His dark eyebrows lift, deepening the lines across his forehead. I can't tell at what, though. The idea of going outside? The beach walk? Or my offer to buy food?
"I'll agree, but on one condition."
I lift my chin. "We squeeze in another ep ofJoJo’s?"
Hegrins. Actually grins, and immediately, his eyes brighten, a spark flickering to life.
"No," he says adamantly. "I'mbuying lunch."
Okay, this is good.
Progress.
Robbie mentioned Anson barely leaves his penthouse. We're now walking on the beach. And honestly? It wasn't even that hard to convince him to come. I didn't have to threaten jumping jacks or anything.
We're also exercising, so two birds, one stone.
Anson has been on my mind a lot since our first session last week. I can't even imagine the pain he's going through. Mom passing sent me spiraling, and if Robbie hadn't been so stubborn and refused to give up on me, I don't even want to think where I'd be right now. Or what condition I'd be in.
I discreetly side-eye Anson as we walk side by side, the warm ocean water splashing around our ankles with the incoming tide. He's ditched the dark colors of our first session for a crisp white performance polo and navy shorts.
And man, he looksgood. If he's adamant, sure, he could stand to lose a few pounds, but honestly, I'm starting to wonder why he even needs me. He's in great shape and not just 'for a guy his age.' Most guys would kill to have a body like his.
Or beundera body like his.
Not that I've fantasized about what it might feel like to be pinned down under him, because I am a what? A professional, that's right.
Maybe not the most professional of professionals, because it may have infiltrated my masturbatory fantasy circle once.
Or twice.
Anson seems to be doing okay with being out in public. There aren't any obvious signs of tension on his face or his body, his breathing is smooth and even, and he seems…calm. So far, everything's going well.
The only minor problem is the conversation. Or, more specifically, the lack of one. I'm not a huge fan of gaping silences, but I'm holding back. If Anson doesn't go out much, he could be feeling overwhelmed on the inside and doing a good job of hiding it, so I don't want to bombard the guy.
But I have to saysomethingsince this is slowly killing me. I choose something easy and light, and I'll see how that goes. "So, did you grow up on the Gold Coast?"
"I did. My family was one of the original settlers here." He winces. "Whitesettlers, that is."
"Uh-huh. So I suppose you remember what this place looked like before all these glitzy towers were built?"
He stops walking. "That a dig at my age?"
I turn to face him, burying my feet into the sand. "Is that a…smile on your lips?"
He stares at me for a long moment, and it's like we're frozen in place. His smile gradually fades, and he starts walking again.
"I didn't mean to offend you, or make fun of your age," I say, catching up to him. "Honestly."
"It's fine. I was kidding. And I actually do remember when the beach was lined with two-story motels and parking lots."
"Parking lots, seriously?"
"Yep. Until ruthless property developers swooped in and snapped up the prime real estate, turning the Goldie into the glitter strip you see before you today."
"Was your company one of those ruthless developers?" I ask.
"It was. My father did the initial land acquisition, and I took over and did the development. At my peak, I was one of the best in the game."