He’s a businessman, and we all like to think we have the upper hand at all times, but something tells me Jeffrey’s got something up his sleeve. Only one way to find out, though.
“Of course. We’ll be there,” I say agreeably.
As Jeffrey leaves and Ross and I fist-bump a successful proposal, worry digs deep into my mind. I’ll be researching Jeffrey Sanders again, even though I have multiple times already. That’s my job, to know everything before anyone else does, and I don’t like that Jeffrey thinks he knows something I don’t.
Already, my mind is replaying bullet points like I’m a walking, talking encyclopedia . . .
Jeffrey Sanders began his investments in biotechnology at the age of twenty-five.
Made his first million by the time he was twenty-six.
Portfolio includes giants in industries from oil and gas to banking to venture capital investments.
The list goes on and on, but still, I think I’ll do another bit of research tonight.
Chapter 4
Courtney
“Okay, Jill, you’ve got the printouts ready?”
Jillian taps her tablet, nodding. “Check, printed, collated, and laid out. Looked ’em over myself, not a smudge on a single paper.”
“And the bagels?”
“Duh. With that nasty ass salmon-infused cream cheese that we found out she likes.” Jillian holds up her tablet, showing me all the green checkmarks on her list as I review mine.
“And the flowers?”
Jill grins, nodding. “Got an email from Abi already confirming it. We’re good, Boss Lady.”
I stretch my arms overhead, groaning as I hear three pops from somewhere below my bra strap. It’s been a long day but a productive one. “Okay. Well then, I think I might head out, catch a class at the gym.”
“Good for you! Are you gonna hit that Zumba class again and work off those nervous butterflies with some twerking, or Zen out in meditative yoga? I vote Zumba.” She rolls her hips around like she’s working an invisible hula hoop, finishing with a hair flip that’d make Tawny Kitaen proud. “Maybe you’ll meet a solid eight there. And I don’t mean eight out of ten.”
She wags her brows, holding her hands about eight inches apart and making sure I’m catching her very obvious hint that I need to get laid. I swear, to hear her talk, I walk around with a pinched face that telegraphs how unused and dried up my vagina is. That it might be true is beside the fact.
“Jillian!” I balk, shaking my head. “Not interested.”
“What, you’re telling me that you can’t meet a guy at the gym? I’m not saying go find your future husband. Just have some fun. I worry about you, Courtney.” A bit of true concern darkens her eyes.
“Yeah, I know, but that’s not the reason I go. Besides, the only guys who seem interested are ones who want to ‘check my squat form’.” We throw matching eye rolls of commiseration because every woman who’s been in a gym has had that particular experience with a bro-boy.
That dampens her pushiness slightly. “Fine, I won’t beat a dead horse,” Jillian says, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “Even if I’m right.” She walks out of my office, her skirt swishing as she sings Van Halen’s Right Now in a low, flirty voice.
Packing my bag, I head out, jumping in my car with twenty-seven minutes to spare. As I drive, I try to put work out of my mind, but I can’t.
I originally joined One Life because I wanted to support my big brother. But I’ve found it to be a lifesaver, a place where at least for an hour or so, I can still the constant voices in my head.
Do more. Be more. Is that all you’ve got? Push, push, push.
I shimmy my shoulders and wiggle my hips as I drive, trying to find that mental place. The one where I can forget about presentations and meetings and emails. Where there are no expectations from anyone else, and mostly, not from myself.
I can just be free.
A good sweat is exactly what I need tonight. Then I can sleep and be fresh and ready for tomorrow.
I get to the gym and change just fine, but when I come out of the locker room I nearly run into Kayla and AJ. They are two of One Life’s more colorful staffers, and Ross has shared some whoppers of stories about them. Currently, they seem to be in round number ten thousand and six of their never-ending argument.
I can’t help but eavesdrop as I approach because these two are more entertaining than a Temptation Island episode. Not that I watch trash like that. Much.
“Dangit, AJ, I’d tell you to think with your head, but unfortunately, the one in your pants is bigger than the one on top of your neck!” Kayla fumes, reaching up to poke him in the chest. “You do not try to flirt with a woman when she’s got a hatchet in her hand!”
“I wasn’t flirting!” AJ protests.
I didn’t see what started this particular spat, but I can guarantee that AJ was absolutely flirting. Charm virtually oozes from his pores, but he turns it up to eleven whenever Kayla is around. I can also guarantee that Kayla loves it. She’s the quintessential lady who doth protest too much.
As I get close, Kayla spies me. “Hey, Courtney! How’re you doing?”
I don’t slow down, not wanting to get in the middle of their moment and seriously not wanting to lose my spot in Stacylynne’s class. They’re nearly impossible to reserve and I need this tonight. “Good, thanks.”
AJ pipes up too. “We should talk about training soon. Cardio’s great for the ticker,” he says, patting his chest over his heart, “but you want to work the rest of your muscles too. Some strength training would add years to your health and functionality.” He flexes his bicep and flashes a smile, oozing that charm and sexiness without even trying. Any other guy talking about my ‘functionality’ would get an earful, and maybe a knee to the groin, but AJ is truly just talking about my muscles.
Hmm, maybe he wasn’t flirting with Kayla? It’s hard to tell with AJ.
“Maybe!” I call over my shoulder, still hustling toward my mission. I won’t be late.
In my mind, late is rude. On time is late. Early is on time. My preference is to be in my spot, stretching out, at least five minutes before class begins. And I barely have enough time as it is.
“See ya later, then. Enjoy your class!”
He’s not flirting, but behind my back I hear Kayla pop him in the chest, anyway. “She’s out of your league, Admiral Jackass.”
Is that a touch of jealousy in Kayla’s tone?
“Again, not flirting,” I hear AJ growl, and when I peek back, he’s stepped closer to Kayla and is looking down his nose at her. Both of them are giving each other death glares, but their chests are rising and falling too fast for it to only be adversarial.
Wishing I could stick around for the fireworks but knowing I can’t, I open the studio door. Luckily, Stacylynne is talking to a newbie, doing her ‘there’s no right or wrong, there’s only movement in the physical plane’ speech I’ve heard dozens of times before. I set my water bottle and towel down and claim my spot. A glance at the clock tells me that it’s three minutes to class time. Damn it, I’m late.
But Kayla and AJ were worth it.
I spread my arms wide and dive for my toes, starting to stretch out. From my upside-down vantage point and with the help of the mirrors, I look around. There are several familiar faces, though I don’t know anyone’s actual names. But I don’t let that hold me back.
There’s Stripperella, who seems to want to wear as little as possible for class, and next to her is Compression Girl, who’s covered everything but her hands in spandex that makes me break out in a sweat just from looking at her. There’s also the Diva Trio, a front-row group of women who will flat-out tell you to move if you dare get too close or come between them and their mirror space.
“All right, Ladies . . . and Anthony!” Stacylynne calls, earning a laugh as the one male member of class smacks his own ass in greeting. “Who’s ready to release the reality of life beyond that door?”
The class whoops
in response, as expected, and I see the newbie looking around in surprise at the noise. She’ll get used to it. We’re a loud bunch or Stacylynne makes us do push-ups and try being loud again. I was once a quiet newbie too, but I’ve learned the hard way to be loud and proud or pay the price.
“Who’s ready to create flow through their body?” Another hoot from the class. “And who’s ready to let loose?” The loudest callback of all sounds out as Stacylynne hits play and music fills the room. We want to be sure she hears us.
Letting loose is easy for most of the class, but even after months of classes, it’s hard for me. My brain won’t shut up and I judge myself in the mirror. No matter how hard I try, I compare myself to Stacylynne and the other people in class and find myself . . . robotic. Stiff. Lacking.
The only thing that helps is I’ve given Stacylynne’s voice to the angel on my shoulder, her mantra on repeat. There’s no right or wrong, there’s only movement in the physical plane. So free your ass and your mind will follow.
It’s a bit woo-woo for me, but it works after a bit, and even though there’s so much on my plate, it drifts away as the choreography requires my full concentration. Eventually, Stacylynne starts us into a traveling salsa, and I might not be grinning, but at least I’m not grimacing.
“Whoop-whoop!” Stacylynne suddenly yells, and we all turn around, facing the mirrored back wall of the studio without breaking our stride. It’s more than a bit Pavlovian—Stacylynne whoops and we turn, but we seem to be okay with it.
“Whoop-whoop!” one more time, and we’re back to the front as the music slows and we grab our first water break. I take a sip even though I’m barely sweating because I know what’s coming.
The siren is our first warning, screeching loudly for a couple of seconds before Latin street beats fill the room, and Stacylynne pumps a fist in the air as she jumps through the crowd, splitting us into battle teams with a manic grin on her face. Her bun, which is more of a loose, messy knot on top of her head, flops from side to side as she hypes everyone up.
I still don’t understand how this girl, who looks like she watches Hallmark movies with a rescue dog in her lap and a cup of tea and who probably shows up at the supermarket with her coupons for organic spinach and vegan not-chicken nuggets all cut and sorted for the cashier, can suddenly turn into a Twerk Queen with the push of a button and some Daddy Yankee.
But it’s such a great workout, and if nothing else, I get a great ab workout laughing at myself as I try to keep up. I do my best to follow Stacylynne, whose class is nothing like the YouTube instructional I watched once. That sample was level one. Stacylynne’s is at least level forty-two. It’s like half reggaeton, half booty drop, with a heavy dose of a New Zealand rugby haka thrown in for good measure.
No way did Zumba HQ come up with this dance.
“Turn around, stick that ass out, and attack!” Stacylynne cues us. As instructed, we quick-run our feet, making our asses jump, bounce, and shake as we move toward the other team. Stacylynne air-smacks Compression Girl’s ass, encouraging her. “Let it go! The more it jiggles, the hotter it looks. Now is not the time to clench. Those cheeks need to be clapping like you’re making your own round of applause.”
I run even harder, my ass feeling like I need to cut down on the donuts, but Stacylynne cheers us on even harder. “Thank you, next!” she calls, and the other team takes their turn.
The following round is hip circles and she yells, “Roll those hips like you’re riding . . . something I’m not allowed to say!” She’s joking . . . I think. At this point, I know Ross and Kaede pretty much give her free reign to say whatever she wants, play whatever music she wants, and be as crazy as possible because it only draws more and more people in. Still, as she teases about riding dick, I can only think how tight my hips feel from sitting at a desk all day. Hopefully, this will release some of that tension.
Shit. Between Jillian and now Stacylynne, maybe I really do need to get laid if my first thought about releasing hip tightness is hula hoop rolls, not actual sex.
I do okay for a while, but as the song changes from high-energy Latin to something sultrier, I can’t keep up. We’re supposed to be belly dancing, hips swaying and hypnotizing with our eyes, but I’m just too tense, too focused on everything going on tomorrow and my nonexistent sex life to pretend flirt with the lady across from me. And I’m still too out of breath from those ‘fast feet’ to smile at her encouragingly.
I fall out of rhythm with the beat, which normally isn’t a problem in Zumba because we’re encouraged to be creative, do our own thing if the music is speaking to us. But my own thing bites me in the ass as I switch my come-hither hands too soon and smack someone right in the face.
“Ow!” the woman yells, and I turn to see it’s Stripperella. Her hands are over her cheek, and she’s glaring daggers at me. “Jeez, Crossfit! Watch it!”
I’m so stunned that I don’t know how to react. Did she just call me Crossfit? I thought I was the only person who gave out little mental nicknames. And what does that even mean?
“I’m sorry,” I plead, heat flushing my neck. “Really. I just lost my place and . . . I’m sorry.”
Stripperella rolls her eyes, still looking ready to gouge my eyes out, but suddenly, Stacylynne’s there, patting Stripperella on the shoulder. “You good, Mabel?” Huh, that’s Stripperella’s name? I would’ve thought Candy or Diamond, not something so . . . old lady-ish. Mabel nods, her tattooed on eyebrow quirked in my direction, and Stacylynne looks to me. “Courtney?”
I nod, wanting to melt into the floor.
Luckily, another song starts and Stacylynne runs back to the stage, leading us right into a merengue that I love. And one I actually know how to do, thank God. Still, I stay an extra step away from Mabel. Nope, can’t do it . . . she’ll always be Stripperella to me.
Finally, a slow song begins and we bachata to a steamy Prince Royce beat. Halfway through, Stacylynne guides us into stretches. “Face down, ass up, find length in your legs. Aim for tension, not straight legs.”
I could barely touch my toes when I started, but now, I can bend my arms and plant my elbows on the floor with straight legs. I feel a bit of pride in that, even though that’s not supposed to be the goal. It’s just my nature. Smash each goal and move to the next.
“Walk your hands out and find yourself in plank. Hold and breathe, closing your eyes.” I never close my eyes because it makes the voices too loud, but I do breathe. “Keeping your hands planted, lift your hips toward the sky and walk your dog.” I bend one knee and then the other.
To finish, Stacylynne always leads us in a big bow to complete our ‘performance’, and we clap for ourselves and each other.
I want to run for the door to stay away from Stripperella. Actually, I want to ask her why she calls me ‘Crossfit’, but I don’t. Instead, I walk over to the newbie. “Great job tonight! Keep coming. The first time is like sensory overload, but after a few classes, you’ll start barking when Stacylynne whoop-whoops too.”
The lady laughs, as I intended. “Oh, my God, that was so crazy. She made this noise, and while my brain was going, ‘What was that?’, everyone was suddenly looking at me.”
“Happens to us all. And she plays flight attendant too.” I hold my arms up in a variety of the poses Stacylynne does. “It’s in case you can’t see her feet. Her arms will tell you which foot forward and which foot back.”
I can see recognition dawning on her face. “I was totally doing the flight attendant arms with her.”
I tap my nose and smile. “That’s how we know who’s new. I’m Courtney, by the way.”
“I’m Rachel. Nice to meet you.”
“See you every Tuesday and Thursday?” When Rachel nods, I smile. “I’ll hold you to it. You should talk to Stacylynne too. She can slow-mo the steps and give you tricks and tips if you want.”
Rachel heads toward Stacylynne, and I walk out of the studio, glad to have skipped out on Stripperella’s wrath and planning to
hit the showers before heading home. Instead, I see Kaede right across the hall from the studio.
Kill me now. Was he watching class? Did he see me humping the air and acting like a sex-starved, dried-up old maid?
Intellectually, I know I’m not an old maid. I’m only twenty-six, for fuck’s sake, but the rest of it? Pretty spot on.
I feel my cheeks flush and know it has nothing to do with the workout I just finished. I hold up my towel in a wave and then wipe at my face like I’m clearing off the sweat. But really, I’m just hiding behind the terrycloth mask as I disappear into the women’s locker room. Also known as the No-Kaede Zone.
I take a cold shower, alternating between thinking Kaede watching me act sexy is a brilliant way for him to see me as something other than Ross’s little sister and thinking it’s my worst nightmare come to life. By the time I get out, I’m covered in goosebumps and my nipples are puckered up tight.
I get dressed, all the good feelings from class gone. All the stress and nerves about tomorrow’s meeting come flooding back, and I decide to stop at the gym’s smoothie bar for dinner. If I don’t, I know what’s going to happen. I’m going to turn left outside One Life’s door, head down to the all-night donut shop some evil mastermind opened up a month ago across the street from the gym, and gorge myself on a cream-filled Long John. Or two.
If I do that, I’m going to feel like crap tomorrow. So the smoothie bar it is, because honestly, the smoothies here are damn good. I order up my favorite, a Power Blaster of almond butter, cacao nibs, spirulina, super-food, and two types of protein powder. It comes to me super-thick and frosty in a huge cup, and I settle in at the bar.
“Hey, Tony,” a familiar voice says behind me just as I take a sip. “Can I get an EHS?”
“Sure, Kaede,” the guy at the bar says, and a second later, Kaede sits down next to me.
“Hey, Courtney. Mind if I sit here?”
“Sure,” I offer nervously.
He has always been the only one who could set me off balance. I’m steady, sure, and confident to a fault, some would say. Except when Kaede looks at me. He doesn’t even have to say a word, which is a good thing because he’s a quieter sort. But that just makes what he says that much more important.
My Big Fat Fake Engagement Page 4
