Beating Lucas was pretty great, too. Kieran wasn’t wrong—there were things I could do better than Lucas. I was better at the skipping rope skills, and I could sprint faster than him on the running machines. And even when we were doing things that were clearly more his ballpark than mine, Kieran never made it feel like losing. Nor did Lucas, to be fair.
It’s been interesting seeing him here. He’s a different man in this context. Everyone seems to know him—they all come over and hug him, and tell me things like “Couldn’t have moved house without this guy,” or “You know what, when my cat died, Lucas was a hero.” I’d like to say I’m shocked to know that there are people who rely on Lucas, but I’m not, actually—I can imagine he’d be a big help if your cat died, or if you needed to move house. If he wasn’t your arch-nemesis.
The main issue I’ve had this morning is Lucas’s unrelenting muscliness. It’s so unavoidable here. The exposed biceps, the impossibly broad shoulders, the sweat. (Why is it that when men sweat, it’s sexy, but when I sweat, I look like I’ve been crossbred with a tomato?) I’ve never been attracted to big, burly men, and actually, if I look at some of the others in here, it doesn’t do it for me at all. It is a Lucas-specific problem. The worst kind.
The only consolation is the fact that I caught Lucas checking me out, too. I looked up when we were doing the warm-down and found his eyes on me in the mirror, low lidded, appreciative. He turned his head away sharply when he saw me looking. No surprise there. After all, he’s rejected me three times now. Lucas may want me on some level, but he’s got cast-iron control, and his brain’s decided he’s not interested, so that’s that. I mean, my brain has decided the same thing.
But it is quite nice to see that it’s not just me who’s struggling to stick with that decision.
He told me to meet him in the gym lobby, and he’s already speaking to the receptionist when I arrive, buttoned up in his work clothes, looking as pristine as usual. Dangerous biceps safely sheathed.
“Let me pay for the session,” I say, coming to join him.
His face takes on the fixed look it gets when he’s embarrassed. “No need,” he says stiffly.
Hmm. This is clearly a lie. As the receptionist holds the card reader out to him, I lean across and tap my card before Lucas can get his wallet out.
“Izzy,” he snaps, exasperated.
I give him my sweetest smile. “Oops.”
I watch him struggle. He can’t stand the idea of me doing him a favour, but I can see that deep down, he knows he can’t really afford to pay. Something twinges in my chest.
“Thank you,” he says without meeting my eyes. “We are having breakfast next,” he tells me, already heading for the door. He forgets to hold it open for me, so I guess the whole chivalric opening-the-car-door thing isn’t going to be sticking around.
“No, sorry,” I say as I clock where we’re going for breakfast. “Juice? That is not food.”
“Smoothies,” he says, and puts a hand on my elbow to steer me firmly inside. I go hot where he’s touching me, then everywhere else, too. We’ve very rarely touched—the odd glance of a hand here or there, but that’s mostly it. Apart from when we danced. And when I kissed him, obviously.
Ugh. In pops the memory again. Will that ever stop feeling so awful?
“Smoothies are just juices you aren’t sure whether to chew or not.”
Lucas looks slightly horrified at this. “Well, it’s free, because Pedro is a friend. So it’s what you’re getting. He does excellent coffee, too,” he says, nodding to the man behind the bar and gesturing to a seat for me to take. It’s actually the exact spot I would have chosen—one of the shiny pink bar stools that looks out of the front window to the street outside.
“A gym friend?” I guess, taking in Pedro, who just glows with good health. Sickening, really.
“Yes. He’s from Rio, too.”
“Oh! That must be nice.”
I give Pedro a tentative smile. He grins back. His dark hair is wavy and carefully styled, and he’s wearing a T-shirt that clings to every muscle—he looks like he might be the breakout star of this year’s Love Island, that one the whole nation falls in love with.
“Hello,” says Pedro, wiping his hands as he emerges from behind the bar. “Are you Izzy?”
“Yes,” I say with slight suspicion. “Why, what’s Lucas said?”
“Only how beautiful you are,” says Pedro, beaming as he pulls up a bar stool next to me.
Lucas pulls the stool back again just as Pedro is about to sit on it. Pedro manages to save himself from ending up on the floor by making a wild grab for Lucas, who then almost goes down with him. I burst out laughing, as does Pedro; Lucas brushes himself down and remains expressionless.
“I didn’t say that,” Lucas says, sitting down on the stool Pedro had wanted. “Ignore Pedro. Ignore anything Pedro tells you.”
I look back at Pedro with renewed interest.
“Well, you are beautiful,” Pedro says. “So Lucas should say it. What can I get you? It’s on the house. May I recommend the Sweet Peach Party?”
He leans over the menu with me, talking me through it, eyes flicking between me and Lucas. A naughty smile grows on his face as Lucas’s expression gets darker and darker—I get the sense I’m part of an attempt to wind Lucas up that I haven’t fully understood, but that’s fine, I’m on board with it—until eventually Lucas grabs the menu and stalks over to the bar.
“Hey!” I say, turning around. “I haven’t chosen yet.”
“My day,” he reminds me. “Can I get service here?”
Pedro stands with a chuckle.
“Don’t order me one of those protein ones!” I call to Lucas. “I don’t want to get all muscly like you.”
I watch Lucas’s grip tighten on the menu as he turns back towards me. “You don’t build muscle just by drinking . . .” He stops as I start laughing. “Pedro!” he snaps. “Make her something with broccoli in it, please.”
“Ah, I’ve found my kindred spirit, I think,” Pedro says to me as he skips back to the bar, pristine trainers bouncing on the polished wood floor. “Someone who knows how to annoy Lucas almost as well as I do.”
* * *
? ? ? ? ?
We drink our coffees in the bar, and then have our smoothies on the walk back to the car. In defiance of Lucas, Pedro cheerfully made me something delicious, spiked with fresh ginger and stuffed with tropical fruit. It’s admittedly quite refreshing, but I maintain that this is not breakfast. Coco Pops: now, that is breakfast.
Mrs. Muller passes us on her way from the dining room as we enter the hotel. Her hair is in a silk wrap and she has a paintbrush tucked behind her ear.
“Morning, Mrs. Muller!” I call.
“Muses striking!” she calls back with a languid wave. “Don’t talk to me!”
I nod. Fair enough. Mr. Townsend smiles up from his armchair, folding his newspaper on his knees as we approach.
“Lucas!” he calls. “May I call upon you to take me to Budgens tomorrow?”
“Of course.”
This is a fortnightly tradition—Mr. Townsend likes very particular snacks in his room, and Lucas likes any excuse to drive his car.
“Coffee afterwards, yes?”
I glance at Lucas in surprise. It’s not like him to socialise with a guest, but Mr. Townsend said that as though it’s become a regular feature.
“I’d like that. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Lucas says, with a nod of his head, “I must speak to Arjun.”
“How was the night?” I ask Mr. Townsend as Lucas disappears into the kitchen. We don’t have an overnight receptionist at the moment, but Mr. Townsend usually knows exactly what’s been going on—he goes to bed late and wakes up early.
“The young ’un slept like a log,” Mr. Townsend says, nodding towards the Jacobs family’s room. “Just one two a.m. feed. Those blackout blinds you ordered have worked like a charm.”
“And you?”
“I got more than enough rest,” he says with a smile. “Maisie used to say we’re better with a little fatigue in our systems. It keeps us fighting.”
I pull a face, scanning the lobby for jobs that need doing. “She sounds hard-core.”