Page 25 of Keeper
I can’t seem to find even ground with Poppy, and it’s terrifying me because I lost her once and I don’t want to lose her again. The trouble is, I can’t stop pressing her about things. I can’t dampen the urge I have inside of me to know her completely again. Like old times when I could see her in the hallway at school and know exactly what she was thinking. What mood she was in. How her day was going.
Being flatmates with her isn’t like being flatmates with my childhood friend. It’s like being flatmates with her sexy and mysterious twin sister. Andfuckif she didn’t feel good in my arms last night. I wanted to kiss her. I wanted to feel her. I wanted to rip her fucking shirt off and taste the metallic of that nipple ring and relish in the fact that she’s never let any other man do so.
But Poppy is Poppy. She’s my only real friend. I pretty much grew up on a secluded Harris island with very few outsiders ever breaching our shores. It wasn’t bad. I love my family. My sister, Vi, is everything to me. My brothers, while annoying, are still whom I enjoy spending most of my time with. But in a sea of big brothers, I always had a feeling of inadequacy. I was never big enough, strong enough, fast enough, good enough.
Poppy was my escape. She looked at me like I was the tallest man on Earth. I can’t lose her. I refuse. I have to start thinking with my head and stop following my fucking dick.
And I won’t go back to avoiding her like before. We can be friends again. I just have to go at this in a different way. It’s simple. I have to get to know the new Poppy.
I wake the next morning and find Booker standing at the kitchen counter in front of a blender. He’s barefoot and shirtless in a pair of Adidas training trousers. My gaze unabashedly rakes over his bare back. The way his bones and toned muscles slide and snap beneath the ripples of smooth olive skin…
…It’s mouthwatering.
But that’s irrelevant. After last night, I’m furious. I’m tired of never knowing which Booker I’m going to get. Will it be Investigative Booker, who drills me with twenty questions and then baulks when he doesn’t like the answers? Or will it be Sweet Caring Booker, who looks across tables at me and bats his eyes like I’m the best thing since fish and chips? Or maybe it’ll be big, dominating Keeper Booker, who magically grows eight feet tall and emits a sexy musk that I want to lick off every inch of his toned body. Or, worst of all, what if it’s Loving Booker, who caresses my hair and kisses my forehead and makes my heart grow inside my chest?
I hit a creaky floorboard and he looks over his shoulder, eyes bright, smile beaming. “Good morning! I’m making us protein shakes. As you know, I’m not much in the kitchen, but I can always do a shake. I figured these would be good before our workout.” He turns on the blender, the loud noise causing me to flinch.
My brows crinkle as I shuffle over to the table, trying to smooth my morning hair into a less bunny-boiling style. I slide into a chair at the table and watch him like a complicated painting at a museum that I need to interpret for hidden meaning. Maybe I’m getting Best Friend Booker back today?
“Sleep well?” I ask after the blender stops.
“Yeah, pretty much. I heard the neighbour downstairs come in really late at one point, though. I had trouble getting back to sleep after that. You?”
Huh. Interesting. I inhale deeply. “I slept fine, thanks.”
He turns around with two tall glasses of white frothy mix and sets one in front of me. “So, what is today? Leg day? Arm day? Cardio day?” His voice is chipper.
I tilt my head and shoot back, “How about we get nutty and mix it up?”
He unplugs the blender and then brings over two pieces of toast that just popped up. “Sounds good. I’m off my workout routine, so I’m up for anything.”
I try not to laugh as he sits down with me and even goes so far as to butter my toast. We begin eating our breakfast in comfortable silence, but I can’t stop watching him through narrowed lashes.
“What?” he finally asks, laughing with a bite of toast in his mouth as the morning light bathes him in golden hues.
“You seem…very chipper.” I sound suspicious.
“I am,” he says and takes a drink of his shake. He swallows and adds, “I’m excited to see what music you have planned for our workout.”
Okay, Booker Harris. I’m biting, but I’m not buying. My side-eye kung fu is strong.
The gym in this building is quite ridiculous. It occupies the top floor of a six-floor-walk-up. When you enter, there’s an entire wall of industrial glass, restored to perfection with a partial view of Spitalfields Market—an eclectic outdoor shopping mall with vendors from all over the world.
The biggest wow factor of this gym is the view of the twenty-foot mural on the building across the street. It’s a comic style illustration of a blonde woman lying horizontally with her eyes closed. Her head is thrown back and her mouth is in the shape of anO. Above it in large, bubble lettering it reads: GUILTY PLEASURES.
Talk about workout inspiration.
A long bank of treadmills line the windows, so during your entire jog you can enjoy the image of a woman with a rather nice bust having a massive orgasm.A far more fun way to burn a few calories.
“Where shall we start?” Booker asks, turning to me in his long black football shorts. His sinewy legs are tan and have the perfect amount of hair on them to ooze masculinity while bypassing that whole Darwin chimp evolution image. His top half is on perfect display in a white Bethnal Green T-shirt with the sleeves cut so deeply you can see his side abs.
Who knew side abs were a thing?
“Music first,” I answer, peeling off my hoody to reveal my sexy workout bra underneath.
Booker’s eyes widen.
I smile.
