by Laura Carter
“’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.
Chapter 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. Sometimes that’s at 9:00 a.m., sometimes right after lunch, or like tonight, it can be around 9:00 p.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 after their workouts.
“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.”
I don’t want to create a picture for you here 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 you would 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 life in the bars every night.
After stretching, I head into the men’s changing rooms. While I’m undressing and grabbing a few products for the shower, I glance around the space, making sure things are clean and tidy, that everything is in good working order.
Satisfied, I take my shower, then pul
l 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?”
“Aha. What do you want?”
“While it pains me, Izzy likes your gym. She moaned about the owner being a jerk and the smoothie recipes being in need of improvement but—”
“Listen, Kerry, I have somewhere to be. What’s this about?”
She makes a noise, like a grunt or growl that sounds as if it came through gritted teeth. “We need a space for Izzy to shoot a DVD of her Salsa Yourself Slim classes, and you, unfortunately, have the best space in the city. So, I’d like to book into one of your studios.”
She can’t see me, but I’m shaking my head in sheer disbelief. The audacity of these women. I hear her flicking pages down the line.
“Ideally we would do tomorrow. We really need to get moving on this and I have a film crew ready to go. At the latest, we could do Friday. What works for you?”
I scratch my head. Like they do in comic sketches to get the point across to viewers that they’re confused. “Are you shitting me right now? You behave like you did this morning. And by that, I mean both of you. Then you demand a favor from me. Command me to do something like I’m your puppet.”
“Don’t be precious about this, Brooks. You don’t have to like me, or Izzy. The fact is, the publicity would be good for your gym too.”
I scoff. “You are some piece of work, Kerry. You know that? I’ve met two-year-olds with better manners than you.”
“Really? I hardly see you as the soft, caring, fatherlike figure. Ugh, I shudder to think what your spawn would be like.”
“This isn’t helping your cause.”
“Goddamn it, what will?”
There’s shuffling and crackling, then the muffled sound of whispered bickering. Then the British vegetable lover is on the line. “Brooks, it’s Izzy. Look, I know we didn’t exactly get off to a flying start today but I’d be really grateful if you would let us use your studio tomorrow.”
“Ha! So you can pimp your book to my staff again?”
She sighs. A noise of pure exasperation. It’s extremely satisfying to me. “I’m sorry about that. I wasn’t trying to… I can see how it must have looked and I apologize. But I’d be truly, truly grateful to you. Indebted to you, in fact, if we could book in.”
“Indebted. Would you let me have one of your books as a thank-you?”
“Of course I w—”
She stops when I snicker.
“Right. That was a joke. Good one. What can I do, Brooks? What will it take?”
While these women drive me crazy, I can’t help but enjoy the sound of her begging in that hot accent. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe a six-letter word beginning with P?”
I hear her exhale. “Please.”
“Say it like you mean it.”
“Brooks. Darling, Brooks. Pretty please, with buttercream icing and a cherry on top, will you let me use your studio tomorrow?”
I feel one side of my mouth curl. Damn, I enjoy hating this woman. “I’d love to help you out here, Izzy. Really, I would. I think it was the way you bad-mouthed my gym, my sponsors, and my recipes that did it for me. But you see, I have a full schedule of classes tomorrow, so I don’t have a free studio.”
“But—”
“I enjoyed listening to you beg for me, though, darling Izzy.”
She gasps and I have to fight to keep my amusement from spilling out. “Fine. Bugger off, Brooks, you…you…meathead.”
“Meathead? Seriously?”
“Yes, meathead. And, for the record, your attempt at a British accent sucks egg. Extremely smelly, rotten egg.”
I’m still laughing when the line goes dead. For the second time, Izzy Coulthard has my ribs aching.
* * * *
Black Velvet is the kind of bar that is always busy and never seems too crowded. You might call it classy. Not somewhere you would have found me ten years ago. In fact, five years ago, when I had my gym based in Brooklyn, you still would have been more likely to catch me in an old bar with sticky floors and a kind of grungy feel.
I spot the guys right away, in the same booth we seem to have adopted ever since the bar opened. Jerome—ex–football player turned club owner—is a client of Drew’s and, like most of Drew’s exorbitantly wealthy clients, they throw him perks. Judging from the bucket of Dom Pérignon in the center of the black table, shining under the light of a waterfall crystal chandelier, I’d say tonight’s perk is a bucket of champagne.
Kit sits with his arm across Madge’s shoulder. Sarah is looking at something on Jake’s phone. Drew is laughing with Edmond, who must have snuck out of the restaurant early and brought Becky along with him. Edmond’s wife, Amelie, is putting in a rare appearance too. When I say Amelie, think the Johnny Depp movie Chocolat. Edmond’s wife looks just like Juliette Binoche playing Vianne Rocher—beautiful, sweet, high cheekbones, short dark hair.
I deal with handshakes, fist bumps, and cheek kisses, struggling to navigate around the booth, then slip onto the black velour seat next to Sarah. When I have a glass in my hand, Drew makes a toast. “To my kid brother. Heading back to London’s women and booze. It’s been good to see you.”
“Good luck with that hard life there, Jakey,” I say, tongue in cheek, when I clip his glass with my own. I swallow the fizz, appreciating the bubbles but wishing I was drinking beer.
“Yeah, to the hard life,” Kit says. “And by the way, if you ever need any help with that…”
Right on cue, Madge drives the palm of her hand into Kit’s shoulder. “Hey, jackass, I’m right here.”
Knowing this is how the two of them roll, we all enjoy the joke. Kit and Madge were Drew’s college friends but they’ve morphed into being our friends. They’re a solid couple and sometimes I think being able to joke with each other is what keeps them strong. Especially with two young kids. I know from the nights I looked after Cady alone in the early years that two young kids can’t be easy. And Cady was a good baby…so I was told. Truth be known, I envy Kit and Madge.
As I’m watching my friends, Sarah nudges her shoulder against mine. “Say, Brooks, Kristie Flemming told me there was a little, ah, altercation, at the gym this morning.”
I know exactly the altercation she means. The one and only time I’ve been unprofessional in front of guests of the gym. So, I do something that Drew taught me to do many moons ago, when he was a junior attorney. I deflect. “Kristie Flemming. I can’t place her. Anyone need a top-off?”
I reach for a bottle of bubbles and seek out a glass that looks like it could do with a top-off, which happens to be Becky’s. Drew eyes me, knowing I stole his tactic, but he doesn’t call me on it. There’s no need, since Sarah gets in there first.
“Brooks Adams, that was a blatant attempt to divert attention from you.”
I slide Becky’s full glass back to her and roll my eyes as Drew smirks, enjoying the situation. He knows I don’t like all eyes on me.
“Sarah, seriously, is there anyone in Manhattan you don’t know?”
She ponders, overacting the point, the tip of her finger resting against pursed lips. “Mmm, no. I make it my business to know what’s going on in my city.
Think of it like citizen’s watch. A good deed. And my good deed for today is asking, on behalf of Kristie, who is the woman you had an altercation with this morning?”
“Why does Kristie need to know that? So she can gossip to her wine club friends?”
“Wow. Nerve. Hit. No, like many women who pay the extortionate membership at your gym, Kristie has a huge crush on you.”
“That’s insane.” I sip from my glass—a manly sip. “My memberships are not extortionate. They include the pool, sauna, steam room, all classes.”
Sarah looks at Drew and says, in her “law firm telephone” voice, “Your honor, the defendant is deflecting.”
Drew sits up straight. “Mr. Adams, please answer the question.”
I growl at Sarah. “It was just some fitness woman who is in New York to promote her new book. She and her publicist came into the gym like God owed them a freakin’ favor. They upset my staff. I didn’t like it. That’s all.”
“Reeeeally. See, Kristie said there was a spark between you and this woman. She also said the woman was a hot blonde and that she could have cracked nuts on her ass.” Sarah throws a glance to Drew. “Rear, your honor. Could have cracked nuts on her rear.”
Trying not to let my amusement show, I tell her, “If by spark you mean the kind you get from dropping a lit match on a diesel bonfire, I’d agree, there was a spark. And you’d hope to be able to crack nuts on her ass. She might be an arrogant jerk, but she’s selling fitness. You have to practice what you preach and all.”
“Hold up!” Jake says. “Which blonde are we talking about here? And, side point but relevant, did she also have a good rack?”
I pick a peanut from a ramekin on the table and throw it at Jake, hitting him flush between the eyes. “It was that chick from the TV commercials on Monday night.”
“The one from London?” Jake asks. “The Salsa Yourself Slim chick?”
“That’s her.”
Almost in perfect harmony, Becky and Sarah chime. “No way!”
“I adore her videos on YouTube,” Sarah says.
“I make cakes for a living and she’s managing to keep the pounds off me,” Becky adds, in her British royals–type accent.