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I read that last text and can’t suppress a smile. Gosh, MGM is even funny. A deadly addition to his raw sex appeal, brilliant mind, and I-don’t-take-myself-too-seriously attitude.
A man like that could crush me. Destroy me.
I shake my head and drop the phone on the nightstand, my pulse still accelerated from the text exchange. I should’ve ignored his first message and never replied. Darn, I was this close to saying yes to a date with him, which would’ve been a total disaster. If I dated him, I’d fall in no time. And when he tired of me and left, there’d be nothing left behind.
We’re too different. We come from opposite worlds. And even if I’m dabbling into his gilded universe now, we’d never fit. I tried to mix with New York’s aristocracy once and still bear the scars on my heart. I promised myself I’d never repeat that mistake and I won’t. Plus, he’s probably after me just because he’s not used to being denied. Once I gave in, I’d lose all the appeal.
To reinforce my conviction, I grab my phone again and google “Gabriel Mercer dating.”
A string of Page Six articles pops up featuring MGM at various galas and social events. Each article features him with a beautiful—different—woman attached to his arm. Carbon-copy blonde beauties. Each of them so perfectly groomed, they all look like royalty. These are all socialites born and bred to wear diamonds, low chignons, and never work a day in their lives. MGM clearly has a type, and the hustling daughter of a pizza maker from Queens definitely isn’t a fit.
With a frustrated sigh, I drop the phone again.
Pity.
MGM is the first man who’s kindled a spark in me in a very long time. At least since my last—and only—serious relationship ended in a bruising humiliation. But it’s best to kill the spark before it can spread. The danger with sparks is that they lead to fires. And if I got caught in a blaze with MGM, all that’d remain of me afterward would be ashes.
I barely made it out in one piece the last time I gave my heart to a man who was part of that old-money elite. Never again.
* * *
The next morning, I wake up to the blaring sound of my alarm clock. Last night, it took me forever to get to sleep thanks to MGM and his annoyingly charming texts. I groan in frustration as I throw the blankets away from my body. Maybe I should listen to Evan and drop at least a few of the classes I teach in person—like 6.30a.m. Monday Pilates-Yoga fusion.
Nonsense. And what would I do with all that free time? Even if the breakup with Justin was three years ago, I’m not ready for a serious relationship. I don’t even want to think about dating. Burying myself in work, especially the part I love the most, seems like a far better use of my time than wallowing in my non-existent love life.
I take my phone, ignoring the urge to re-read last night’s text exchange, and pull up my motivational playlist as I shower and eat breakfast.
At 6.15a.m., I jog through the glass doors of Bloominghale deeply caffeinated and eager to get moving.
I drop my bag into my office and go straight to the yoga studio where I wait for the patrons to arrive. Sitting on the floor, I review in my head the plan for today’s lesson and adjust the class playlist on my phone accordingly.
Slowly, the class fills. I check the enrollment log and I’m happy to see all the available spots have been filled. More than that, there’s already a waiting list for the course. Bodes well for my plan to expand our course offering and maybe open a second physical location next year. In fact, there are a few unfamiliar faces who have joined. A petite woman in particular catches my gaze as she waves at me in a friendly manner. She must be an Instagram fan.
I welcome everyone, clear my throat, and call the class to attention.
“Welcome back to the second week of beginners Pilates-Yoga fusion. I hope you all enjoyed last week’s class and are eager to learn more poses.”
The woman who appeared to be an Insta-fan a moment ago nods and grins enthusiastically.
“Today we’re going to start with some warming-up exercises. Get your mats ready and ease into lotus pose.”
I wait for everybody to get into position and start a guided meditation. Most people drop their hands on their knees and close their eyes, but the petite woman in the back is different. She’s very attentive and watches my every move. It takes me a few minutes to realize why she looks familiar. And then, in a stomach-dropping moment, it sinks in. She has the same eyes as MGM.
No. I must be hallucinating. The man has scrambled my brain cells with his easygoing charm, hard muscles, and smoldering eyes, and now I’m imagining things.
I push the idea aside and force myself to look away from the woman, concentrating on the positive energy flowing through the room. I take a deep breath and get into my zone, leading another short meditation break.
“Deep breaths and clear your minds,” I say in a soothing voice, never in so much need to heed the words myself.
With our minds cleared, I start with a few cat-cow stretches to warm up and then we flow from sun salutations to a series of vinyasas. Next, I push the pace a little harder, flow into some standing postures, and then we twist, bend, and squat. It’s a killer workout, and I don’t take it easy on the participants. I want them to begin their day energized, their bodies primed and strong, and with an expression of pride on their faces for their hard work.
The hour flies by and at the end, everyone applauds heartily. I tell them to go enjoy their days and come back next week.
I rest my back against the wall and watch the class leave—all except for the petite brunette who must be an Insta-fan after all. My followers are all eager to meet me in person, and I always dedicate as much time to them as I can spare. I wouldn’t be where I am today without the support of my online community and I’m never going to look down my nose at them or act as if they don’t deserve my attention.
