Page 14 of Playing to Win

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.”

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