‘Yes?’ I whisper uncomfortably, looking away from him. How mortifying this must be for him, having to revoke my licence, put me out of a job and possibly be the cause of me having to turn to online topless ironing to make ends meet. But even the sweaty tension of imminent exposure can’t dampen how attracted I am to him.
‘I’ve got to fly off this morning to deal with some urgent business up in Madrid,’ he says with an apologetic look.
I guess this means the date, I mean session, is off.
‘Which means I’ll have to take a rain check on our next session,’ he says softly.
‘Is everything okay?’ I ask. ‘Are you having trouble with your board of wankers?’
I must look devastated because he steps closer and lifts my chin up so that I meet his gaze. ‘Yes. I am having trouble with my board of wankers. But I will be back in a day or so,’ he says. ‘Let’s fix a date.’
I nod slowly, still lost in his eyes. A date date? Or is he merely suggesting rearranging the session? The session where he reveals he has been sent by the ICF and declares a conflict of interest?
‘What about the ICF and the board? Won’t they mind?’
‘What about them? What I do outside of work has nothing to do with them.’
I like his thinking. A lot.
‘So, you still want to honour our special arrangement?’
Could I be any more unclear?
‘Very much so.’
And what special arrangement am I talking about exactly?He’s so overpoweringly good-looking that I have lost the thread entirely of whether a session means a session. Or is this sizzling undercurrent of metaphors between us is all in my head.
‘And you won’t tell the ICF?’
Oliver shakes his head. ‘Why would I tell the ICF?’
Hello, because you work for them?
‘And you won’t be breaking any codes of conduct? There aren’t going to be any imminent job losses? Namely, mine.’
Oliver looks amused. ‘As long as we work within the standard regulatory perimeters of employment law, I don’t see a problem.’
I stare at him. He’s matching my crazy.
‘So you still want to put adatein to do someactuallife coaching with me?’
He nods causing my heart rate to increase by a million thumps per second.
Could it be possible, beneficial even, to have a client-coach relationship with a man this attractive?Despitethe distraction of sexual tension?
I take a beat to reflect on it while I gaze into the depths of his incredibly dark eyes.
It could. We both simply need to remain professional.
As if reading my mind, he leans in and kisses me lightly on the lips.
I very much admire his unprofessionalism.
‘Give me your number,’ he demands, masterfully holding out his phone to me. I take it and quickly put my number in his contacts.
‘Do not,’ he warns, ‘do anything crazy until I am back.’
My eyes balloon with indignation.
