Chapter 10
I had written off night one with Poppy as a mistake. An accident. A one-time encounter that happened because I missed my best friend, and we were a bit pissed so we got carried away. It took some time, but we managed to get past it. To get back to some semblance of normal.
But then last night happened. And after a shitty night’s sleep, the morning light of day brings no clarity to my mind. What started as an easy, carefree movie night ended in a cluster-fuck of epic proportions.
I can’t seem to find even ground with Poppy, and it’s terrifying me because I lost her once and I don’t want to lose her again.
The trouble is, I can’t stop pressing her about things.
I can’t dampen the urge I have inside of me to know her completely again.
Like old times when I could see her in the hallway at school and know exactly what she was thinking.
What mood she was in. How her day was going.
Being flatmates with her isn’t like being flatmates with my childhood friend.
It’s like being flatmates with her sexy and mysterious twin sister.
And fuck if she didn’t feel good in my arms last night.
I wanted to kiss her. I wanted to feel her.
I wanted to rip her fucking shirt off and taste the metallic of that nipple ring and relish in the fact that she’s never let any other man do so.
But Poppy is Poppy. She’s my only real friend.
I pretty much grew up on a secluded Harris island with very few outsiders ever breaching our shores.
It wasn’t bad. I love my family. My sister, Vi, is everything to me.
My brothers, while annoying, are still whom I enjoy spending most of my time with.
But in a sea of big brothers, I always had a feeling of inadequacy.
I was never big enough, strong enough, fast enough, good enough.
Poppy was my escape. She looked at me like I was the tallest man on Earth. I can’t lose her. I refuse. I have to start thinking with my head and stop following my fucking dick.
And I won’t go back to avoiding her like before. We can be friends again. I just have to go at this in a different way. It’s simple. I have to get to know the new Poppy.
I wake the next morning and find Booker standing at the kitchen counter in front of a blender.
He’s barefoot and shirtless in a pair of Adidas training trousers.
My gaze unabashedly rakes over his bare back.
The way his bones and toned muscles slide and snap beneath the ripples of smooth olive skin…
…It’s mouthwatering.
But that’s irrelevant. After last night, I’m furious.
I’m tired of never knowing which Booker I’m going to get.
Will it be Investigative Booker, who drills me with twenty questions and then baulks when he doesn’t like the answers?
Or will it be Sweet Caring Booker, who looks across tables at me and bats his eyes like I’m the best thing since fish and chips?
Or maybe it’ll be big, dominating Keeper Booker, who magically grows eight feet tall and emits a sexy musk that I want to lick off every inch of his toned body.
Or, worst of all, what if it’s Loving Booker, who caresses my hair and kisses my forehead and makes my heart grow inside my chest?
I hit a creaky floorboard and he looks over his shoulder, eyes bright, smile beaming.
“Good morning! I’m making us protein shakes.
As you know, I’m not much in the kitchen, but I can always do a shake.
I figured these would be good before our workout.
” He turns on the blender, the loud noise causing me to flinch.
My brows crinkle as I shuffle over to the table, trying to smooth my morning hair into a less bunny-boiling style. I slide into a chair at the table and watch him like a complicated painting at a museum that I need to interpret for hidden meaning. Maybe I’m getting Best Friend Booker back today?
“Sleep well?” I ask after the blender stops.
“Yeah, pretty much. I heard the neighbour downstairs come in really late at one point, though. I had trouble getting back to sleep after that. You?”
Huh. Interesting. I inhale deeply. “I slept fine, thanks.”
He turns around with two tall glasses of white frothy mix and sets one in front of me. “So, what is today? Leg day? Arm day? Cardio day?” His voice is chipper.
I tilt my head and shoot back, “How about we get nutty and mix it up?”
He unplugs the blender and then brings over two pieces of toast that just popped up. “Sounds good. I’m off my workout routine, so I’m up for anything.”
I try not to laugh as he sits down with me and even goes so far as to butter my toast. We begin eating our breakfast in comfortable silence, but I can’t stop watching him through narrowed lashes.
“What?” he finally asks, laughing with a bite of toast in his mouth as the morning light bathes him in golden hues.
“You seem…very chipper.” I sound suspicious.
“I am,” he says and takes a drink of his shake. He swallows and adds, “I’m excited to see what music you have planned for our workout.”
Okay, Booker Harris. I’m biting, but I’m not buying. My side-eye kung fu is strong.
The gym in this building is quite ridiculous. It occupies the top floor of a six-floor-walk-up. When you enter, there’s an entire wall of industrial glass, restored to perfection with a partial view of Spitalfields Market—an eclectic outdoor shopping mall with vendors from all over the world.
The biggest wow factor of this gym is the view of the twenty-foot mural on the building across the street.
It’s a comic style illustration of a blonde woman lying horizontally with her eyes closed.
Her head is thrown back and her mouth is in the shape of an O.
Above it in large, bubble lettering it reads: GUILTY PLEASURES.
Talk about workout inspiration.
A long bank of treadmills line the windows, so during your entire jog you can enjoy the image of a woman with a rather nice bust having a massive orgasm. A far more fun way to burn a few calories.
“Where shall we start?” Booker asks, turning to me in his long black football shorts.
His sinewy legs are tan and have the perfect amount of hair on them to ooze masculinity while bypassing that whole Darwin chimp evolution image.
His top half is on perfect display in a white Bethnal Green T-shirt with the sleeves cut so deeply you can see his side abs.
Who knew side abs were a thing?
“Music first,” I answer, peeling off my hoody to reveal my sexy workout bra underneath.
Booker’s eyes widen.
I smile.
This is what he deserves. He thinks he can act all hunky-dory without a care in the world over a protein shake?
Well, he can’t. I’m tired of him behaving as if nothing’s changed.
First, we all but have sex, like an epic, climb-the-walls hook up where the only box left unchecked was a P in the V.
Then he avoids me. Then last night, he’s all over me, forehead kissing and pressing all of his—
Nope, I’m done. I’m not a meek little girl anymore who Booker can control. I’m putting on my proverbial fuck me heels in the form of sexy active wear, and I’m showing him the new Poppy.
Booker’s gaze lowers to my sports bra that has a fabric crossing in the front, leaving a circular cutout that reveals an ample amount of cleavage.
Far more than is appropriate for actual gym workouts, but it’s never busy up here this time of day and I like my breasts.
I wouldn’t have wanted to pierce my nipples if I didn’t.
It’s irrelevant that Booker was the first guy I let see my rack since then.
His eyes skate over my bare torso and down to my black leggings with sheer cutouts all the way up the sides. My body definitely isn’t as cut as his, but I know I look different than before I left.
I was never really into fitness when I was younger.
I was far more interested in theatre, art, and other things that used the left side of my brain.
But when I went to Uni, I wanted a transformation in more ways than simply chopping off my hair and piercing my nipple.
So I started working out. That’s when I met a student trainer.
A pretty hot student trainer, even if he wasn’t the most interesting bloke.
He created a diet and exercise routine for me, and I started to see results in no time.
Muscles in places I didn’t know muscles existed.
Curves deepening around my hips and arse.
More energy in my daily life. It was rejuvenating and great for my sex life.
Working out gave me an overall confidence that I was lacking before, and I became completely addicted to the feeling.
Now I feel right at home when I walk into a gym.
Booker looks over my shoulder as I pull up the playlist entitled Wicked on my mobile. I have to stifle a laugh when I realise he has no idea what he’s agreed to. I turn off the screen so he can’t see what’s coming and hand him the device. “Let’s start with a light jog to warm up.”
He follows me to the treadmills, popping his earbuds in on the way. Starting up my own machine right beside him, we both begin with a slow walk. As the speed increases, I can tell the instant the music starts playing in his ears because he gets a contorted look in his eyes.
He grabs my phone and I flail my hand out to stop him. “Don’t look!” Frowning, he pops out a bud, so I repeat myself. “Don’t look at what the song is. Just listen.”
“Is it all instrumental?” he asks, looking confused.
“No, just listen.” I bite my lip.
He reinserts the ear piece and asks, “Did they just say Oz?”
My shoulders shake with silent laughter. Another moment passes and his eyes turn to saucers as he deadpans, “Oh wait, Glinda just arrived. It’s getting good now.”