Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 105183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 526(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 526(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
I bite down on my bottom lip, not wanting to get ahead of myself. It’s just a rumour, after all. Tilda Spector is a renowned independent adviser, massively respected in the industry. She’s a force, and if she’s thinking of winding down, that might mean she’s looking for someone she can trust to take on some of her clients. This could push my portfolio from impressive to really impressive. The first time I met Tilda Spector was about a year ago at the FSA Annual Finance Conference; this year’s event is coming up next week. We hit it off immediately, and she’s kept in touch ever since, dropping me an email every few months or so to say hi and to see how I’m getting on at LB&B. Gary joked he was worried she was looking to poach me. I just smiled. That would be a massive compliment, if it were true.
My mobile rings in my hand, startling me, my ex’s name flashing on the screen. “Damn.” I throw it back into the locker and slam the door, the guilt borderline unbearable, then walk away, the ringing getting quieter until it’s gone when I’m out of the changing rooms. It’s been a few weeks since I walked out. We clearly want different things, and I don’t know how else to remind him of that.
So I stopped taking his calls.
A Turkish bath greets me when I push through some double doors, and around the white tiled room are a dozen or so doors leading to various steam rooms and saunas.
I unravel the towel and hang it on a hook outside a steam room, then open the door. Steam billows out, knocking me back a bit as I step in and check the digital dial on the wall, pulling the glass door closed behind me. “Jesus,” I whisper, feeling the burn on my face immediately. I quickly knock the gauge down from fifty degrees Celsius to forty-five and move through the cloud of steam, lowering to the built-in bench and propping my feet up on the one opposite, stretching my legs, feeling the tug of my muscles.
Exhaling loudly, I let my body loosen and my breathing fall into a steady, deep pace. My head drops back, my eyes close, and I take a moment in the quiet to just . . . be.
Just ten minutes. Sweat out the impurities, cleanse my skin.
Get rid of the stress.
The guilt.
Quiet.
Breathe.
Relax.
Bliss.
I hum, wondering if I should reach out to Tilda Spector, let it be me checking in with her for once. It’s got to be two months since I last heard from her. I make a mental note to check. Or would it be too obvious if I contacted her now, given the rumours? I hum again. Only if the rumours are true. Are they?
The door suddenly opens, and I’m engulfed in cool air. It’s a brief reprieve from the intense heat, and the door is soon closed again, whoever’s joining me not wanting to lose the temperature in this sweatbox. Fuck, it’s hot. I wait for a hello or a hi and get nothing. So I follow suit and say nothing too, squinting as a body cuts through the steam, just close enough to see it’s a man’s body. A big body. A tall, lean, hard body. He lowers to the bench opposite me, becoming a hazy silhouette, and my wet, hot skin starts to tingle.
Oh no.
I inhale, inflating my lungs and burning them at the same time. It’s suddenly a lot hotter. Something skims my ankle. And hotter. Fuck. Electricity charges the steam-filled space, and I quickly pull my legs down from the bench as he moves across a bit more, putting himself directly in front of me. I can’t see him clearly, but I can feel him. Then he leans forward, his elbows on his knees, and I see his fingers lace, his hands joining. My eyes remain locked there. Those fucking hands.
Instinctively pushing back against the tile wall, I feel bare and vulnerable, despite knowing he can’t possibly see me clearly either. Does he know it’s me in here? I glance at the panel on the wall, noting the temperature has dropped to forty-six degrees Celsius. Then why in hell does it feel like it’s getting hotter? I breathe in, breathe out, reach for my brow, and wipe away the beads of water. Breathe in, breathe out.
Hotter.
I can’t stand it.
I get up and move through the unbearable heat, bursting out of the door and taking in air urgently, shaking like a bloody leaf. “Shit,” I whisper, quickly closing the door and staring at the glass. I should get a towel and dry myself. I should go back to the changing rooms. I should jump in an ice bath to snap myself from this fluster.