Page 31 of Playing to Win

“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.

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