“Sign or I walk. And just so you know, I’m already halfway out the door.”
Part of him screamed, let her go. The other whispered, don’t be a fool.
The first page was a bunch of basic, legal bullshit that took up space but said nothing, naming her as “physical therapist” for the contract. Noah had learned more about contract law from Drake than he would’ve ever learned in college.
He turned the first napkin, but Julia flipped it back to the top of the pile and tapped the bottom corner beside an X. “Sign.”
Noah picked up the pen and scribbled his initials, tearing the napkin. “This is working well.”
“It’s fine. Go on.”
He flipped the napkin and read aloud. “I, Noah Hunt, am committed to maintaining an organic, low-carb, high-protein diet as delineated by my physical therapist.” He scrunched up his face. “Mmm, yum, that sounds appetizing. Do my Pop-Tarts fit into this? ’Cause I can’t sign anything that doesn’t include my Pop-Tarts.”
“Sorry, no Pop-Tarts.”
He dropped the pen on the napkins and sat back. “Deal breaker, right there.”
“Noah, I’m not kidding. Stop wasting our time. I’m happy to take on a different client who really cares about his health. Someone who respects what I have to say.”
“Here we go with the respect thing again. You have issues, you know that?”
“And you don’t?”
He scribbled his signature by the X, took the corner of the napkin, and Frisbeed it toward her.
“Mature,” she said, catching it and turning it over atop the first one.
“I, Noah Hunt,” he read, “am committed to maintaining a rigorous workout schedule as delineated by my physical therapist 2x a day.” He put pen to na
pkin and signed. “Cake.”
On to the next. “I, Noah Hunt, am committed to maintaining a rigorous therapy schedule as delineated by my physical therapist 2x a day.” He looked up and let a hot grin slide across his face. “I get your hands on me twice a day? No-brainer.” And signed. “I, Noah Hunt, am committed to maintaining a regular sleep schedule, obtaining a minimum of eight hours of sleep, seven days a week.”
Noah glanced up. “That will seriously mess up our bedtime routine.”
She just stared at him with that gorgeous, smooth-skinned, cherry-lipped scowl.
“Fine.” He scribbled across the napkin, getting good at producing just the right pressure not to tear it.
“I, Noah Hunt,” he continued with a sigh, “am committed to abstaining from sugar—and all foods that turn to sugar in my body—for the duration of therapy.” He looked at Julia but repeatedly pointed to the napkin with the pen. “This. This right here is some serious anti-Pop-Tart shade I won’t tolerate.”
She tilted her head and pursed her lips with a look of irritation.
Noah signed it, already scheming who he could get to be his short-term Pop-Tart supplier. “I, Noah Hunt,” he read, moving on to the next, “am committed to abstaining from eating out for the duration of therapy.” He dropped the pen against the counter again. “Jesus Christ, girl, I’ll starve. Believe me, other people cooking for me is the only safe alternative.”
She picked up the pen and held it toward him. “I’ll be cooking for you.”
Her smooth, soft voice held a tinge of wicked joy that sent both trepidation and thrill down his spine. “Dubious, at best.”
“Sign.”
He took the pen and signed, then picked up the next. “I, Noah Hunt, am committed to abstaining from alcohol for the duration of therapy.” He let his shoulders sag and rested his forehead against the counter. “You’re going to be the one regretting this.” And he lifted his head to sign.
“Thank God, only two left,” he said, turning the napkin. “What’s next? Claiming my right hand? My heart? The family jewels?”
He read it silently. I, Noah Hunt, am committed to abstaining from dating for the duration of therapy. A deep frown pulled at his brow, and he held it up to her. “What’s this about?”
“Focus. You can’t focus when your mind is distracted by women.”