As I’m passing the final door before the women’s changing rooms, I pull up when something catches my eye, and backtrack until I’m looking through the glass pane at a punchbag similar to the one that I’ve just attacked. It’s swinging from the ceiling hook, but with no one in sight to have made it move. I frown and step closer to the door, my eyes travelling with the bag from left to right. Then I gasp and jump back as someone comes into view, bare-chested and barefoot. My already racing heart virtually explodes under the added strain of shock it’s just been subjected to. The cup of water and my towel tumble to the ground. I feel dizzy.
He has those shorts on, the ones he wore when he was trying to make me comfortable. I’m shaking, but my shocked state doesn’t stop me from peering back through the glass, just to check I wasn’t hallucinating. I wasn’t. He’s here, his ripped physique mesmerising. He looks violent as he attacks the hanging bag like it’s a threat to his life, punishing it with powerful punches and even more powerful kicks. His athletic legs are extending in between extensions of his muscled arms, his body moving stealthily as he weaves and dodges the bag when it comes back at him. He looks like a pro. He looks like a fighter.
I’m frozen on the spot as I watch Miller move around the hanging bag with ease, his fists wrapped in bandages, his limbs delivering controlled, punishing blows time and time again. The sounds of gruff bawls and his hits send an unfamiliar chill down my spine. Who does he see before him?
My mind spins, questions mounting, as I quietly observe the refined, well-mannered, part-time gentleman become a man possessed, that temper he has warned me about clear and present. But then I retreat a pace when he suddenly grabs the bag with both hands and rests his forehead on the leather, his body falling into the now subtle sway of the punchbag. His back is dripping and heaving, and I see his solid shoulders rise suddenly. Then he begins to turn towards the door. It happens in slow motion. I’m rooted in place as his chest, slicked with a sheen of sweat, comes into view and my eyes slowly crawl up his torso until I see his side profile. He knows he’s being watched. My held breath gushes from my lungs and I move fast, sprinting down the corridor and flying through the door of the changing room, my exhausted heart begging me to give it a break.
‘You okay?’
I look across to the shower and see a woman wrapped in a towel with a turban on her wet head, watching me with slightly wide eyes. ‘Sure,’ I breathe, realising I’m splattered against the back of the door. I can’t blush because my face is already bright red and steaming hot.
She smiles through a frown and carries on her way, leaving me to find my locker and retrieve my shower bag. The water is far too hot. I need ice. But after five minutes of fiddling with the controls, I fail to cool it down. So I make do and set about washing my tangled, sweaty mane and soaping down my clammy body. My earlier relaxed frame of mind and body have been obliterated by the sight of him, and now the visions are replaying in my mind, too. There are hundreds of fitness centres in London. Why did I choose this one?
I haven’t time to waste thinking too much or time to begin appreciating the pleasant effect of the hot water, which is now massaging my post-workout muscles, not burning my already heated flesh. I need to get to work. It takes me ten minutes to dry my body and hair and get dressed. Then I’m skulking out of the gym with my head down and my shoulders high, bracing myself for that voice to call me or that touch to ignite the internal flame. But I escape safely and hurry to the Tube. While my eyes are thankful for the reminder of Miller Hart’s perfection, my mind is not.
Chapter Two
As soon as the lunchtime rush dies down at the bistro where I work, Sylvie is on me like a wolf. ‘Tell me,’ she says, dropping to the sofa next to me.
‘Nothing to tell.’
‘Livy, give me a break! You’ve looked like a bulldog chewing a wasp all morning.’
I cast a sideways frown to find my co-worker’s bright pink lips pressed into an impatient straight line. ‘A what?’
‘Your face is all screwed up in disgust.’
‘He texted me,’ I grumble. I’m not telling her the rest. ‘He texted me to ask how I am.’
She scoffs and takes my can of Coke, slurping loudly. ‘Supercilious moron.’
I jump forward without thought. ‘He’s not a moron!’ I shout defensively, immediately snapping my mouth shut and retreating back on the sofa when I clock Sylvie’s knowing look. ‘He’s not a moron and he’s not supercilious,’ I say calmly. He was loving, attentive, and thoughtful . . . when he wasn’t being a supercilious moron . . . or London’s most notorious male escort. I drop my head on a sigh. Landing myself with one hooker is bad luck. Two? Well, that’s just unreasonable of the gods.
She reaches over and squeezes my knee. ‘I hope you didn’t entertain him with a reply.’
‘I couldn’t even if I wanted. Which I don’t,’ I say, pulling myself up.
‘Why?’
‘My phone’s broken.’ I leave Sylvie on the couch with a wrinkled brow and no further explanation.