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 was not going 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.
She rolled her eyes. “You need to work on your delivery. Dave Chappelle you are not.”
He only laughed harder. “C’mon,” he said, tilting his head toward the door.
Taylor followed him into the house and, for the first time in her life, knew what it felt like to have her jaw literally drop.
Holy. Shit.
Polished marble floors spanned the massive foyer, a large round table with an intricate, wrought-iron pedestal base occupying its center. It was topped by a lush floral arrangement that emitted a soft, soothing fragrance. If she closed her eyes, she would swear she was standing in a field of fresh flowers. The curved staircase to her immediate right ascended to a second-story interior balcony that branched out on both sides of the entrance.
Who lives like this?
Even as she told herself to shut up and keep walking, Taylor heard herself say, “Okay, hold on a minute.”
Just stop talking.
“Before we go any farther, I need to ask a very rude question.” She really needed to work on her impulse control.
He grimaced, his brow dipping with his wary frown. “This is going to be about money, isn’t it?”
“Well, I did say it was rude,” Taylor pointed out. “I just . . . I mean . . . look at this place! According to Wikipedia, you’re only twenty-five years old, and you only played one year of professional football. How much do they pay football players if you can afford a house like this after playing for only one year?”
“You really don’t know much about football, do you?”
“Other than the fact that it always causes an argument between my dad and brother on Thanksgiving? No, I don’t know jack.”
“I have a very good agent who managed to secure me a nice amount of guaranteed money. It’s a good thing, too, because I was injured before I could earn any of the performance incentives.”
“Performance incentives?”
“Yeah. I could have earned another six hundred grand my rookie season if I’d gotten more than ten touchdowns and rushed for more than twelve hundred yards.”
“Hmm, maybe we should add performance incentives to my contract.”
A quick grin flashed across his face. “Too late. You know, I think you missed your calling. You’ve got mad negotiation skills.”
“If that was the case, I would be earning a performance incentive,” she returned with an eye roll.
He gestured to her duffel bag. “Do you need somewhere to change?”
“Eventually. First, we should discuss the workout regimen I came up with for you. We need to make sure it’s targeting everything you think we need to target.” She looked around. “Let’s walk and talk. You can give me the grand tour of this palace you live in.”
“Twenty bedrooms are required in order to qualify as a palace. This house only has seven.”
She looked at him. “Another joke?”
“Was that one better than the last one?”
“No.”
His eyes crinkled at the corners, and Taylor had to stop herself from laughing. She was enjoying his smile way too much.
They passed underneath the staircase and entered an open-concept kitchen/den/breakfast area that was the size of the entire house she and her family lived in back when they’d been on base in Germany.
Natural sunlight glinted off the veins of gold streaking throughout the pearly white marble countertop, and the Sub-Zero refrigerator and range were worthy of a high-end restaurant. She hoped to God he used it for more than cooking ramen.
“Okay, never mind about the tour,” Taylor said as she plunked her duffel bag on a kitchen island at least twice as big as her bathroom.
“You sure?” he asked. “I don’t mind.”
She shook her head. “Jealousy has never been a good look on me, and I will not be able to hide it if I see any more of this house.”
“If it makes you feel any better, I bought it as more of an investment than anything else,” he explained, a hint of embarrassment tinging his voice. “I only use about a third of it.”
“Well, damn. Now I feel bad,” Taylor said. “I didn’t mean to wealth-shame.”
“Is wealth-shaming a real thing?”
“You’re the one trying to justify your house to someone you just met.”
“Point taken.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, and she really did mean it. She’d heard stories of athletes who blew through the millions they earned and had to get jobs selling insurance or bagging groceries once their sports careers were over. Hell, she was only three years older than he was, but if she’d had access to the kind of money he did when she was twenty-five, investing in real estate would have been the last thing on her mind. She would have probably spent it all on Disney Vinylmation figurines.
“You have every right to be proud of this gorgeous house,” Taylor added. “And I reserve the right to that tour at a later date. For now, let’s talk strategy.”
Jamar pulled out a high-back stool and motioned for her to take a seat at the kitchen island. “What am I getting myself into over these next two months?” he asked, taking the seat next to hers.
She unzipped her duffel and pulled out a poly folder with the Taylor’d Conditioning logo imprinted on the front. From the folder, she slid the chart she’d created and set it between them so they could both look over it.
“I usually call this the plan of attack, but you can think of it as your playbook or game plan, or whatever they call it in football.”
“I like plan of attack better,” he said. “It makes it feel as if I’m about to do battle, which I am.”
“I like that attitude, Twenty-Three.”
“Are you planning to call me Twenty-Three for the next two months?”
“It’s that or Chicago Bears. Pick one.”
“Why would I choose either of those when Jamar is so much easier?”
“I never take the easy way. Let that be a warning,” she said with a wink.
He grinned. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Apparently the flutter that swept through her belly had not gotten the memo that this was a no belly-fluttering situation. She cleared her throat. “Let’s go over what I came up with.”
After a few minutes of reviewing the various cardio drills she’d designed, he got up and asked, “Can I get you something to drink? Water? Orange juice?”
“Water is fine.”
He pulled two bottles of water out of the refrigerator; then he went into a walk-in pantry and came out with a bag of potato chips.
Potato chips? Was he serious?
He reclaimed his seat and unfurled the top of the bag. Taylor took it out of his hand before he could reach for a chip.
“If you’re going to get back in tip-top form, you’ll have to say goodbye to these,” she said. She slid off the barstool and looked around for a garbage can. There was none. “You’re ruining my dramatic effect here. I wanted to toss the chips in the trash and slam the lid closed for emphasis.”
“Don’t throw away my chips.” He rounded the kitchen island and plucked the bag from her hands. “They’re organic and they’re baked.”
“It doesn’t matter.” She tried to snatch the bag back, but he held it out of her reach. “You need to limit your complex carbs. If you’re craving a crunchy snack, go for those made from lentils or white beans instead.”
“I don’t like lentils,” he said as he retrieved a chip.
Taylor plopped her hands on her hips. “Are you seriously going to eat those in front of me? Okay, you need to decide if you’re going to take this seriously. If not, I can leave. I won’t have you saying in two months that I didn’t do my job because you can’t say no to a potato chip.”
He dropped the chip back into the bag and held it out to her. Taylor snatched it from his hands.
“You see, this is why I wanted to hire you,” Jamar said. “Another trainer wouldn’t have had the balls to tell me off the way you just did.” He dusted his fingers, as if wiping away crumbs. “I’m done with potatoes. Bring on the lentil chips.”
“You have to earn lentil chips.”
His brow arched, amusement shimmering in his dark brown eyes. “Is that how it is?”
“You wanted a drill sergeant,” she said.
Taylor wiped the grin off her face before he misconstrued it as flirting. Except this totally felt like flirting. Shit.
“Wait, you do meal prep, don’t you? How much to add that to what you’re already providing?”
“You want me to cook for you too?”
He shrugged. “If you think it will help get me into shape.”
She thought for a moment, then said, “I can prep your meals, as long as you pay for the cost of groceries.” She crumpled the bag in her hand, crushing the remaining chips into inedible crumbs. She handed it back to him. “We’ll start working on your diet tomorrow. Go change into your workout clothes. It’s time for you to show me what you’ve got.”