“Fair enough.” I sign my name with a flourish. “If you give me your last name, I’ll make this out to you. Otherwise, I’m making it out to Soul Studio.”
“Can we just take a second and talk about this?” she demands.
“Exactly what I’m trying to do. Since your fee is a hundred and fifty thousand dollars for two and a half weeks—which is seventy-five thousand dollars a week—I figure that entitles me to house calls.”
“House calls?” She turns white at the mention of the seventy-five thou a week. “You want house calls?”
“Yeah. It’s obviously a problem for me to come here during the studio’s regular hours, and you said you’ve got another job besides this one, so I figure working at my place in the off-hours is the best way to keep this under wraps and still get me the PT I need.”
“I’m not really going to charge you seventy-five thousand dollars a week, you know.”
“Sure you are,” I answer, handing her the check made out to the yoga studio. “See? I’ve already paid.”
She starts to rip the check up, but I stop her by wrapping my hands around hers. “It’s fine, I promise. More than fine, because now I don’t feel like you’re doing me a favor.”
“Of course you don’t! I’m fleecing you.”
“It’s not fleecing if I think you’re worth it. And I do.”
“So I’m just supposed to take the check?” She still looks completely incredulous.
“You’ve already taken the check, so the hard part’s over. Now all you have to do is agree to show up at my house the day after tomorrow at around three o’clock for a session.”
“The day after tomorrow?” she queries, and of course now is the time—and that’s the question—when the shock wears off. “Why not tomorrow?”
“Because I’m busy.”
I grab the brochure she tried to give me earlier, scrawl my address and phone number across the top of it. “Thursday,” I say as I hand it to her. “Three o’clock.”
“I can’t do three. I have a two o’clock class. How about four?”
“Four works. Text me when you get there and I’ll open the gate for you.”
“Gate,” she says faintly.
“It’s a safety precaution. No different than at Hunter and Emerson’s place.”
“I know. It’s just…”
“Just?” I arch a brow as I wait for her to articulate her thoughts.
She gives me a self-deprecating little smirk that only heightens the attraction I’ve felt since I walked through the front door of this studio. I really, really want to kiss it off her face. But she hasn’t cashed the check yet, and I have no intention of tipping my hand this early in the game.
“It’s just I don’t think I’m in Kansas anymore.”
I grin at the Wizard of Oz reference. Old movies are totally my thing. “You want to know a secret?” I ask.
She looks wary. “I don’t know.”
I lean forward until my lips are barely an inch away from hers, which isn’t hard since they’re already right there. Damn, her height is a turn on. “You never were in Kansas. And neither was your little dog.”
She purses her lips, says primly, “I don’t have a little dog.”
“And Dorothy didn’t have a flying house, but that didn’t stop her from meeting the wizard.” I tap my finger on the brochure a couple times. “Four o’clock. Thursday. I’ll be waiting for you.”
I close the last little bit of distance between us, brushing my lips over hers in a kiss that’s just as sweet—just as hot—as I remember. And then I book it out the door before she can call me on the fact that the wizard was just a sad, scared little man hiding behind a curtain.
Chapter 12