Chapter 4
Jarvis
"Oh, wow. You're wearing workout clothes this time," I observe with a cheeky grin, stepping into Anson's penthouse as he holds the door open for me for our second session.
"And you come not bearing food this time?" he replies, his eyes traveling the length of my body. For some strange reason, I'm not hit with the burst of self-consciousness I normally get.
"That's because it's a nice day outside." I glance out at the incredible vista he's lucky enough to enjoy every day. "Thought we could go for a walk on the beach, which, just so you know, in personal trainer terms, is also known as exercise. Then I thought I could buy you a meal somewhere."
His dark eyebrows lift, deepening the lines across his forehead. I can't tell at what, though. The idea of going outside? The beach walk? Or my offer to buy food?
"I'll agree, but on one condition."
I lift my chin. "We squeeze in another ep of JoJo’s?"
He grins. Actually grins, and immediately, his eyes brighten, a spark flickering to life.
"No," he says adamantly. "I'm buying lunch."
Okay, this is good.
Progress.
Robbie mentioned Anson barely leaves his penthouse. We're now walking on the beach. And honestly? It wasn't even that hard to convince him to come. I didn't have to threaten jumping jacks or anything.
We're also exercising, so two birds, one stone.
Anson has been on my mind a lot since our first session last week. I can't even imagine the pain he's going through. Mom passing sent me spiraling, and if Robbie hadn't been so stubborn and refused to give up on me, I don't even want to think where I'd be right now. Or what condition I'd be in.
I discreetly side-eye Anson as we walk side by side, the warm ocean water splashing around our ankles with the incoming tide. He's ditched the dark colors of our first session for a crisp white performance polo and navy shorts.
And man, he looks good. If he's adamant, sure, he could stand to lose a few pounds, but honestly, I'm starting to wonder why he even needs me. He's in great shape and not just 'for a guy his age.' Most guys would kill to have a body like his.
Or be under a body like his.
Not that I've fantasized about what it might feel like to be pinned down under him, because I am a what? A professional, that's right.
Maybe not the most professional of professionals, because it may have infiltrated my masturbatory fantasy circle once.
Or twice.
Anson seems to be doing okay with being out in public. There aren't any obvious signs of tension on his face or his body, his breathing is smooth and even, and he seems…calm. So far, everything's going well.
The only minor problem is the conversation. Or, more specifically, the lack of one. I'm not a huge fan of gaping silences, but I'm holding back. If Anson doesn't go out much, he could be feeling overwhelmed on the inside and doing a good job of hiding it, so I don't want to bombard the guy.
But I have to say something since this is slowly killing me. I choose something easy and light, and I'll see how that goes. "So, did you grow up on the Gold Coast?"
"I did. My family was one of the original settlers here." He winces. "White settlers, that is."
"Uh-huh. So I suppose you remember what this place looked like before all these glitzy towers were built?"
He stops walking. "That a dig at my age?"
I turn to face him, burying my feet into the sand. "Is that a…smile on your lips?"
He stares at me for a long moment, and it's like we're frozen in place. His smile gradually fades, and he starts walking again.
"I didn't mean to offend you, or make fun of your age," I say, catching up to him. "Honestly."
"It's fine. I was kidding. And I actually do remember when the beach was lined with two-story motels and parking lots."
"Parking lots, seriously?"
"Yep. Until ruthless property developers swooped in and snapped up the prime real estate, turning the Goldie into the glitter strip you see before you today."
"Was your company one of those ruthless developers?" I ask.
"It was. My father did the initial land acquisition, and I took over and did the development. At my peak, I was one of the best in the game."
Out of anyone else's mouth, those words might sound cocky. A boastful flex. But I pick up on a sad note in his voice.
"How about you? Did you and Robbie grow up here?" he asks.
"We did," I say. "A few miles away."
"Did you spend much time at the beach?"
I drop my gaze to avoid stepping on a few scattered, broken-up shells. "Uh, no."
After a few more paces, Anson asks, "There a reason for that?"
Yeah, there's a reason, alright. But do I tell Anson and risk looking like an idiot in front of the guy I'm meant to be training and 'inspiring' on his wellness journey?
I decide to do it. Might be a good way for me to make him more comfortable and earn some trust.
"I love the beach," I begin, between a few deep exhales through my nose, filling my lungs with salty air. "Unfortunately, growing up, I never had a beach body."
Anson frowns. "I'm not sure I follow."
"I was a fatty, and the few times we came to the beach with Mom, I was teased and picked on by the other kids so badly it made me stop coming. Same goes for PE class and swimming carnivals at school. Total no-go areas for me."
A firm hand settles against the small of my back. "I'm sorry that happened to you."
The words linger between us, mixing with the sound of the waves. But even better? Anson's palm lingers on my back.