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A thick parchment paper slips from it along with an official-looking letter and a hand-written note.
Mackenzie,
I see something of myself in you, dear girl. Your imagination and drive. A young girl with big dreams. I believe in you.
Come chat with me again soon.
Lola.
I turn the note over, still frowning, my pulse picking up, my eyes instantly stinging as I flip the thick parchment paper and scan the beautifully detailed painting. It’s her house, but it’s not. It’s my restaurant. She’s painted it—converted the little beach house into my restaurant in watercolor so delicate and detailed I can practically smell the pink flowers of the vines snaking over the arched doorway. The mosaic path. The roof terrace glittering with fairy lights. The white-linen-covered tables of the terrace. I blow out a watery laugh and slide the painting beneath the official-looking document.
I scan the legal jargon. Swallow down the thick lump in my throat and glance around the empty lobby, blinking away the big fat tears threatening to splatter over everything.
It’s a lease.
TWELVE
Mylo
“Jeez. Don’t hold back, man.” Jackson shakes his head and leans into the worn leather punch bag in preparation for my next jab.
It knocks him back a step regardless. He nods for me to go again. The thwacks are loud in the old-school gym. One, two. One, one two. I focus on the throw of each fist. The follow through. The twist of my back foot. One, two. One, one, two.
When I come up for air, he steps back, shaking out his arms and lifts his chin towards the massive battle ropes attached to the wall. He might be shorter than me by a head, but the man trains like a beast. “Not sure this old thing will handle much more.” He slaps the taped-up leather. “And I’ve no intention of replacing it anytime soon.”
I grunt at Clua’s police sergeant and follow him over to the ropes. This is his place—his grandad’s place. No frills. No machines. No happy techno training music. A couple of sparring rings. Battle ropes and huge tires. A selection of punch bags and pull-up bars and enough dumbbells and weight benches to literally sink a ship. You leave a tip in the box at the door and the place as you find it.
An over-the-top, nerve-grinding laugh drags my attention.
“Seriously, dude. She’ll be all over this in no time.” I glare at the two guys that have just walked in. The one talking is gesturing at his body, his dark hair slicked back, eyebrows like a woman’s.
There’s a reason I usually get my workout in early. No company.
“What the fuck’s up with you?” Jackson frowns at me as he wraps tape around his hands. “You’re like Hulk with a fucking headache.”
I glare at him too and retwist my hair back into its knot. I could tell him it’s because I’m still waiting on the insurance to come through on the Surf Shack. Could tell him it’s because my ex is shacked up with one of my old Marine buddies. That the air-con unit for Laia’s shop isstillstuck in fucking Mexico. It’d all be bullshit, though.
It’s been days since Kenzi called me out over saying she was nobody—over calling Cara nobody, and I just sat there and let her walk away like the coward that I am.
“Mylo?”
I shake my head. “Sorry, man. Just one of those days.” I squat down to pick up the thick-as-my-forearm ropes, one in each hand, and blow out a sharp breath. I lift and drop the ropes in alternating waves. Biceps. Core. Thighs. Shoulders. They warm, then burn, then scream. I puff out a couple more breaths, but don’t stop. Focus on the physical. Focus on the pain. The work. The things I can control.
“She loved it. I’m telling you, man, blondes are always better in the sack.” The eyebrow guy’s voice breaks through my calm, like nails on a chalkboard. The other guy’s nasal, machine gun laugh isn’t much better.
Focus lost, I slow the waving ropes, then throw them down. My T-shirt is plastered to my back.Once faded gray, it’s now almost black.
Jackson glances across to me, curling dumbbells as big as his head, and rolls his eyes.
Eyebrows low, lip curled, I scowl over at our unwanted company training by the pull-up bars. Big muscles. Shit form.
He clocks us looking and lifts his chin. “Come on, you know I’m right, guys.”
I level him with an unimpressed stare.
He swallows. Then shrugs and goes back to posturing in front of his skinny armed mate, but this time with the volume noticeably lower.
I pick up the ropes again and get to it.
