Page 25 of Two to Tango

What a fool. When will I learn that women, even the prettiest ones, with the most beautiful accents, can be… poison?

My hands are balled into fists as I stare at the blog post, still certain this cannot be real. It would be one thing if she didn’t like something changeable. If she thinks there are better health and nutrition methods than mine, that’s okay. But to trash my methods and my gym. Then to attack my character. All in freakin’ public!

I don’t bother reading the 111 comments already amassed in the hour this thing has been published.

‘Goddamn it!’

I throw out an arm and knock a pen pot from my desk, scattering stationery across the floor. That only pisses me off more because now I have to pick the damn things up.

As I crouch to refill the pot, it occurs to me I’m not even maddest about other people reading the post. My clients are loyal. I’m more annoyed that I feel like a fool over a woman. I’ve spent eighteen years being crazy over a woman. But this one… she’s something else.

I replace the pen pot, switch my jeans for shorts and then head down to the boxing room. I dip my head to two guys sparring in the ring and mutter acknowledgments to others around the room.

I find one free hanging bag, strap my hands, and put every drop of anger I feel into my fists. When my anger doesn’t subside, I thrust a roundhouse kick at the bag, sending it swinging. The taste of salt pushes through my lips and onto my tongue. Sweat drips into my eyes. I can feel the focus of the faces in the room trained on me. I realize I must look insane, going hell for leather over nothing. But this is what I profess – take your shit and put it into your workout. She wants to know why I look the way I do? Because I have a lot of fucking anger and hurt. Because I’m fed up with always trying and failing to be something for one person. One person who will never take me back.

And for some goddamn reason, Izzy Coulthard has managed to bring my shit to the surface more fiercely than I’ve felt it for a long time.

‘Brooks. Brooks!’

I grab hold of the punch bag and look at Charlie, not prepared to see the person standing beside her.

‘I’m sorry,’ Charlie says. ‘She was adamant about coming to see you.’

Izzy eyes me cautiously. If she can see on my face the burning rage I feel at the sight of her, I don’t blame her for being wary.

‘Brooks, I’m so—’

I hold up a strapped palm and break the glare I’m giving her, trying to cool my temper. I won’t do this again. I won’t prove her and her pretentious, childish blog to be right. With professional resolve, I all but growl, ‘Go to my office. We’ll talk there.’

She nods and turns on her feet. I watch her walk away, noting the black filth on the bare skin of her heels and the shoes she’s holding in her hand.

I have no idea what I’m going to say to her. All I know is that my anger usually simmers, quietly. But with this woman, for some reason, I feel out of control with rage.

The AC in the stairwell chills my saturated shirt and my body as I walk. I pull my shirt over my head and flick it across my shoulder, leaving me topless and sweaty, then start to unwrap my hands. I see Izzy pacing the floor of my office.

Taking a calming breath, trying to put myself in my usual mind-set, I move into the room and knock the door shut behind me. I don’t meet her eye as I continue to unstrap my hands and drop my shirt onto the rim of my laundry basket.

‘Brooks, I’m so sorry. Those words weren’t all mine. I sent the post to Kerry and—’

‘Did you write it?’

‘Yes, but—’

I turn to her now, trying not to focus on how beautiful she looks in her green dress, which is patterned with vines of exotic flowers and butterflies – sweet and expensive looking. Ironic, given this woman is anything but sweet. I push the image of her sitting alone in Barnes & Noble from my mind. The moment in which I thought she might be something other than a loudmouthed fame chaser.

‘Is that really how you want to get book sales? By trashing my gym and my advice?’

‘No, I—’

‘Why? All over a kale smoothie? I let you into the gym to film. I noticed you didn’t mention in your little blog post that the reason I didn’t just let you walk right into my gym to work out is because I respect my clientele too much. Because I don’t think that you should take the space of someone who has waited on a list for months, just because you have a book deal. Just because you’re…’ I gesture to her with my hand and stop short of calling her stunning or saying that she has the most mesmerizing smile I’ve ever seen, that her body is exactly what I would savor in a woman: svelte and feminine, while being strong and lean.

Her jaw drops and her eyes narrow. ‘You know something, I ran here. Yes, ran, barefoot, from Fifth Avenue. I wrote the beginnings of that blog post but that was before…’

She shakes her head and seems to find another line of attack. She steps close to me, her finger pointing in my face. ‘You! You. You…’

I inhale and instantly find out what a mistake that was as her darkly sensual perfume assaults my senses and ignites my libido, blurring my thoughts.

She drops her finger and steps closer to me still, so she’s right under my nose, looking up through her lashes. Her eyes widen now, with surprise or perhaps knowing, and her chest rises and falls quickly. I feel her breath against my bare skin. And I want to rip that criminal dress from her with my teeth.

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