Page 20 of Playing to Win

Chapter 7

brooks

I see the same look on Charlie’s face that I know is on my own—somewhere between pulling her hair out and pity. “Next time I have a brain fart like this, please do everything in your power to stop those three letters coming out of my mouth,” I tell her.

“By three letters I take it you mean, Y-E-S?”

Rubbing a hand across my chin, I just shake my head, because it’s too late. There really isn’t any way to stop the circus show that has overtaken my unsuspecting gym and made it the farce of the city. “Would you pin these around the place?” I hand her twenty signs, all black caps typed on white, and all saying the same thing:

SORRY FOR THE INCONVENIENCE. FILMING IN PROGRESS. THE CAMERA WORK IS LIMITED TO STUDIO A. PLEASE CONTINUE TO USE THE FACILITIES AS USUAL.

I head out of the reception area in search of the solitude of my office. I take out my phone and text Drew:

I AM NEVER DRINKING DOM AGAIN. I’VE BEEN OVERRUN BY SALSA-LOVING TERRORISTS.

“Look out, dude.”

I pin my back to the wall of the staircase as two cameramen come charging past, carrying poles and a large camera and those things that look like umbrellas but do something to change the lighting in a shot.

As I reach the landing of the second floor, I hear the same freakin’ dance track that’s been on loop for the last two hours. The sound is coming from Studio A, where Izzy Coulthard will be filming her DVD Salsa Yourself Slim.

Dragging a hand through my hair and glaring down the corridor to the open door of the studio, I say for my own pleasure, “I swear to God, one more fucking time and I’m cutting the plug.”

“Oh, please.” I recognize her accent before Izzy moves to stand in front of me. She’s in psychedelic yoga pants and a workout bra. But that is no ordinary workout bra. Her breasts are pushed up like perfectly formed, round, teasing… I drag my attention to her face, watching her drink from her sports bottle, hoping she didn’t catch my wandering eyes. “You’re getting just as much out of this deal as I am, so stop whining.”

I don’t have a chance to respond before I’m watching her firm ass cheeks move like silk—smooth, alluring, enticing—as she strides in the direction of the studio.

Argh, fuck, she’s right. I just need to suck it the hell up.

I’m still watching her as I round the corner toward my office and walk bang into the wiggling hips of a dancer, who is decked out in brand-new sports gear. Here, on the mezzanine balcony, overlooking my gawking regulars, blocking the route to my office, ten fit-as-sin dancers are swirling and grinding svelte hips, perfecting their prechoreographed moves to Izzy’s salsa class.

It’s hard to know which comes first—my dry throat, my wandering eyes, the loosening of my jaw, or the twitch of my cock in my sweatpants. I’m thirteen fucking years old again.

With my forearm leading the charge and semiblocking the view in a bid to stop me from getting a hard-on, I make my way through the crowd of temptation and into the sanctity of my office.

I take a bottle of water from my minifridge and soothe my dry throat, contemplating whether I should pour the whole damn thing down my boxer briefs to put out the flames. Hey, I’m a hot-blooded man at the end of the day.

Pulling up my schedule for the day, I sink into my desk chair. I’m not sure how it happens but next thing I know, there are images of Izzy Coulthard on my screen. My mouse cursor is hovering over a YouTube fitness video when I hear her voice in the corridor.

“You’re looking great, ladies. You can head into the studio now. We’re about ready to film.”

Pushing back in my chair, I see her through my open office door. The smile she offers the others leaves as quickly as they do, and Izzy comes to lean on the balcony rail. Her shoulders drop an inch and she seems to be focused on nothing, lost in thought. Wow, she is insanely attractive. Even more so now, with her hair tied back, her lips relaxed and not forced into a pout. I realize for the first time just how slim she is. I want to go to her, wrap my arms around her, and take care of her.

What the fuck?!

“Izzy, now is as good a time as any to have a chat about presales.” Kerry, in her high heels and skinny jeans—completely out of place in the gym—comes into view. Izzy stands, turning to her. “We need to do more ahead of Tuesday. The TV ads have definitely helped but we aren’t seeing the numbers we’d hoped for. At least not yet.”

I watch Izzy’s back constrict and then relax with a deep breath. “What can I do?”

“The book signings start this afternoon, but I really think we need to give people a reason to want to know more. A reason to visit your page. I think you need to do what we talked about with your blog. The blog is doing okay. I think you have to drive more interest there and try to convert some of those readers to sales.”

“Kerry, I’m not comfortable with it. I don’t see why I have to insult others to sell books.”

Those are not words I ever thought I’d hear Izzy say. Of course, the soft tone of her voice and the defeatist fall of her shoulders aren’t things I’ve seen yet, either.

Kerry waves a hand flippantly. “Stop thinking of it as bad-mouthing. Think of it as playful. Joking around. Showing a new dimension to your personality that attracts people.”

“Surely, if what I’m doing is mean, people wouldn’t like me. How would that help sales?”

---