Page 61 of The Wake-Up Call

The main issue I’ve had this morning is Lucas’s unrelentingmuscliness. It’s so unavoidable here. The exposed biceps, the impossibly broad shoulders, the sweat. (Why is it that when men sweat, it’s sexy, but when I sweat, I look like I’ve been crossbred with a tomato?) I’ve never been attracted to big, burly men, and actually, if I look at some of the others in here, it doesn’t do it for me at all. It is a Lucas-specific problem. The worst kind.

The only consolation is the fact that I caught Lucas checking me out, too. I looked up when we were doing the warm-down and found his eyes on me in the mirror, low lidded, appreciative. He turned his head away sharply when he saw me looking. No surprise there. After all, he’s rejected me three times now. Lucas may want me on some level, but he’s got cast-iron control, and his brain’s decided he’s not interested, so that’s that. I mean, my brain has decided the same thing.

But it is quite nice to see that it’s notjustme who’s struggling to stick with that decision.

He told me to meet him in the gym lobby, and he’s already speaking to the receptionist when I arrive, buttoned up in his work clothes, looking as pristine as usual. Dangerous biceps safely sheathed.

“Let me pay for the session,” I say, coming to join him.

His face takes on the fixed look it gets when he’s embarrassed. “No need,” he says stiffly.

Hmm. This is clearly a lie. As the receptionist holds the cardreader out to him, I lean across and tap my card before Lucas can get his wallet out.

“Izzy,” he snaps, exasperated.

I give him my sweetest smile. “Oops.”

I watch him struggle. He can’tstandthe idea of me doing him a favour, but I can see that deep down, he knows he can’t really afford to pay. Something twinges in my chest.

“Thank you,” he says without meeting my eyes. “We are having breakfast next,” he tells me, already heading for the door. He forgets to hold it open for me, so I guess the whole chivalric opening-the-car-door thing isn’t going to be sticking around.

“No, sorry,” I say as I clock where we’re going for breakfast. “Juice? That is not food.”

“Smoothies,” he says, and puts a hand on my elbow to steer me firmly inside. I go hot where he’s touching me, then everywhere else, too. We’ve very rarely touched—the odd glance of a hand here or there, but that’s mostly it. Apart from when we danced. And when I kissed him, obviously.

Ugh. In pops the memory again. Will that ever stop feeling so awful?

“Smoothies are just juices you aren’t sure whether to chew or not.”

Lucas looks slightly horrified at this. “Well, it’s free, because Pedro is a friend. So it’s what you’re getting. He does excellent coffee, too,” he says, nodding to the man behind the bar and gesturing to a seat for me to take. It’s actually the exact spot I would have chosen—one of the shiny pink bar stools that looks out of the front window to the street outside.

“A gym friend?” I guess, taking in Pedro, who justglowswith good health. Sickening, really.

“Yes. He’s from Rio, too.”

“Oh! That must be nice.”

I give Pedro a tentative smile. He grins back. His dark hair is wavy and carefully styled, and he’s wearing a T-shirt that clings to every muscle—he looks like he might be the breakout star of this year’sLove Island, that one the whole nation falls in love with.

“Hello,” says Pedro, wiping his hands as he emerges from behind the bar. “Are you Izzy?”

“Yes,” I say with slight suspicion. “Why, what’s Lucas said?”

“Only how beautiful you are,” says Pedro, beaming as he pulls up a bar stool next to me.

Lucas pulls the stool back again just as Pedro is about to sit on it. Pedro manages to save himself from ending up on the floor by making a wild grab for Lucas, who then almost goes down with him. I burst out laughing, as does Pedro; Lucas brushes himself down and remains expressionless.

“I didn’t say that,” Lucas says, sitting down on the stool Pedro had wanted. “Ignore Pedro. Ignore anything Pedro tells you.”

I look back at Pedro with renewed interest.

“Well, youarebeautiful,” Pedro says. “So Lucas should say it. What can I get you? It’s on the house. May I recommend the Sweet Peach Party?”

He leans over the menu with me, talking me through it, eyes flicking between me and Lucas. A naughty smile grows on his face as Lucas’s expression gets darker and darker—I get the sense I’m part of an attempt to wind Lucas up that I haven’t fully understood, but that’s fine, I’m on board with it—until eventually Lucas grabs the menu and stalks over to the bar.

“Hey!” I say, turning around. “I haven’t chosen yet.”

“My day,” he reminds me. “Can I get service here?”

---