Wesley Grant leaned his bare back against the warm wood in the new steam room of his men’s club as he inhaled the heavy air filled with the scent of pine. His muscles, tired from the exertion of his new swimming routine, relaxed against and into the wood, only to momentarily tense when, from the corner of his eye, Wesley noticed the timber door opening as another guest joined him. He quickly closed his eyes to dissuade conversation. Here his mind was free, free to be alone, to think about his future, his business. Here he didn’t have to put on airs or cater to anybody. Here he could be without a care in the world.
A motion told Wesley that the other man had sat somewhere on the bench across from him, and his thoughts continued. What he couldn’t get out of his mind was the argument he’d just had with Phillip Drake. He kept mulling it over again and again. And like before, his anger bubbled up at the thought of it. Walking out on a job! Who did he think he was? Just because he was some big shot at a university didn’t mean he could pull a stunt like that and ditch Wesley Grant, a man who could buy and sell Drake ten times over. He needed recompense for the loss he had taken. Or rather, he admitted to himself, his bruised pride wanted recompense.
Pride. His Achilles heel. Your ego is blocking your ability to think. As one thought so often leads to another, so Katherine’s angry words rang in his ears now as clearly as when she had first spat them at him. His mind replayed the scene again, when she rejected him in favor of another man. For the nth time his thoughts reenacted his reaction in anger, of shoving her lamp off the table to send it crashing to the floor, of him storming out of her apartment in a rage, of him writing her a note of apology the next morning after he’d simmered down a bit. The returned note burned in his memory as he relived his decision to give her some space, thinking maybe her new infatuation with that engineer fellow, Johnny, would phase out given time.
That was a joke, he thought angrily. Only two months later she’d become engaged to him. And now, six months later, they were still together. It should’ve been him. The heat from the steam soaked into his sore muscles and, on that last thought, his mind felt clearer than it had felt for the last four months. Feeling sorry for himself wasn’t going to win her back. No wonder she hadn’t shown any desire to spend time with him—he’d been acting like a sullen ass. He swiped a hand over his eyes and opened them to see the other occupant, the muscular athlete he’d met the other day. What was his name? Mike. Mike Donovan. That was it. He was a professional tennis player in town for a couple weeks recouping from some sort of knee injury. Luckily Mike didn’t seem to be in a chatting mood either; his eyes were closed in blissful peacefulness. Probably just finished a grueling workout and wanted to relax. Wesley self-consciously pulled in his stomach.
He should be working out more himself. His lanky frame had been looking a bit skinny lately. Standing up slowly, he stretched out his arms. Mike opened one eye and the two men nodded at each other before Wesley let in a blast of cold air as he exited the steam room.
Once outside, opening the door of his sleek convertible seemed to him like opening of a box of solutions to all his problems. First up, a meeting with Drake. After that business was settled, he could then spend some more time figuring out a different tactic to win Katherine back and push her past the “just friends” level with him, even if he had to push Johnny off a cliff in the process. A voice interrupted his small moment of elation; he turned to look at one the black-uniformed club employees. “Mr. Grant, a call for you, sir. I’m afraid it’s urgent.”