Page 40 of Playing to Win

Chapter 14

brooks

Day 2.

I admit, the tofu wasn’t so bad when Izzy cooked it with Thai spices. She’s a good cook. I say that with surprise because I got the impression she has had a butler to do her cooking all her life. I’ll also confess, it was nice having company. That’s maybe the truth behind why I’m knocking on her apartment door right now, under the guise of making her eggs for breakfast.

“Hey, come in. Sorry I’m not dressed; you’ve got me up a hell of a lot earlier than I’m used to.”

I follow her tiny bed shorts and white T-shirt to the kitchen, not sorry at all. “What culinary delight do I get today?” I ask.

“You get a blueberry smoothie. Don’t look like that. It has banana in there; it will fill you up.”

“If only that were true.”

Sticking her tongue out, she puts the lid on the blender she has already filled and sets it whirring.

“You’re going to wake the whole damn building up with that thing.”

“What?”

“You’re waking my cock up wearing those tiny things.”

“I can’t hear you!”

Chuckling to myself, I move around her and take eggs from her fridge. We shuffle past each other, finding glasses, pans, and cutlery as we each make the other breakfast. When she doesn’t have an audience, she isn’t so bad, I suppose.

“You’re very messy in the kitchen, mister. Haven’t the women in your life ever taught you how to clean as you go?”

“Careful, Coulthard, I could still spit in your eggs at this stage.” She nudges my shoulder. “No, to answer your question. The only woman I’ve ever lived with is my mother, and she was really more of the take-out type.”

Izzy stops clearing the counters and turns to me. “You haven’t lived with anyone? I assumed maybe… Never mind.”

“Go on.”

She shrugs. “I just thought…I mean, you’re thirty-five and, you know…” She gestures from my toes to my head.

I fight back a smirk. “I don’t know. Go ahead.”

“Shut up. You know you’re not exactly unattractive.”

Now I have to laugh. “High praise from Her Royal Highness, Izzy Coulthard.”

“If you’re going to keep saying things like that, it would be much more entertaining if you used my Sunday name, Isabella.”

“No way.”

“What? Why are you laughing?”

“The shoe, or should I say the crown, fits, that’s all. Isabella, Claribella, Crystabella, Arabella, Marybella. The bellas are a posh group of names.”

She only half smiles. “Yes, well, it’s part of Mummy’s show for the outside world. My sister is Annabella. What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You sound like someone I used to know very well.” Someone I loved. The mother of my child.

Her eyes narrow, as if she’s waiting for more. Getting into deep and meaningful is not my thing. It is definitely not my thing with a woman whose goal in life seems to be driving me nuts publicly.

She nods, as if she’s accepting my unwillingness to go on.

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