Dear Dwayne, With Love

by Eliza Gordon

While I finish getting ready, Marco busies himself by making breakfast smoothies, and then flops onto the living-room floor to entertain Aldous, who, by all accounts, is very much in love with Marco’s wet curly hair.

  We drink up and head to Hollywood Fitness, me whining the whole way about how tired and sore I am, Marco promising if I get through my workout without being a baby, he will give me a full-body massage at day’s end to atone for his sins.

  That is a deal any girl in her right mind would agree to.

  The gym is quiet—just a few regulars. Handstand Man is upside down against the cinder block wall, as per usual, and offers a wave as Marco and I walk in, nearly unbalancing himself. Limping Lady is here with her physical therapist, and Minotaur is over in the corner stacking weights onto the barbell at the squat rack.

  “You’re going to have to buy more weights to keep him in your gym, ya know.”

  “Pretty soon we’re going to bring in cars for him to lift. Cheaper that way,” Marco says. “Warm up and I’ll meet you on the bench press in ten, yes?”

  “Fine. Meanie.” He slaps my ass as I walk away. Limping Lady sees him and giggles behind her hand—and then gives me the okay sign.

  Oh my god, they all know. I’m bedding my trainer.

  I’m such a bad girl.

  Then why am I smiling so hard?

  I stash my stuff in the locker room and hit the treadmill. I’m slower than usual because I’ve very recently exercised those secret muscles that have not had a decent workout in a while. I can’t even complain about doing cardio this morning, because with each pound of my feet I replay last night on the movie screen in my head. At least if anyone asks why I’m so flushed, I can blame the treadmill rather than the memory of Marco’s mouth on parts usually hidden by clothing.

  Ten minutes in and I’ve warmed up enough. Muscles are malleable. Armpits and underboobs are sweaty. Marco meets me at the bench press, loading each side with more weight than I’m used to.

  “Uh-uh. Too heavy.”

  “I’ll spot you. Remember: full-body massage.”

  I lean closer to him and lower my voice. “What, now that I’ve shown you my boobs, you get to boss me around at the gym?”

  “I would’ve bossed you around at the gym even if you hadn’t shown me your boobs. That was just a bonus.” He smiles and kisses my cheek. “Now lie down.”

  “Say it again,” I purr, “only with please this time.”

  This time, he blushes.

  I take a deep breath and clear my head. As much as I like the banter, lifting ninety pounds above my head and chest requires concentration. Hands wrapped around the bar, I quickly glance back and forth to see just how much weight he’s added. Yup. Forty for the bar, twenty-five plates on each side. That adds up to ninety pounds. If I can do it, it won’t be the only personal record I’ve set this week. Wink wink.

  “You can do it,” Marco encourages, standing directly over me, his own hands at the ready in spotter position.

  I uncradle the barbell. One, two, three, fouuuuuuuur presses . . . “Help on the next one,” I groan. His hands lightly support the bar so I can finish the fifth and sixth repetitions before he racks it.

  “Well done! Okay, rest for a count of sixty, and then we do it again.”

  I stretch my arms out to my side and let the muscles hang loose. Eyes closed, I count to sixty . . .

  “Okay, you ready for the next set?”

  My eyes spring open. That’s not Marco’s voice.

  “Holy. Shit.” I start to get up, but The Rock puts his hand up.

  “It’s Dani, right?” He reaches over the bar for a handshake. “When you’re done with this set, can I work in?”

  “How? Why? What is going on?”

  “Not too many gyms in Portland called Hollywood Fitness.”

  “But . . . how did you know . . .”

  Last night flashes in my head—the funny look he gave me when I mentioned the long, weird, embarrassing, very true story involving an unpublished blog-slash-diary full of letters written to you called Dear Dwayne, With Love that was hacked and put up online . . .

  “No. No, you did not see it.”

  “Hollywood is a small town, kid.” His smile reaches the borders of the universe, and then he leans over the bar, his upside-down face right over mine. He really does have the most incredible skin.

  “Are you gonna lift this bar, or are you gonna be a candy-ass about it and talk all day?”

  Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson winks at me, trademark eyebrow hoisted.

  [Aaaaand scene.]

  SEVEN MONTHS LATER

  From:Danielle E. Steele

  To:Jacqueline Collins Steele, MD, FACS ; Georgette H. Steele-Preston ; Penelope Steele

  Subject: LIFE!

  Hello, Mommy, Jackie and Jake, Georgie, Samuel, Dante, Mary May, and William Morris . . .

  Mommy! Thank you for finally getting an email account. My fax machine died so this is way better. (No, you won’t get hacked. I know—famous last words.)

  Now for NEWS: The show—PREVIEW NIGHT WAS SO INCREDIBLE!!! Everyone laughed at the right spots and people cried at the right spots and the part where we wrote in the father character actually coming back . . . the four of us know it didn’t happen in real life, but it was some great therapy happening on that stage, you guys. Just wait until you see it. (Also: Bring Kleenex.)

  Thank you for the huge bouquet. Aldous thanks you too—she managed to pull out a rose and cart it around the house for an hour before Marco cornered her and traded the flower for a fresh catnip mouse. That cat will do anything for him . . .

  Can’t say I blame her.

  (Ewwwww, Dani’s so gross when she’s in looooooooove. ￩ There, I said it so you don’t have to.)

  Every seat for the preview was filled, thanks to my VERY FAMOUS MUSCLED FRIEND, Mr. Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson, sharing our posters on his Instagram account. And you guys teased me all those years about my weird obsession . . . HA. Who’s laughing now, Steele sisters? ☺ Not only have we sold out every show, we’ve extended the run into March. Davina is talking about maybe extending even longer . . . I can’t believe this is happening! And I LOVE being back onstage again. God, I missed this so much. And no weird Trevor ogling me from the light booth. NICE.

  Jackie and Georgie, I’ll have tickets for you at will call. I cannot wait to see you guys again—TWO WEEKS!—and absolutely not, you are not taking a cab in from LAX. That’s ridiculous. It’s no trouble at all for us to come get you. I sold one of the books that Howie so generously left me and bought a new (used) car. I think Howie’d be okay with it, especially because it is the Aldous Mobile—she LOVES going for rides! You should see her at the beach on her little leash. We’re the hit of the sands, I tell you. (But I do miss Flex Kavana. He was like family . . .)

  The place we’re renting is absolutely adorable—a three-bedroom in North Hollywood, which is perfect because it’s close to everything for both of us. And since Marco is working all over the city, depending on locations for whatever film he’s doing, we really couldn’t have landed in a better place. I can’t wait for you to see it. And absolutely, there is plenty of room for you and your plus-ones (yes, Georgie, and the kids!), so I don’t want to hear another word about hotels. Tell Dante that we even have a pool, but he has to promise not to drown his siblings.

  Jackie, remind me when you’re here—I have this amazing parka that I ordered when I was considering moving to Antarctica. I forgot to leave it with you when we moved, and I think you can use it when the Oregon winter turns against you in the coming months.

  Also, Georgie, tell the kids I’ve got the Disneyland passes. And remind them that I am a way cooler auntie than Jackie. ;)

  Mommy, Marco says thanks for the wand, and the weed, although maybe don’t mail it next time, just in case a postal employee opens the package. Even though pot is legal in California
, the postal service is federal and I do think that is still illegal . . . ? Marco hopes you like the signed first-edition Daphne du Maurier—it belonged to his beloved grandmother and is worth a small fortune, so take care of it. Also, in your next email, I want to hear all about Hubert. Did he really propose? WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO TELL HIM? My sisters say they’ve never seen you smile so much. I think a fall wedding would be perfect—you guys could dress up like the Greys for the ceremony . . . food for thought.

  Okay, I have to be at the theater in an hour. The reviews should be up in the local trades within a week, so I’ll email as soon as I see them, and as long as they don’t suck. FINGERS AND TOES CROSSED.

  Love you all . . .

  Dani (and Marco and Aldous)

  P.S. Almost forgot! Keep your DVRs on standby because my tampon commercial is finished and set to start airing nationally—and you guys said I’d never amount to anything. Ha! Feminine hygiene is so important!

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  A few years ago, I developed a weird tingling sensation in my lower leg—like cold water, or even a spider, was trickling down my left calf toward my ankle. I finally went to my very awesome doctor, and she diagnosed bilateral Baker’s cysts.

  “But . . . I’m not a baker,” I said.

  She smiled in the way only very awesome doctors-slash-surrogate-moms do and gave me a requisition for an ultrasound. As she exited the exam room, she stopped at the doorway. “Get some exercise, my dear. It will make them go away. You sit too much.”

  But the prospect of going to a proper gym scared me to death. Even after I joined a local club, because it was new and inexpensive and owned by a popular retired Vancouver Canucks hockey player, I paid my monthly membership for six months . . . and never went. Not once. The only other time I walked into the building was to cancel the membership I was too chicken to use.

  When the cold spiders got worse, the excuses had to stop. So I bartered a portrait session (I used to do kids’ photography) for a used, very squeaky elliptical. Slowly, I started using it. Five minutes the first day, and I thought my heart would explode; eventually, I worked up to thirty minutes at a go, which was a lot for me, considering I do sit most of the time. While I was an athletic kid and teenager, I’ve not taken great physical care of myself over the years of being a full-time working mom. (And I might have a wee addiction to sugar. And coffee. But mostly sugar.)

  I bought a few light dumbbells and a yoga mat (that my tuxedo cat soon decided was hers). On top of my elliptical torture sessions, I added some strength-training exercises I found on YouTube.

  And then for Mother’s Day 2015, my family gave me three sessions with a personal trainer. “That way, you can learn the equipment and not be scared, Mom.” Perfect.

  On June 11, 2015, I had my first appointment with my new trainer, Shelly Fey—absolutely could not have asked for a better person to ease me into this intimidating world of iron and cable machines and sweat. A former rugby player, this kid is tough—she once finished a match with a broken jaw. While I knew she wasn’t going to scream in my face that first day, as we got better acquainted, I learned she wasn’t going to let me slide, either.

  Slowly, Shelly helped me not be afraid of the gym. She gave me a journal to track my food intake and activities; she sent me emails with great meal ideas, healthy desserts, and motivational memes with The Rock’s face on them; and she gives the best birthday presents.

  The more training we did, and the more time I spent at the gym, sure, the healthier I felt—physically and emotionally. But beyond exchanging fat for muscle and improving my cardiovascular endurance, I became part of a bigger family—and they are always happy to see me.

  My writerly life is solitary and sedentary. The gym has eased some of the loneliness. I found a connection to real humans outside the four walls of my office—not because we could lift weights and make sweat and flex in the mirrors (which we occasionally do), but because these people all have remarkably interesting stories. Every person who walks through those doors has a story.

  And as a storyteller, well, that’s music to my ears.

  I may not have been named after a romance novelist, but Dani and I have one thing in common: When we obsess, we’re Olympic-level good at it. As such, when I’m working on a book, I rely on actors and actresses to serve as my muses, and I obsess, i.e., I learn everything I can about that individual. For one such upcoming project, Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson played the muse role tremendously well. I’d spent so much time researching him for this other project, studying him via interviews, photographs, his huge online presence, magazines, websites, his filmography, even Wikipedia—that I felt I actually knew him. Everything about his journey inspired me—and he became one of the reasons I got my butt to the gym consistently. If he can do it, I can too, right?

  One day when I’d broken a personal record at the gym, I joked to a friend, “I should write my buddy The Rock and tell him how awesome I’m doing. I think he’d be proud of me.”

  And then the little voice in my head said: “Maybe you should write a blog about it, and then people can follow and get inspired for their own personal health and self-improvement adventures.”

  Except I’m way too lazy to blog. Writing a novel sounded way more fun.

  Which is how Danielle and her crazy family were born.

  I love the quote “Be bold and mighty forces will come to your aid.” Stepping into that gym the first day, a bundle of nerves, I had to be bold. And soon, the mighty forces did come to my aid, in the form of new friends who never cease to amaze me with their unending support, even when I miss weeks at a time because of book deadlines, sick kids, and life in general.

  Like The Rock says, “Always be the hardest worker in the room . . .”

  Challenge accepted.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Ginormous, frosting-slathered, heartfelt thanks go to:

  World’s most darling, indefatigable agent Daniel Lazar—honestly, Dan, have you grown tired of me thanking you yet?—and his unrivaled assistant, Torie Doherty-Munro, who is such a cool kid, I still don’t know why she talks to me.

  Miriam Juskowicz and Danielle Marshall, THANK YOU times infinity for acquiring this book. I seriously jumped up and down when you shared your enormous excitement around bringing Dani’s story to the world. I still jump up and down when I think about it, sometimes while holding weights, other times while holding chocolate-glazed, rainbow-sprinkle doughnuts. It’s all about balance.

  Tiffany Yates Martin, thank you for whipping the novel into top fighting shape—and I’m so sorry for all those bloody commas, sister. You would make a great trainer if this whole publishing thing doesn’t work out. Also: you, me, Scotland. We’re going.

  Chris Werner, thank you for taking on this project and for your awesome enthusiasm every time we talked about it and for making me feel like a million bucks when you told me how much you laughed AND for finalizing a title I love. So, basically, thanks for pretty much everything, sir.

  Gabriella Dumpit, a writer couldn’t ask for a nicer, more on-the-ball author relations manager. I’m so glad you’re so organized, especially because I am not. (Side note: Your tiny human is so cute that if you ever get bored of him, feel free to send him to me.)

  To the whole Lake Union/Amazon team: production editors Elise Marton, Catherine Bresner, and Nicole Pomeroy, as well as copyeditor Jennifer Blanksteen, thank you for giving this book the shape I imagined, especially with all my weird formatting requests required to tell the story in this style, and for tidying where I left messes. I know I ask a lot of questions.

  Julie Trelstad, digital marketing guru of www.JulieInk.com, fellow scribe, and all-around great human who understands the technical things I do not, I love our chats. Red pandas + otters 4ever!

  My gym family, thanks for always lifting me up, especially when I’m down. Honestly, you’ve all saved me, and I adore you: Shelly Fey—my fierce trainer—and Alexa, Stuart (a.k.a. “Minotaur”), Richard, Chris, Leslie, Ju
stin, Lauren (her healthy pancakes Instagram is GOALS), Mo, Katey and Marc (the world’s most adorable bodybuilder couple), Amir, Rachel, and Karen . . . plus, the folks who always smile and say hello, though we don’t know each other’s names. Even those few lovely women who have scolded me midworkout for building muscles because “women shouldn’t have muscles; only the men should have muscles”—thanks for keeping my days colorful. (And ladies? Lift!)

  Thank you Yolander Prinzel and Kendall Grey for beta reading and the brilliant feedback that always saves my butt. We’ve been friends a long time, and I rest easier knowing you’ve got my back.

  Writer and comedienne Nicola Enright-Morin, thank you for making sure Marco’s British-isms are spot-on. Is it time for gin yet?

  Brodie Rogers and Taylor Hurley, thanks for taking such good care of Eliza Gordon during your bookstore tenure—and Brodie, thanks for introducing me to Ronda Rousey, another terrific, powerful icon of strength. Our girl rocks.

  Victoria Harrison, Janet Lewis, Demian Lord, Jesse Minary, and the entire Indigo Chapters Coquitlam/Pinetree team (including the World’s Cutest Bookseller, Yaunna Sommersby), thank you for shoving Eliza Gordon into the hands of eager readers and for all the awesome signing events. You guys sure know how to show a girl a good time.

  My thanks also go to the family who shares this crazy life with me: GareBear, Blake (and Holly and Zoey the Superbaby!), Yaunna, Brennan, Kendon, and Nuit.

  And of course, Dwayne Johnson, because you’re eight months younger than I am and a million times tougher—so when something hurts at the gym, I visualize your beautiful face yelling at me about being a candy-ass-thanks to your legal team for letting this book move forward, and thank YOU for serving as my muse and the dude who screams louder than the other voices in my head. (Okay, now sing, “You’re welcome.” PERFECT!)

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  A native of Portland, Oregon, Eliza Gordon (a.k.a. Jennifer Sommersby) has lived up and down the West Coast of the United States, but since 2002, home has been a suburb of Vancouver, British Columbia. Despite the occasional cougar and bear sightings in her neighborhood, there’s no place she’d rather rest her webbed feet (except maybe Scotland).