“I’m up at six every morning.”
“No amount of money is getting me out of bed before theToday Showtheme music starts playing.” She wrapped the uneaten portion of her burrito back in the foil and pushed it to the side. “And speaking of money, that’s another discussion we need to have before we leave this restaurant.” She folded her hands on the table. “Now, my clients usually pay me per session, but as you pointed out, you’re not like my other clients.”
Jamar couldn’t help but laugh at the way she’d used his words against him. It was such a boss move.
“That’s true. I guess we need to come up with some sort of payment schedule.” He did the math in his head. “I’ll pay you eighteen hundred per week, for the next eight weeks.”
“Wait a minute.” She held up a finger before grabbing her phone. She tapped on the screen a few times before she said, “That’s only fourteen thousand four hundred. You’ll still owe me another six hundred dollars.Andif I’m driving to your home every day, I’ll need compensation for gas and mileage.”
She had a point.
“Okay, I’ll pay you two thousand a week for the next eight weeks.”
“Deal,” Taylor said.
The way she’d finessed that extra grand from him was pretty impressive. Maybe his agent, Micah Hill, should talk to her about joining Hill Sports Management.
“Does nine a.m. work for you?” she asked.
“If you say nine a.m., I’ll be ready at nine a.m. You’re the boss.”
Her mouth curled up in a smile. “I like the sound of that.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Taylor pulled to the side of the narrow asphalt road, convinced the GPS had guided her in the wrong direction. There was no way Jamar Dixon lived in this wooded area, which was better suited for a scene in a B-rated horror flick than the home of a former NFL player. She understood wanting peace and quiet, but this was tiptoeing into recluse territory.
Samiah and London had made her promise to text when she arrived at his house and once every hour that she was there. They really were as bad as her mother at times, except they didn’t give her side-eye when she had more than one alcoholic beverage at dinner.
Taylor tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and rubbed her hands together.
“Okay, Taylor Renee. Time to earn that money.”
Capturing the braids she’d had done last night—thank God for a stylist willing to take her at the last minute and work past midnight—she gathered them in a scrunchie, then pulled back onto the road. After another mile and several winding turns, she rounded a bend and a gorgeous, sprawling mansion with two-story windows and a curved cobblestone driveway came into view. A four-car garage flanked one side of it, while a smaller structure—probably a pool house—occupied the other. Towering cedars cocooned the area, enclosing the massive home in its own little oasis.
“Well, damn,” she muttered.
She drove underneath the portico and pulled to a stop behind a mocha-colored Range Rover. A deep orange Audi was parked about five yards ahead of the SUV.
Why have a four-car garage if you’re going to keep your cars parked outside? Unless he had six cars . . .
Taylor grabbed her duffel from the passenger side floor-board, got out of the car, and started for the front door. It was gorgeous: the beveled glass, iron, and wood materials were typical of what was found on other homes in this part of Texas, but the design was more elaborate. A dark figure, distorted by the glass’s myriad angles, appeared on the other side of the door. A moment later, it opened and Jamar stepped outside wearing gray sweatpants and a white Texas Longhorns T-shirt.
She had to stop herself from releasing a low whistle. That smile and those broad shoulders were pretty devastating on their own, but the gray sweatpants transformed him into a living, breathing thirst trap. She would take a minute to appreciate the view, but now that he was her client, she could not think of Jamar and his fantasy-worthy body as anything other than what he was—her ticket out of debt.
Besides, Taylor had learned the hard way that mixing business with pleasure was insanely foolish, and she’d vowed never to do it again. Once you crossed that line, guys no longer considered you their paid trainer. You became the chick they’re sleeping with who gives them free fitness advice.
She wasnotgoing there with Jamar Dixon. She was here to earn that sixteen-thousand-dollar fee and to secure his future endorsement for Taylor’d Conditioning. That was it. Nothing else.
“Did you have any issue on your way out here?” he asked as she approached the base of the steps he’d descended.
“You mean other than wondering if I was still in the state of Texas?”
His megawatt grin beamed bright against his rich dark skin. Yeah, she could appreciate that smile.
“So does this place have its own zip code?” Taylor asked.
“No, I share it with the family on the other side of the San Gabriel River.” After a moment, he said, “That was a joke.” And then he chuckled, probably at the stunned look on her face.
