“I should get that,” I said, reaching for my robe.
Only when I dashed into my room, picked up my cell phone, and saw the caller ID, I rolled my eyes. What the fuck was Clark’s deal? I punched the screen to send the call to voicemail. He wouldn’t leave a voicemail and was incapable of sending a text message. I suspected he didn’t want to put anything in writing or a recording. Had he forgotten the divorce was official?
When I came back to the living room, Troy had pulled on his shorts and was knotting the strings at his waist. It gave me a view of his sculpted chest and the ridges of muscles surrounding his rib cage.
He was in such great shape, maybe I should suggest we work out together sometime.
What do you think you just did?
“Didn’t recognize the number?” he asked, since he knew I hadn’t taken the call.
I skewed my mouth to one side. “No, I recognized it.”
His shoulders lifted with a deep breath. “Ah. You weren’t kidding. He does call a lot.” He set his hands on his waist. “What does he want?”
“The fuck if I know,” I admitted. “I don’t answer, and he never leaves messages.”
A dark cast fell over Troy’s face. “So . . . he’s, like, harassing you?”
“No, no.” I frowned. Clark’s calls were annoying, but calling them harassment felt extreme. “It’s no big deal. He’ll give up eventually.”
Troy was skeptical. “You know you can block his number, right?”
I despised how feeble my voice sounded. “Yeah, of course.”
Yet I hadn’t been able to bring myself to do it. It didn’t make sense why I couldn’t cut him off. I didn’t love Clark anymore, but I’d spent so much of my life with him, it was impossible not to care, at least a little. I kept telling myself that if it was important enough to get ahold of me, he’d leave a message or text me.
What it boiled down to was I wasn’t ready to shut him out forever.
It looked like Troy wasn’t all that satisfied with my answer but he wasn’t going to push either. He motioned toward the phone in my hand. “I left my cell in my car. What time is it?”
“Quarter to five.”
His posture went stiff. “Fuck. Really?” He didn’t wait for confirmation. Instead, he scooped up his t-shirt and jerked it on. “I was supposed to help Bill with cabinets at four. He’s going to be so pissed.” He raked a hand through his wavy brown hair and focused on me. “I should probably go.”
I nodded in understanding, but he didn’t move. He stood beside the couch, hesitating. I was about to ask him what was wrong when he strode to me, grabbed the knot of my robe, and hauled me into his hurried kiss.
“I meant it,” he said. “You call me next time you’re thinking about reaching into that drawer.”
Thankfully, he couldn’t see beneath my robe, otherwise he might have noticed the shiver he caused. I smiled provocatively. “I will.”
He grinned as he backed away, not taking his eyes off me until the final second—and then disappeared through the door.
It was late when I climbed into bed. I’d put it off all evening, unsure of how to broach the subject with Troy after what we’d done today.
Me: Are you still awake? Everything work out with Bill and the cabinets?
Troy: I’m up and yeah.
Me: That’s good. We didn’t get a chance to talk business this afternoon.
Troy: We can now. Wanna call me?
I swallowed a breath, tapped his name, and waited nervously like a schoolgirl for him to answer.
“Hey,” he said over the sound of gunfire and explosions.
“Hi.” The background noise became more bombastic. “Are you watching a movie?”
He sounded distracted. “No, it’s Call of Duty. Just a second.” The sound cut off, and I pictured him pausing the video game. “What’s up?”
I sat up straighter in my bed and forced myself into professional mode. “I was thinking we could operate with a verbal agreement until your audition. Assuming you’re on board with me acting on your behalf until you officially sign.”
He said it like I’d caught him off guard and now he was playing catch-up. “Yeah, sure. That sounds good.”
“Do you have a demo you can send me?”
There was a pause. “Uh—”
“Or a recording? I’d like to have a sample on hand for Ardy. He’s Stella’s manager.”
“I can record something on my phone,” he said.
I smiled at his eager tone. He was trying to be helpful, but it wasn’t needed. “No, let’s have you come by the office. There’s a small studio setup we can use. What’s your schedule tomorrow?”
“I’ll be at the gym until noon, then I’m supposed to help Bill with demo at one o’clock. That’ll take the rest of the day.”
He was going to spend all morning at the gym? No wonder he looked so good. “Can you shave an hour off your gym time, so we can lock down a track?”
“Not really, unless I can come by early? My class is at ten, and I have two clients after.”
Class? Clients? “You’re taking a class?”
He chuckled. “No, I’m leading it. I do the Bootcamp Burn on Wednesdays.” When I didn’t say anything, it prompted him to continue. “I’m one of the trainers at Motivation Gym.”
Fuck me, he was a pool boy and a personal trainer. I was like the ultimate cougar, snatching up the hottest boy toy. “I didn’t know you did that.”
“Yeah. My degree is in Athletic Training. Being a personal trainer ain’t exactly what I had in mind, but it’s a start.”
My laugh was tight with embarrassment. “I almost asked you today if you wanted to work out together sometime.”
“Totally. I’m always looking for new clients.” He said it laced with innuendo. “I could even give you a discount.”
Was I blushing right now? At least he wouldn’t be able to tell. His effect on me was powerful, and I sucked in a preparing breath. “Hey, listen. Since we’re going to be working together, we need to talk boundaries.”
The single word from him made it impossible to tell how he felt about my statement. “Yeah?”
“Is it stupid to think we can keep business separate from what we did today?”
His answer came quick. “No, it’s not stupid.” He paused, likely composing what to say next. “Boundaries. What did you have in mind?”
I pressed my lips together. I hadn’t dated anyone in forever—not that what we were doing was dating anyway—but I was horribly out of practice. He had far more experience than I did in this department. That imbalance left me unsure, but there was a bigger issue at work too. “No one can know. If word got out I was sleeping with a client, it could be bad for my career.”
“Erika,” he said, his voice deadly serious, “I’m not going to say anything. You can trust me.”
It felt as if my heart were made of rubber bands, and his words stretched the outer band until it was taut. If he let go, it’d snap back with a sharp, stinging pain. All the trust I’d poured into my marriage had been rewarded with heartache.