AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Another deep breath and I take out my phone, intending to find out more about this Blake Avery, but the screen lights up with an incoming call from Thomas, my brother.
He wants to drop by my office later—never a good sign. I try to pry out of him what the ask is going to be—usually, something family-related that would remind the world of my belonging to the Mercer dynasty—but Thomas doesn’t budge, leaving me in the dark.
We hang up just as my driver pulls up in front of the address cited in The Wall Street Journal article for the new gym’s grand opening.
As I take in the artistic, friendly neighborhood out of the blackened windows of the company car, I have to concede this Blake character knows what he’s doing—at least real estate-wise. The gym is placed in a high-profile new building. A modern glass box that sits on the corner of two of the most trafficked streets of the neighborhood. Impossible to miss or ignore.
Any passer-by will at least glance at the shiny architecture and wonder what’s inside. Not that the twenty-foot banners of a sweaty woman and muscular dude working out will leave any doubt. Nor will the first-week-free offer spelled out in bright print.
Another spike of irritation prickles my neck. Gyms might not be my core business, but the fact that I knew nothing about this property being up for grabs infuriates me. Avery must’ve secured an off-market sale, which makes him alarming on top of being a nuisance.
Tobias opens the car door for me and I’m half tempted to reconsider. I know nothing about this man who so lightly dropped judgment on me in the press, and I rarely walk into a meeting unprepared. But, in the article, he pushed all the wrong buttons, hitting on the sort of prejudice I’ve had to deal with at every start-up event since I set out to build a business of my own. As if I didn’t belong with the other entrepreneurs. As if my surname took away the right to get funding outside my family’s wealth. To be free of all the strings that would’ve come attached to a loan from my dad. Free to make my own path, my own money.
But I did make it on my own, and no one should question that, let alone in one of the most read business papers in the country.
I get out of the car, exhaling a sigh of relief at being on solid ground again, and ask my driver to wait nearby—no, I’m not sure how long it’ll take me.
I cross the street and enter the building, sidelining the reception as if I’m a patron who knows where he’s going. This is a good, old-fashioned ambush. I don’t want Blake Avery to be alerted to my presence and have time to prepare. That scumbag doesn’t deserve a five-minute warning. He already has the advantage of knowing more about me than I do about him.
The article stated the gym will also be the new headquarters for the umbrella corporation that goes by the ridiculous name of Bloominghale. I don’t know how Bloomingdale’s still hasn’t sued them. I’d gladly help.
Out of view in a corner where I won’t attract much attention, I study my surroundings. The inside space is as neat as the outer layer, everything one would expect from a luxury gym: pristine, modern, and high-tech. The equipment visible from the reception is state-of-the-art, the best there is. A trendy juice bar is stationed just outside the locker room’s entrance to the left. And a yoga studio where a tall, blond dude is perched in the most precise headstand I’ve ever seen completes the picture.
My gaze locks on the glass-and-steel staircase leading upstairs to what looks like office space—bingo! I dart in that direction and jump up the steps two at a time, hoping to remain undetected. Maybe not the best move since I’m winded once I get to the top—part physical exertion and part anticipation. Out of breath is the last look I want to project once I finally meet this bigmouth face to face, so I take a few steadying breaths and navigate the upper corridors blindly, again acting as if I belong. I don’t know where I’m going, but if I were the big boss at this dubious establishment, I’d want my office to sit in the corner. I head that way.
And jackpot! The big office is right where I expected it to be. The name and title—Blake Avery, CEO—are etched on the door.
The desk outside the office is unmanned.
Fortune favors the bold.
I smirk.
Or carelessness disadvantages the lax.
Mila would never leave my flank open like that. True, her job is made easier because my entire floor has restricted access, but even so, she’d never abandon her post and leave me at the mercy of unexpected enemies.
I close the distance to the unguarded office and grab the knob, ready to make a grand entrance.
I’m not sure what I was expecting upon throwing the door open… perhaps a fit dude all brawn and some brain, mid-thirties to mid-forties if he’s been at this for ten years.
What I wasn’t expecting was to find a young woman, back turned to me, shaking her booty in a stellar execution of a fast feet drill. She’s wearing a neon-pink sports bra and black leggings. Her midnight black hair is up in a high ponytail and she has headphones on, working out in time to an unheard tune.
After the fast feet, I expect her to transition into a predictable lounge or squat combo. Instead, she jumps, throwing her hands up in the air, eyes closed, shaking her body and head in a maniacal way that wouldn’t fit half bad in a Flashdance remake.
I cross my arms over my chest and lean against the doorframe, enjoying the show. With all the moving and spinning, I can’t get a proper look at the woman’s features—only guess that she must be beautiful.
The dance exhibition continues for a few more minutes until the woman turns toward me with her eyes open and freezes in place. And, hell… I’m struck by a bullet to the chest as her electric blue eyes meet mine. A deep color, but so bright it’s staggering against her thick black lashes.
She’s quick to recover, though. She takes me in with a not-so-subtle once over and, in a second, her charged gaze shifts from shocked to hostile.
Yep, beautiful. No, not friendly.
She removes the headphones from her head and unceremoniously drops them onto the desk. “Uninvited guests usually have to pay a ticket for the show,” she says.
Not exactly the opening I’d expected. Beautiful and feisty. Pity she’s a little too young for me. With her cheeks all red and puffed up from the workout, she looks barely old enough to order a drink.
“Is this a regular gig, then?” I make an attempt at a light rebuke, but seeing how she remains unmoved, I change tactics. “Sorry to intrude.” I flash her a grin, one that I’ve been told leaves no prisoners. “I wasn’t sure how to grab your attention over the music and the dancing.”
