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Yep. No six-foot-four-tall walls of testosterone in sight. Nothing out of the ordinary. Since moving into my new apartment in Manhattan a year ago, my bedroom has seen as much action as an icky public restroom at the back of an airport terminal. At least I hope icky public restrooms at the back of airport terminals see little action.
I peel the sheets off my overheated body and decide to take a quick shower before I have to go to work for my 10.30a.m. class.
Sundays are no rest days for me. I don’t do rest days. But since half of my job comprises doing the thing I love the most—blowing off steam with a good workout—I consider myself to be off half the time. It’s all the financial planning and meeting with investors that drains me. After Justin, I’ve wanted to keep the control solidly in my hands. I’m aware I’m overdoing it, that I should delegate more, focus on what I love. But since the man I loved and trusted with all my heart blindsided me so thoroughly, I’ve had trouble putting faith in anyone else. Hence why I’ve reserved all the decision-making, and consequent headaches, for myself.
But things are about to change. I won’t be able to oversee everything once we go public. I will have a board of directors. Shareholders I’ll be accountable to. The company will have to evolve and become more structured. The usual spike of anxiety at the impending change grips me. My head hurts just thinking about it.
To be fair, the mild hangover from last night isn’t helping.
I rarely stay out partying until three in the morning. And last night, to take the edge off MGM’s looming presence, I drank two glasses of champagne instead of my usual limit of one. The alcohol had already left my system by the time I drove home, but apparently, the headache is here to stay. I turn the water cold and plunge my head underneath to properly wake up.
Twenty minutes later, I’m hurrying out in a T-shirt and a pair of leggings. I grab my laptop, remember at the last minute to drop the towel around my head, grab my purse, and dash out of my apartment. At least now that I live in Manhattan, the commute is super short and I can walk to work. The road from Queens to NOHO has been long. I first moved out of Queens to Brooklyn five or six years ago. But I crossed over the East River a year ago when the renovation works on the first Bloominghale fitness center started.
Short commute or not, I’m running more than walking as I dart through the front doors, making a beeline for the juice bar—thank goodness for it, or I would’ve had to skip breakfast.
“Irie,” I yell to the barista. “Emergency protein shake.”
From the mini-fridge, Irie pulls up my already prepared order and slides it over the counter toward me. “Coming your way, boss.”
“Gosh, you’re a life saver, I love you.”
The barista blows me a kiss, and I hurry up the stairs, taking two steps at a time.
I barely have time to drop my laptop into my office, suck the shake dry from the paper straw in an unhealthily long, single draw, and rush back down to the group classroom.
At least my first lesson of the day is Zumba: high energy, low strength—much fun.
* * *
For lunch, I order a salad from the juice bar and consume it in my office. It’s a hot day outside and I don’t have the energy to take a stroll around Manhattan at midday. Despite the light lunch, my lids feel heavy once I’m finished. The office couch calls to me.
I have a gazillion things to do. Upload my story of the day to Instagram, make a silly TikTok, reply to about a million emails… Evan has sent me a list of required SEC forms for public companies I should familiarize myself with: 10-Ks and 8-Ks and 10-Qs and 8-Qs. Insider transaction forms 3, 4, and 5. Just looking at the list makes my eyes cross. I should really get started on this, but another yawn prompts me to opt for a power nap instead.
I kick off my gym shoes and stretch on the couch, grabbing a decorative pillow that I tuck under my head. I’m asleep in minutes.
My phone is ringing. My eyes fly open and I jolt upright, causing the phone to tumble off the couch. I snatch it off the floor and move my thumb automatically to silence the alarm.
I blink and check the time.
Oh my gosh, I slept for three hours.
I swing my legs off the couch, cracking my neck and doing a light arm stretch. It’s already time for my next class.
When I enter the dance studio on the lower floor, thankfully only a few people have arrived. I’m not late.
While I wait for everyone else to drop in, I sit on the floor in a butterfly pose and stretch my back and neck some more. The office couch isn’t exactly ergonomic.
I’ve just stretched my left leg forward on the floor, keeping the other bent in a modified Hurdler Stretch when, out of the corner of my eye, I catch a pair of large black sneakers walk into the studio.
The shoes are attached to a pair of long, muscular legs dusted with soft dark hair and clad in black shorts. My gaze travels up to a light-gray tee stretched over an obscenely defined chest, and up again to MGM’s self-satisfied face.
Our eyes meet.
His gaze twinkles with boyish mischief as he squats next to me.
“Good afternoon.”
I straighten up from my hamstring stretch and gain some distance.
