Page 27 of Lorenzo

I follow Angie to a large open area in the back lined with padded mats.

Three girls spread out nearby for their own stretch routine—long-limbed, effortless, the kind of girls who fold in half like they were built that way.

One of them glances up at me mid-lunge, then leans toward her friend. They murmur together a bit. As they do, her friend’s eyes slide over to me as if I’m the subject of their conversation.

“What’s that about?” I ask Angie in a low voice.

“I’m not sure. But it’s definitely something,” she says, grabbing her phone. “I’m going to look at the Manhattan Social gossip column to find out what’s going on.”

CHAPTER 12

LORENZO

As we walk toward the lockers, a flash of hot pink cuts through the crowd.

I spin, catching a glimpse of a girl wearing pink leggings.

Nice ass. Great bouncy walk.

But what has me whipping my head around is that cinnamon-red ponytail swinging with every step.

Pinky’s rocking the look, all right.

That ponytail’s impossibly perfect. Like she had it made to fit. Bouncy, shiny strands flowing into the classic “S” shape.

“Stop gawking, Renzo,” says Max with a grin. “I’ve always wondered what was up with you and that ponytail fetish of yours. And I just figured it out.”

“Yeah?”

“That red-headed babysitter we had back when we were nine. You had the biggest crush on her.”

“Busted, man,” I say, slapping him on the back as we head into the executive men’s locker room.

Max isn’t far wrong. I can’t quite remember how it came to be, but a nicely turned-out ponytail does me in.

While I strip for a shower, Max looks up from his phone. “Oh, shit.”

“What’s up?”

“Your wedding. That damn Manhattan Social column got hold of it. Now it’s front-page news.”

He tips his phone toward me. I see the headline: Lothario Lorenzo Ricci, Nightclub Impresario, weds Boston Brahmin.

Beneath that is a picture of me with the schoolmarm. I look good. Sharp suit as usual, winning smile.

But Emily looks like a relic from a previous century.

“This wasn’t supposed to get out,” I say, glaring up at Max. “This union was just a formality. To be dissolved as soon as Emily’s uncle steps off the gaming board.”

“Yeah, well, you know Vanessa Sinclair at Manhattan Social. Gossip’s a blood sport to her.”

“Fuck,” I say. “Now everyone will want to know who Emily is. They’ll demand to know why I married her out of all the women in Manhattan.”

I finish reading the rest of the gossip column in disbelief.

“I left strict orders for The Circle’s security staff to be on the lookout for Vanessa Sinclair or any other tabloid columnist should they dare to crash the wedding. How did she or her photographer even get in to take these pictures?”

Max shrugs. “I wouldn’t put it past Vanessa to bribe someone for a cell phone snapshot. A waiter, the coat check girl.”