I accept gratefully and head for my bedroom. He’s in his work uniform, namely shorts and a T-shirt. He’s a personal trainer. A very popular personal trainer. His waiting list consists of women. All women. “You working today?” I ask, setting my coffee on my bedside table.
Micky follows me in and plonks himself on the edge of my bed. “Two sessions this afternoon.” He squeezes my thigh as I pass him, and I yelp. “When are you gonna let me at you?”
“Never!” I laugh. “I’d rather shove hot pokers in my eyes.”
“A few squats will do you good.”
I scoff at his suggestion and pull on some jeans. “You have plenty of squatting arses to admire without torturing mine.”
He grins wickedly. “Speaking of which, I just took on a new client.”
I fasten my jeans. “Married?” I ask, pulling off my tank top and throwing a U2 T-shirt over my head.
“Nope.” He grins. “You know I limit married clients to five at any one time. That’s an hour a day that I have to be professional. Five whole hours a week!”
I laugh out loud. The man is an outrageous flirt, but he’s also one of the best PTs in London. Women are lining up to be bent, stretched, and manipulated into position by my oldest friend. For more reasons than achieving physical fitness. “Must be exhausting.”
“It is when they’re tempting you constantly through each session. An innocent brush of my thigh here, an arse thrust in my face there.”
“If it’s that challenging to keep your mind and eyes from wandering, you should just take on single women. Or men.”
“I need a balance of clients. Besides, the married ones try harder,” he says, and my eyebrows jump up. Micky rolls his eyes. “In training,” he clarifies.
“So you’ve never been tempted?”
“Never!” He shakes his head furiously. “I love my legs too much to risk an angry husband breaking them, thanks.”
Dragging my dark hair into a high ponytail, I chuckle and slip on my flip-flops. I’ve known Micky for centuries. We grew up together. Played mummies and daddies together. Romped naked in the paddling pool together. He even hammered a few nails into the rabbit hutch extension when we were twelve. Our parents were, and still are, best friends.
“So how was your first night?” he asks, patting down my bedcovers.
“I don’t think I’ve ever slept for so long.” It’s a good sign. “C’mon. Let’s get rid of some of this shit so I can start figuring out where everything’s going to go.”
We head into the lounge and I start slapping yellow Post-it notes on everything that I don’t want to keep while Micky follows me around, placing it all to one side of the room. “Hey, I’ll have that.” Micky swipes the Post-it off a miniature set of drawers that used to sit on my dressing table in my old bedroom. “I need somewhere to put my hair-ties.”
I laugh and carry on slapping Post-its on what needs to go. “Your man-bun looks cute,” I say as Micky fondles his new friend with a smile. Truth be told, Micky could shave his hair off and look cute. The man is just cute full stop. His light brown eyes are constantly laughing and his jaw is constantly peppered with stubble. He’s hot, but he’s just Micky to me.
“Thanks.” He bats his lashes.
“Hey, we’re going out next Saturday for drinks. You coming?”
“Of course,” he replies quickly. “Lizzy and Nat coming?” He waggles a suggestive eyebrow.
“Don’t even dare. Both know you’re a tart.” He just can’t help himself. Me, Nat, and Lizzy are the only women in London who are immune to Micky’s charm.
“Ouchy!” he sniggers, getting me in a headlock.
“Get off, you twat!” I wrestle out of his hold and straighten myself out, batting him away when he starts dancing around me, fists held up in front of his face.
“Yoo-hoo!” My mother’s voice sails into the room, followed by the sound of her heels clicking on the wooden floor.
I give Micky a quick jab in the bicep, and he yelps playfully. I follow the echo of Mum’s call until I find her shimmying past the boxes lining the corridor, being careful not to catch her pleated skirt on any of them.
“Oh, look at the high ceilings!” she croons. “And the picture rails!”
I rest my shoulder on the door frame and watch with a smile as she shuffles toward me. Micky joins me, his chest meeting my back.
“Michael!” she shrieks, picking up her pace to make it to us. “Give me a hug!” She virtually knocks me off my feet to get her hands on him. “Let me see your handsome chops.” She squeezes his jaw fiercely, and I laugh. “Where have you been? I haven’t seen you in weeks!”
“Working hard, June.”
Mum smiles at him, releasing his face. “When are you going to make an honest woman of my Annie?”
Micky looks across to me, just as I roll my eyes. “As soon as she’ll have me.” He grins wickedly, knowing exactly what he’s doing, as he always does when my mother goes off on a tangent about our friendship.
Micky doesn’t want to date me. He’s too busy being a slut, and I’m too busy building my career. Our relationship is purely platonic—something we’re both happy with. There’s never been anything more than friendship between us. No sparks. No chemistry. Nothing. I often wonder whether any man will ever stir anything within me, because if Micky Letts hasn’t, then it’s possible no man will. He has women falling at his feet with just a hint of his disarming smile. Me? I feel nothing. I think I’m abnormal.
Mum tucks her bag neatly in the crook of her arm and produces a carrier bag loaded with cleaning supplies. “I’ve come to help!”
“Dressed in that?” I ask, taking in her cream blouse, pleated skirt, and heeled shoes.
“Always look your best, dear.” She sniffs. “Your father will be here soon with his toolbox. Now, where do we start?”
“I’m out of here,” Micky says, grabbing a box with a yellow sticker on it before dropping a peck on my mother’s cheek and marching out of my door, hands full. He blows me a kiss as he passes.
I grin and turn to find my mother armored up with some yellow rubber gloves and a bottle of cleaner.
“Let’s get scrubbing,” she sings excitedly.
Chapter 2
My nails are shot to bits—the result of a week’s worth of scrubbing and manual labor in between keeping on top of my clients, my e-mails, and my designs. But my new apartment is now a sparkly new apartment. Everything has a home and every room has been painted. All of my reference books have been loaded onto the shelves in my studio, my computer and printer set up, and my desk placed in the window. I bloody love it. And now I am more than ready for a night out with the girls to let my hair down.
My iPod is cranked to the max and I’m dancing around my bedroom in my towel, the windows flung open, while I sing at the top of my voice to Madonna’s “Like A Prayer” and sip wine.
After making my eyes all smoky and smudged, slipping on a little black dress and the highest black heels I own, and pinning my hair into a mess of a low bun, I grab my purse and head for the door, hearing Lizzy knocking as I’m on my way.
“Nice.” She nods approvingly when I answer, though she looks a little vacant.