Chapter 3
Kaede
“Welcome to One Life Gym,” I say proudly, holding my hands out wide to welcome Jeffrey Sanders, our potential investor. “The freshest and most unique fitness brand that’s poised to take the world by storm.”
He cuts quite the impression as a grey-haired, tall, stately, and reserved billionaire who’s made a name for himself in certain circles as both an angel investor and business savant. Which means Jeffrey has what we don’t. Namely, the connections and money to really break this out.
Behind Jeffrey’s shoulder, Ross eyes me, telling me silently to take it easy, not lay on the charm too thickly. We don’t want to sound like used car salesmen.
Ross and I have made One Life Gym something amazing. It’s all in the data, the stress and sacrifice, the growth projections and market analysis, and every stage of what we’ve done so far. And business is booming in our single flagship location.
Our research didn’t stop when we opened the doors on One Life. We researched potential investors the same way we attacked the whole process—combing over every portfolio, their history, their success.
And Jeffrey is the one we want. He’s the key to taking us nationwide, and then worldwide.
We could’ve gone to Ross’s dad or his company. But we want to do this on our own. We know that the Andrews name carries weight, but we’re still trying to stand outside the old man’s shadow. This is also my way of standing by Ross’s side as a true equal in every way for the first time.
Ross already threw his pitch, showing Jeffrey our expansion proposal, the business plans we have in place, and more. He knows that we’re legit. Today is supposed to be the cherry on the sundae of his writing us a check and my chance to put a little shine on things with a personalized, hands-on tour.
Admittedly, I’m not as experienced at being the presenter, not as suave as Ross was for his part. But I get the feeling it wouldn’t matter if I were. Jeffrey is a man accustomed to getting his way . . . and isn’t impressed by much.
Jeffrey hums thoughtfully, not saying a word as he scans the lobby. His eagle eyes miss nothing, from the granite countertops, wood-look tile flooring, and sleek computer check-in station.
“Show me around.” Short and clipped words with an unreadable expression.
Shit. Have I already screwed the pooch on this?
“Right this way,” Ross says, leading the charge.
We begin the tour of the gym, stopping by each section and showing off the equipment, explaining how we manage the layout to prevent dead zones or lines for equipment.
It doesn’t take long for Jeffrey’s blank expression to return, and he’s taking everything in with grunts and stares when shown something new. It’s odd behavior to be sure, but I slowly begin to realize it’s all an act.
The sly old fox wants to put us off balance and not let us know what he’s thinking.
It’s a negotiation tactic, one as old as probably the first time one man offered to sell a horse to another. Hide it all behind a poker face, feign indifference or even boredom. He wants us scared and unsure so that when and if he makes an offer, we’ll jump at the chance to sell him our product.
But we’re not green newbies who can be jerked around.
“And this is our group fitness studio,” Ross tells Jeffrey after we move on from the treadmill section and stop in front of a wall-long glass window. “We’re one of the only gyms in the state offering facilities of this caliber, allowing a full range of programming.”
“Such as?”
I jump in to discuss the schedule I worked so hard to design. “High-Intensity Interval Training, mat Pilates, Zumba, ballet barre, and strength classes. We also have yoga, but they have a dedicated, private studio space.”
Jeffrey looks through the glass. Inside, Stacylynne, our Zumba instructor, is leading a class of people of every age, stage, size, and shape. Stacylynne had seemed like an odd choice at first. Her resume had come with a coffee stain on the top corner and she’d worn tie-dyed, wide-legged pants and a Woodstock T-shirt to her interview, with pigtails hanging at odd angles down her shoulders.
But her references were impeccable. Raving, in fact. Best of all, she oozed charisma and charm during her interview, and that’s carried over to her classes as well. She’s a bit of an oddball but truly amazing and able to connect with everyone who walks through the door to one of her classes. She makes classes fun.
Currently wearing a halter top and elephant-patterned harem pants with bellydance scarves tied around her hips and head, she’s leading the class in some version of butt shaking that would seem more at home on a strip club stage, but everyone’s doing it with a smile. Over the bumping music, I can hear her on the microphone, cheering them on.
“That’s it. Work it like the rent money’s due on Monday!” she calls while walking around and making it ‘rain’ invisible dollars.
“Zumba?” Jeffrey asks with a condescending sneer.
It might not be Jeffrey’s style, but he can’t argue with dollars and cents. “It’s one of our most popular classes. Stacylynne’s classes fill up every day and time she teaches and have a long waiting list to get into them,” I assure him. “Many of the other classes have stellar numbers as well. I can pull the breakdown of usage—by weekday, time of day, or format, if you’d like.”
Jeffrey’s hum is definitely one of doubt. The three of us look into the room again to see . . . oh, fuck! Stacylynne is on her back, lying on the wood floor, scooting herself slowly through a member’s legs in some weird version of Stripper Limbo. “Yes! Drop it on me, girl! Show me whatcha working with!”
Jeffrey’s going to ask to see our HR sexual harassment policy next, I’m sure of it.
Thankfully, the member drops down lower into her squat and twerks her ass with a saucy look on her face, loving every moment of it.
“My sister, Courtney, loves Zumba,” Ross adds to our case, trying to be helpful. “I’ve tried it myself, but I prefer the cycle classes.”
At the mention of that name, my eyes unconsciously scan the crowd and I feel a ping of disappointment. I’m not sure why I’m surprised. She doesn’t come in until evenings after work. Tuesdays and Thursdays. 7:00—8:00.
I have her Zumba schedule memorized, though I’d never admit it to anyone. Call it a habit. Or maybe a guilty pleasure. A very secret one.
Courtney had always been around, but when Ross and I were kings of the high school, she was barely a tween in middle school. We’d gone to college, she’d gone to high school, and I’d not given her a thought other than during Ross’s occasional family updates.
It wasn’t until we were both at Andrews, me working with Ross while getting my MBA and Courtney interning with her dad, that I’d seen her again. And I damn near swallowed my tongue.
She’d grown up and I couldn’t help but notice. I noticed the curve of her hips, the long length of her thighs, the sparkle in her eyes, and the intelligence that made those eyes even more attractive.
But she’s strictly off-limits. Ross made that clear about his other sister, Abi, when we were in high school. The message was sent once, and only once, to the whole school via a skull banging off a locker. But that was all it took. Nobody ever said one comment about Abi again.
At the time, Courtney hadn’t been included because she was a bit younger, but I’ve always assumed it extended to include her.
So though I knew how she took her coffee, that her devious smirk meant she was coming by to give Ross a hard time, when she was wearing my favorite dark-green pencil skirt and black heel outfit that made her ass a work of art, and who she was spending time with, I also knew I had to keep my distance. Friendly, and a feast for the eyes and for the fantasies . . . but that’s it.
When Ross and I left Andrews, I missed Court. I missed the little jokes she shared with me and I missed the way she and I grew familiar with each other, both of us sharing that weird ‘assistant but not assistant’ position. Most of all, I missed her. Though I
could never admit that to anyone, especially not Ross.
I’d damn near shouted for joy when Courtney had waltzed into the gym in those tall stilettos she prefers, plunked her corporate card down, and said she refused to get an ‘executive ass’ from all the sitting. I’d laughed like it was a joke, just barely holding back the compliment her shapely ass deserved.
Ninja in the shadows, that’s me.
Now I get to see her several times a week when she comes in for Zumba class . . . not that we get to talk much given our busy schedules. Our interactions have become much more . . . visual.
I bite my lower lip at the thought, my mind wandering to the days I see Courtney coming into class wearing yoga pants or workout shorts that seem to show off every lush curve on her gorgeous body.
Elephant ass and donkey balls, I tell myself, trying to fill my mind with off-putting imagery to halt the rush of blood to my nether regions. The last thing I want to do is pop wood during an important meeting, especially considering that the brother of my fantasy woman is standing just two feet from me.
I may lust after Courtney, but I don’t hold any illusions that we’ll ever be anything other than two degrees of Kevin Bacon acquaintances. She’s strictly my best friend’s little sister, nothing more.
My heart squeezes in my chest and my dick sulks as I remind it once again of the reality of the situation.
“Kaede?” Ross says, pulling me out of my thoughts. I straighten my collar, my face flushed at the naughty thoughts that crept into my mind. At the slight scowl on Ross’s face, I can tell that he might have said my name more than once to get my attention. Damn it, Kaede, I scold myself. Mind out of the gutter and on the prize. “Can you show the back area?”
I lead Jeffrey and Ross through the weight floor to the back walled-off area, where two guys are doing heavy farmer’s walks, two hundred pounds in each hand as they go down the fifty-foot strip of AstroTurf set aside for movement exercises.
“What sets One Life apart is our zones system,” I explain at Jeffery’s lifted eyebrow. “Too many big box gyms claim to have everything for everyone, but they really fall flat everywhere. Small studios might cater perfectly to one audience, but that’s it. We want to be on the front line of trends and truly be for every type of athlete. Our studios, the basketball court, and the general weight area all give a certain population a space to feel comfortable and catered to. Like here, we have an area for powerlifters and strongmen. All of this is overseen by our head trainer, AJ. We plan to have area-focused interests in each location, like hockey in the north or continual current pools in the south for swimmers.”
“I see.”
Not trying to read anything into his comment, I plunge on. “One thing this location provides that no other does is axe throwing. There are leagues and million-dollar competitions springing up, and we’re already hosting monthly events along with classes and private training sessions with our resident expert, Kayla. She’s a world-class, ranked axe thrower, and she’s exclusively ours.”
Jeffrey hums at that. Good or bad? I’m not sure.
Thunk.
“Yes! She will keeeeeel!” Kayla calls out. As we round the corner, I can see her pulling an axe out of the wood target’s bullseye at the end of the alley. Kayla’s dark brown hair is cut in a short bob and flipped over to one side, her eyes are big and brown, and her plump lips are framed by dimples. She looks like a pixie at only five foot even in her bare feet, and people often underestimate her. But that’s a mistake they only make once.
I’ve seen her take on guys twice her size, both in the axe alley and off, and win easily, so I pity anyone who thinks she’s weak. She’s a fighter and tougher than a box of nails.
I clear my throat and Kayla looks up, tossing her favorite axe in her hand, catching the handle easily with every flip. “What have we here?”
I take charge of introductions because Kayla is a little rough around the edges and might introduce herself with ‘Who the fuck are you?’ even though I told her about the investor visit today. “Jeffrey, this is Kayla Jacobs, number-three women’s thrower in the country. Kayla, this is Jeffrey Sanders, a gentleman interested in investing in One Life Gym.”
“Nice to meet you, sir.” Adopting a charming smile, Kayla goes to offer her hand but then pulls back when she ‘remembers’ that her hand’s covered in chalk, making Jeffrey crack the first ghost of a smile since his arrival. “Dang! George Clooney had better move the E-F-F out of the way, ’cause there’s a new silver fox in town!”
She flashes her dimples at Jeffrey while fluttering her eyelashes as if that’s going to cover up her backhanded compliment. Meanwhile, I immediately tense up and nudge Kayla gently with my foot, yelling with my eyes. The basic translation is something along the lines of, “What the hell are you doing?”
Kayla’s eyes glitter with amusement and the cockiness that comes from being so damn good at what she does. In denial, I pray that she’ll tone it down. Of course, because there’s zero luck in my day, she doesn’t. In fact, she amps it up even more.
She shoulder nudges Jeffrey—well, it’s her shoulder and his elbow—and feigns a stricken look. “I didn’t hurt your feelings, did I? Pure compliment, Big Daddy . . . I mean, Jeffrey.” She tops that off with a wink, as though that will save her.
Or this meeting.
I can only brace for the worst. It seems like Jeffrey is unsure how to react when he suddenly bursts into laughter. Perhaps Kayla flat-out broke him? “Hoo, girl. That’s the funniest thing anyone’s said to me in ages!”
Kayla throws me a triumphant smirk. She knew what she was doing the whole time. If I were a betting man, she even planned it.
Jeffrey shakes his head in disbelief at Kayla’s nerve, still chuckling. “Axe thrower, huh? I don’t believe it.”
He’s verbally sparring with Kayla, teasing her the way she’s teasing him. It’s . . . weird, and it’s either going to be our saving grace or our death knell. That I can’t tell which scares the shit out of me, setting my paranoid prepper tendencies into overdrive.
Kayla smile doesn’t leave her face, but a hint of steel enters her voice. “I can give you a demonstration, if you’d like.”
Jeffrey gestures at the wall, more than ready to see if she’s bluffing or has the cards to back up our puffing her up. “Please.”
Kayla shoos us off to the side, out of her way and into the safety zone, before walking to the throwing line. The energy that nearly constantly buzzes through her disappears in an instant and she goes dead-still. Her eyes laser focus on the bullseye before lifting the axe and letting it fly in one smooth motion. With a whoosh, it sails down the alley, hitting the bullseye with a dull thunk.
“Yes!” Kayla shouts, pumping her fist in victory. Then she offers Jeffrey a fist, and to my surprise, he pounds it with zero care about the chalk. Who knew Kayla would be our secret weapon? Well, other than her.
“That is quite something, young lady.”
Kay drawls out in an accent she does not usually possess, “I might be little, but I pack a big punch.”
There’s a moment of dread where I’m sure we’re dead in the water, but then Jeffrey inclines his head. “Indeed.”
Kayla’s eyes dance, having made her point. “Thank you.” She curtseys like she’s an Eighteenth-Century princess when she’s the furthest thing from it. Somehow, her cheesy as a Chicago-style pizza methods seem to have melted Jeffrey’s austere coldness because he’s nearly eating out of her hand.
“I’d like to introduce you to our lead trainer too. After you.” Ross guides Jeffrey out of the axe area.
I glance back, and Kayla waves innocently, looking completely sure that she could get away with murder. Funny thing is, I’m not sure she’s wrong.
As we walk back to the training area, Jeffrey seems to be looking around with fresh eyes. And dare I say, liking what he sees?
I wave AJ over. “Hey, Bossman, what’s up?” he asks, bouncing on the balls of his feet as though his step-counter
controls whether he gets to stand still or not.
“Jeffrey, please meet AJ Bradford, our head trainer.”
AJ is in charge of the training program, my right hand with that group. He’s a thickly muscled guy, thanks to his years as a wrestler and weightlifter, but one conversation with him and it’s clear that he knows his stuff. His interview was so long, so well-informed, and so utterly confusing to me that I had filled up half a page on my notepad with terms to look up by the time he was done.
“Good to meet you, Jeffrey,” AJ says, carefully shaking hands so as not to crack bones. “How can I help you with your goal here today?”
Jeffrey blinks. “Show me what you do.”
“Gladly,” AJ says, ready for such a softball. He goes into how he takes a new client through goal setting, restrictions and modifications, time lines, and then develops a personalized plan. As he shows off some of his standard movements, he explains, “The first five sessions are part of the process to be sure they understand form, function, and each movement. After that, they can choose to continue with me or on their own. If they work on their own, I always recommend an update meeting in twelve weeks to ensure that they’re on target, make adjustments where needed, and cheer their successes.”
AJ glances past Jeffrey, not liking whatever he sees. “Excuse me, guys. Duty calls.” He walks off, calling out, “Don’t even think about taking that off the rack without a spotter!”
Jeffrey watches silently as AJ assists the member with his heavy lift. With a nod, he turns back to us. “I’ve seen enough. The facility and staff live up to your proposal.”
“Does that mean you’d like to move forward with an investment plan?” Ross asks carefully, teasing at the hook now that we’ve got Jeffrey on it.
“I am. Let’s set a meeting to go over the details and get to know each other better. We can sign the contract then. So, drinks on Friday at my house?” Jeffrey looks from Ross to me, a gleam in his eye that I don’t like.
My Big Fat Fake Engagement Page 3
