going reasonably well. I’m climbing the Amazon charts, at least.
Madge leans in to speak to Brooks, but she’s still loud enough that I catch her words. “Your membership requests are up too, Brooks. If you are going to franchise and you want to fill out a new gym before it has even opened, this could be good for you.”
He rubs a hand across his short beard. I’ve never found beards attractive but on Brooks, not only does it work, it makes me want to test the theory about beards and sensations. Ahem, you know the one. I like his rugged look. Tats, beard, muscles. It’s so far from the suited, pompous Londoners I’m used to—the type my parents want me to marry. I like the way one prominent vein shows in his biceps, whether he’s flexing or not. I wonder whether he’s so ripped the veins of his pelvis will show me a trail down to his— I shudder involuntarily. This is Brooks Adams I’m focusing on here. Scum of the earth. Well, except that one thing in the bookstore. No! No buts.
I blink three times in quick succession when I realize Brooks is watching me stare at him. Shit.
“Look, it sounds like this could be good for both of us,” he says, surprising me. “I’ll do it. But the defamatory blog posts have got to stop. It’s childish and pathetic.”
I feel my jaw drop. Now I’m childish and pathetic?
“And you are absolutely not staying in my apartment for two weeks. There’s a place on the same floor, two doors down the hall. It’s available for short-term rental. Maybe Kerry can fix that for you.”
That does sound better. “I don’t like you.” I know I’ve said that aloud when Brooks replies.
“Yeah, ditto, baby.”
I hold up a finger as a sound of pure contempt leaves my mouth. “First, never call me baby. Secondly, each of us has to follow these plans to the letter. No cheating in between. Part of my plan is detoxifying your body, so don’t go putting any beer or shitty protein in there. And you have to do the exercises I give you. None of that grunting meathead weight-lifting crap.”
He stands up and shakes his head like a headmaster might at a pupil. “The same goes for you, Coulthard. If I give you steak, you’ll eat steak. If I tell you to lift weights, you’ll lift weights. And you can’t go fitting in dance sessions and messing up my plan.”
I stand and mirror his hostile posture. “Fine.”
“Fine.”
As we stare at each other, I notice for the first time the flecks of gold around his green eyes. They’re like a fine chain holding a bright emerald. I’ve never seen irises quite like them before. He holds my stare until his eyes slip down to my mouth. The move makes me suddenly need to wet my lips with my tongue.
“Are we all set, then?” Madge rises from her seat, breaking our standoff. I remember that, gorgeous eyes, rugged, and muscular or not, I am looking at Brooks “Big Head” Adams.
Madge places a hand on Brooks’s shoulder and they exchange an unspoken communication.
“We’re all set,” Kerry says, narrowing her eyes at me, as if to ask why I was just lost in all things Brooks. I would also like to know the answer to that question.
* * * *
I drag my Louis Vuitton suitcase up another flight of stairs, then stop on the landing before tackling the next. I remove the elastic tie from my hair and retie a higher ponytail, lifting my hair off my clammy neck.
“You’re telling me that of all the days and times the elevator could break, it’s now? When I am moving into your building?”
Brooks’s mouth curves at one side in a sick and twisted kind of smile; then he continues with ease up another floor, carrying a significantly smaller case than the one I’m lugging.
“Looks that way now, doesn’t it?”
“You planned this, didn’t you? You had the concierge do something. I bet if I were to stand in that elevator shaft right now, the lift would be there and it would take me up to your floor.”
He pauses midflight and smirks down at me. “You want to try it, be my guest. Don’t expect me to pick you up when you plummet to the basement.”
“You’re sick, Brooks Adams.”
“No sicker than you. Carting this much luggage around is a sadistic thing to do. How much stuff can you really need, anyway?”
“You’d be surprised,” I puff, recommencing the struggle upward.
He moves around another stair wall and out of view. “At least those greens keep you nice and strong, huh?”
I have never wanted to harpoon someone through the head so much in my life.
We finally make it to the twelfth floor. I’m pleased I decided to wear gym kit for the move but I’m still sweating from all the ugly places. I can feel sweat trickling between my boobs. I try to subtly dip my fingers into my sports bra to wipe it away but Brooks turns right as my fingers are wedged in my cleavage.
He has stopped outside an apartment door and raises one brow. “I know you said you wanted a ride but playing with your breasts in the communal areas is a little desperate, Izzy.”
“Would you just bugger off?”
“Sure thing. I’ll leave your ridiculously oversized luggage here, shall I?”
“Look, this constant fighting has got to stop. We’re working together now.”
He tilts his head to one side in such a bloody supercilious way, I want to slap his chiseled face. “I’m sorry, Izzy, you’re right, fighting in public places is a little uncouth. Not like arguing via a blog post available to the world, for example.”
Stomping my feet as I pull my case, I move to his side. “You really need to get over that.” I eye the blue door and the gold numbers 124 nailed to the center. “Is this my apartment?”
“No, this is my apartment. You’re two doors that way. I just want to show you this door and let you know that you are not welcome here. If you run out of milk or sugar or you watch a scary movie and need a buff man to put an arm around you, there are around one hundred sixty other options in this building. Consider one-two-four off limits.”
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.