Capturing the braids she’d had done last night—thank God for a stylist willing to take her at the last minute and work past midnight—she gathered them in a scrunchie, then pulled back onto the road. After another mile and several winding turns, she rounded a bend and a gorgeous, sprawling mansion with two-story windows and a curved cobblestone driveway came into view. A four-car garage flanked one side of it, while a smaller structure—probably a pool house—occupied the other. Towering cedars cocooned the area, enclosing the massive home in its own little oasis.

“Well, damn,” she muttered.

She drove underneath the portico and pulled to a stop behind a mocha-colored Range Rover. A deep orange Audi was parked about five yards ahead of the SUV.

Why have a four-car garage if you’re going to keep your cars parked outside? Unless he had six cars…

Taylor grabbed her duffel from the passenger side floorboard, got out of the car, and started for the front door. It was gorgeous: the beveled glass, iron, and wood materials were typical of what was found on other homes in this part of Texas, but the design was more elaborate. A dark figure, distorted by the glass’s myriad angles, appeared on the other side of the door. A moment later, it opened and Jamar stepped outside wearing gray sweatpants and a white Texas Longhorns T-shirt.

She had to stop herself from releasing a low whistle. That smile and those broad shoulders were pretty devastating on their own, but the gray sweatpants transformed him into a living, breathing thirst trap. She would take a minute to appreciate the view, but now that he was her client, she could not think of Jamar and his fantasy-worthy body as anything other than what he was—her ticket out of debt.

Besides, Taylor had learned the hard way that mixing business with pleasure was insanely foolish, and she’d vowed never to do it again. Once you crossed that line, guys no longer considered you their paid trainer. You became the chick they’re sleeping with who gives them free fitness advice.

She was not going there with Jamar Dixon. She was here to earn that sixteen-thousand-dollar fee and to secure his future endorsement for Taylor’d Conditioning. That was it. Nothing else.

“Did you have any issue on your way out here?” he asked as she approached the base of the steps he’d descended.

“You mean other than wondering if I was still in the state of Texas?”

His megawatt grin beamed bright against his rich dark skin. Yeah, she could appreciate that smile.

“So does this place have its own zip code?” Taylor asked.

“No, I share it with the family on the other side of the San Gabriel River.” After a moment, he said, “That was a joke.” And then he chuckled, probably at the stunned look on her face.