“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 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.”
Jamar turned. “What’s wrong?”
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.