Chapter 1
Fuck.” Gabriel Aguilar scowled at the reminder on his phone screen before swiping it off with this thumb. He hated calendar alerts—the damned things ruled his life these days—but he especially despised this one. New York was the last thing he wanted to think about, today or ever.
Shoving the phone into his sweatpants pocket, Gabe pulled open the glass double doors leading into Agility Gym and strode inside like he owned the place.
Which, technically, he did.
Cool air and the faint scent of lavender greeted him, a welcome change from the blistering Los Angeles heat. The gym felt like home, more so than Gabe’s minimalist apartment in Venice did. Located near Bergamot Station in Santa Monica, Agility Gym was well ventilated and spacious, with clean lines, high ceilings, and large front windows that let in lots of sunlight. All around, trainers and physical therapists worked one-on-one with clients on everything from stunt work to knee rehab.
There were ups and downs to being a business owner, but Gabe wouldn’t trade it for anything. He’d built this. It was his.
The lavender scent grew stronger as Gabe neared the front desk where Trung, a former acrobat of Vietnamese descent who managed client scheduling, chatted with Charisse, one of Agility’s best PTs. Trung swore by the soothing effects of the essential oil diffuser, and while Gabe didn’t have strong opinions about aromatherapy, he could appreciate that lavender was an improvement over typical gym smells.
Despite the calendar alert urging him on, Gabe went over to greet them.
Charisse, a tall woman with a small ’fro and dark umber skin, returned Gabe’s fist bump with a wide smile. She and Gabe were gearing up to co-teach a class on hand therapy for the many clients who complained of repetitive strain injury from overusing their phones and computers.
“Lots of new sign-ups,” Charisse said, before turning to Trung. “Can you pull up the list?”
“Sure thing.” Trung’s purple-tipped nails clattered on the keyboard before they spun the screen around, revealing a color-coded spreadsheet. “Here you go.”
“Almost at the stretch goal,” Gabe said with a grin. “We might have to open more spots.”
Scanning the long list of names gave Gabe a rush. It was the kind of thing he missed doing, since most of his time now went toward the administrative and managerial tasks of running the gym. Speaking of, he had a shit-ton of such tasks waiting for him.
“I’ll see you two later,” he said, and headed for his office in the back of the building.
As Gabe approached, his business partner, Fabian, Charles stuck his head out of his own office.
“That you, Gabe?”
Gabe started most of his mornings at a gym closer to his apartment, where he could be just another person sweating it out with the weights, and not the face of the business. They’d worked out a schedule where Fabian came in earlier, but Gabe stayed later.
“Yeah, it’s me.” Gabe had met Fabian while playing baseball for UCLA, and all these years later, the guy was still his best friend. Fabian was Haitian by way of Boston, with coppery skin and dark locs pulled back with a rubber band. He was first-generation like Gabe, whose parents had been born in Mexico and Puerto Rico.
Fabian waved him into the office. “Did you see the calendar alert?”
Gabe bit back a frustrated growl. Thinking about New York made him think about his family, a topic that always tanked his mood. “How could I miss it?”
“I figured you’d say that. Come on, I’ve got some updates.”
Gabe followed Fabian into the office, trying to ignore the piles of paper on Fabian’s desk. And floor. And chair.
Fabian claimed having everything out where he could see it counted as an organizational system, and while it made Gabe twitchy, he couldn’t deny that the guy was a genius at what he did.
They’d started Agility together when they were twenty-six and filled with the fire to build something of their own, a gym focused on physical therapy and rehab. Gabe had gotten interested in sports medicine after blowing out his knee and working on his recovery with the UCLA team doctor. After graduation, Gabe worked as a personal trainer and went back to school for physical therapy. Fabian had followed up undergrad with an MBA. The gym itself was Gabe’s vision, but Fabian had the skills to make it happen. And so, Agility Gym had been born. Five years later, it was now a hot spot for Hollywood stars.
And at thirty-one years old, Gabe was tired as fuck.
But there was no rest for the wicked, and there was still work to be done. He waited for Fabian to move a pile of papers from the guest chair before he sat down. Fabian took his place behind his desk and pulled a few brightly colored sticky notes off his computer monitor. Gabe, who’d gone paperless three years ago, withheld a comment.
“Ah, here we go.” Fabian held up a blue sticky note. “Today marks one year until we have to open an Agility Gym branch in New York City, as per the terms of our investment agreement with Powell.”
Gabe crossed his arms and waited for Fabian to get to the point. Richard Powell, their first investor, had insisted they open a location in New York City within six years, mainly so Powell could use it while he was on the East Coast for work. They’d met Powell through an investment competition for recent grads, and he’d been the first one to give them a chance. At the time, they’d been thrilled that Powell had taken such an interest in the gym. But lately, his involvement left Gabe wondering who was actually in charge here.
“I know you don’t want to, but you’ve gotta get started on this, dude,” Fabian said, a note of apology in his voice. “I can hold down the fort here, but I can’t travel back and forth like we’d planned.”
Resentment simmered in Gabe’s gut. When they’d made the agreement, Fabian had assured Gabe he’d handle it when the time came. He was the one with the vision for the New York location, and the drive to get it done. But Fabian’s life had expanded in ways they never could have foreseen. Since then, Fabian had gotten married and bought a house. His wife, Iris, an entertainment lawyer, was pregnant with twins, and their home renovation project had turned into a beast. On top of all that, Fabian’s parents had moved in with him in advance of his father’s open-heart surgery, which was scheduled to take place in a few weeks.
Gabe was happy for him. He really was. Fabian had always wanted to be a dad, and even though Gabe didn’t feel the same impulse, he could still be happy for his friend.
But Gabe wasn’t happy about what it meant for him.
For all his messiness, Fabian was a great business partner, and an even better friend. He knew about Gabe’s issues with his family, and he’d never have stuck Gabe with this task if there’d been another choice. Gabe hadn’t been back to New York since his sister’s wedding nine years ago, where he and his parents had made a scene and his father had yelled “Don’t come back!” at his retreating form.
“I know I have to do it,” Gabe said, shaking off the memory. Managing the New York launch was something he’d resigned himself to once he’d realized the one-year mark was coming up and Fabian was in no position to go anywhere.
“I’ll help how I can from afar,” Fabian offered. He held up his other hand, which had three pink sticky notes stuck to his fingers. “That’s what I wanted to update you on. I’ve made some inquiries.”
Gabe shifted in the chair, getting comfortable. “Let’s hear it.”
Fabian peeled a note off his finger and squinted at whatever he’d written there. His notes looked like they were written by a two-year-old who’d decided to try writing upside down.
“I’ve reached out to a real estate agent to help us find a space, a contractor to give us a renovation quote, and . . .” Fabian wiggled his middle finger, which held the final pink sticky note. “I found the mastermind behind the Victory Fitness rebrand.”
At that last bit, Gabe leaned forward. “Really? You found them?”
Victory Fitness was a bicoastal gym chain whose clout had skyrocketed three years earlier thanks to an ad campaign that went viral. At the time, Fabian had tacked up the magazine ads on his office corkboard, and they’d kicked around the idea of hiring whoever had come up with the concept. There were already a lot of gyms in New York, but if they could bring that person on board, it could be exactly what they needed to make the expansion a success.
As much as Gabe didn’t want to return to New York, if he had to do it, he wanted to blow it out of the water, to have the name of his gym—a take on his own last name, Aguilar—splashed everywhere.
Especially where his father could see it.
“It took a little work to track her down, because she’s freelance now. But I got someone at her old firm to give me her contact info. Her name’s . . .” Fabian peered at the sticky note. “Michelle . . . Amato.”
Gabe’s heart leaped into his throat and his skin prickled like someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over his head. “What did you say?”
“Michelle Amato. She used to work for a marketing and advertising firm—”
“Oh shit.” Gabe put a hand on his forehead and fell back into the chair, the strength draining out of him. Even though they’d been out of touch all these years, the last thing Gabe had heard about Michelle was that she’d gotten a job in marketing. “It’s Michelle. It has to be. Goddamn.”
It was a small fucking world after all.
“What is it, dude?” Fabian tossed the sticky notes onto the desk and got up. “You look pale.”
“Michelle’s my . . .” What were they? “We used to be friends. Best friends. She—”
“Wait, this is that girl? The girl? The one who you—oh damn.” Fabian pulled out his phone while Gabe stared into space, swamped by memories.
Of playing in their adjoining backyards. Of dinner with her family. Of her keeping him company during his shifts at his father’s stationery store.
Of her taste on his lips the last time he’d seen her.
“This is the one you wrote that sci-fi fanfiction for?”
Gabe narrowed his eyes at Fabian’s question. “I wrote it with her, not for her. We were fifteen. And I told you never to bring that up again, pendejo.”
“Not my fault you spill your deepest, darkest secrets when you’re drunk.” Fabian’s eyebrows rose. “Daaaamn. She’s smoking hot, dude.”
“What?” That snapped Gabe out of his reverie. “How do you know?”
Fabian turned the phone to face him. “Her Instagram.”
Gabe grabbed the phone, suddenly ravenous for a glimpse of Michelle after all these years.
Fabian stuck his hands on his hips, mouth agape. “You mean you haven’t Internet-stalked her?”
“Not . . . not in a long time.” He had in the past. But it had been too painful, and scrolling through her photos without commenting made Gabe feel like a creep. It had been more than five years since he’d last looked her up. And shit, Fabian was right. Mich was gorgeous.
She was pale, but there was a warmth to her skin, offset by her long dark hair. Her light brown eyes held that glint he remembered, like she knew a secret and didn’t you wish she’d tell you.
The photos in her feed were a collection of selfies, family pictures, a black cat, and Manhattan street photography. Gabe zeroed in on the selfies, which showed her giving the camera a range of looks that went from sultry to silly.
It was, in essence, Michelle. Just as he remembered her.
He’d always thought she was the most beautiful girl in the world, and age had only made her hotter.
“Stop it.” Fabian snatched the phone back. “You’re torturing yourself.”
“No, wait—” Gabe reached for the phone, but Fabian held it over his head.
“I’ll email her to apologize and say we found someone else,” Fabian went on. “No harm, no foul.”
Gabe was already pulling out his own phone to look her up through the gym’s Instagram account, taking care not to accidentally like one of her photos with an errant thumb tap. “Did you mention my name in the email?”
Fabian hesitated before answering. “I might have.”
Gabe sent him an exasperated look. “Is that yes or no?”
Fabian sighed. “It’s a yes, but let me handle this. For your own good.”
Gabe shook his head, suddenly filled with certainty, and . . . some light feeling he couldn’t name. “Nah, I gotta email her.”
“Son, listen to me. This is the one who got away. You’re not thinking clearly.”
Fabian was right, but it didn’t matter. “I have to,” Gabe said, getting to his feet. “The way I left things, and now this . . . I’ll be a total dick if I don’t even email her to explain.”
He’d already ghosted her as a friend. He wouldn’t add professional ghosting to the list of his sins where Michelle was concerned.
Had he really thought he could keep his old life separate from this expansion? He should have known better. It was only day one and a gigantic piece of his old baggage had already been dredged up. Now he had to address it.
Gabe grabbed the duffel bag he’d set beside the chair. “I’m gonna email her.”
“Let the record state that I think this is a terrible idea,” Fabian told him. “This is my fault. You should let me fix it.”
“You have enough work to do trying to manage everything from here so I spend as little time in New York as possible.” Gabe’s phone dinged with another fucking calendar alert.
“Conference call with the managers in ten minutes,” Fabian said, glancing at his computer screen.
“Yeah, yeah.” That meant Gabe had ten minutes to reply to Michelle. “Forward me the email you sent her.”
Fabian let out a soul-weary sigh and dropped into his desk chair. “Fine.”
Gabe left his partner’s office and headed to his own.
He dreaded returning to New York, dreaded facing Michelle. But somewhere deep inside, he also felt . . . glad. All the times she’d reached out to him over the years, he hadn’t known what to say . . . so he hadn’t said anything. Now he had a real reason to reply.
He was nervous as all hell, but also . . . he still missed her. After all this time, an ache still formed in his chest at the thought of her.
Mouth set in a grim line, Gabe sat at his own desk, which contained not a single piece of paper or sticky note, and pulled the ergonomic keyboard closer. Then he began to type.
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