Up Close & Personal

by Ana Holguin

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

A clever, compelling enemies-to-lovers rom-com about a celebrity spin instructor and a journalist determined to reveal her job is a scam.  

 

Release date: April 29, 2025

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 368

Sample

I’m getting bangs.”

Across the small wooden table, Serena’s and Amber’s eyes widen. The melodic bellowing of Sinead O’Connor fills the air while my closest friends survey my face. It’s as if I told them I was moving, or quitting my job, or adopting a litter of puppies.

All of which I’ve considered in the last few months. I settled on bangs.

I drain the last of my Manhattan, reveling in the familiar burn of the whiskey as its warmth spreads through my chest. It’s cold, the bar’s AC already on full blast despite New York City’s tumultuous late spring temperature swings. My sweat-drenched hair, slicked back into a high ponytail, has kept me unnaturally cold throughout our weekly drink session.

“Bangs, Jo? Really?” Serena asks after a beat. One perfect light brown brow is arched.

“Yes, really,” I scoff. It’s just hair, after all. But it’s a change—a drastic one, which is exactly what I’m after.

“How are you going to manage that with work?” Amber asks, her dark eyes sweeping over the planes of my face. “Do you really want to pin them back every day?”

I shrug. “I’ll make it work.”

“You’ll have to buy a lot of headbands,” Serena says with a quick glance at Amber.

“I have a drawer full of headbands and bobby pins,” I counter.

Amber knocks back the last of her drink and sucks an ice cube between her lips. Her cheeks pucker as she rolls it around in her mouth, her head cocked slightly to the side as she stares at my face. As if my hairline were a bug to fix. Amber is a software engineer at a tech company; she tells us that she spends most of her time solving problems, but I’d be lying if I said I actually understood what she does for a living. And while her preference for flowy tops and long braids often causes people to assume Amber is an artist, I’ve always appreciated that she embraces her femininity in an industry where men who unironically wear Crocs and cargo shorts outnumber women by a ridiculous percentage.

It’s Serena who speaks first, as always when it comes to the three of us. “What is this really about, Jo?” She narrows her eyes. “Your hair is kind of your thing.”

Her words sting. Yes, my hair has kind of become what I’m known for, whether I like it or not. Arguably my best feature, one that I’ve paid a lot of money to maintain. My hair has been seen in thousands of homes across the country courtesy of my job as an instructor for the biggest fitness company in North America. I work with it down; to start, at least. Once it becomes so sweaty and thick it’s nearly dangerous, I pull those dense ropes of hair into a ponytail or a bun until my classes are finished. I’ve been told there’s an Instagram account dedicated to it: @havenhairqueen.

Not that I’ve looked.

Sighing, I lean back into the rickety wooden chair and throw my hands up in frustration. “I’m bored, you guys. I need a change. Bangs are a compromise.”

“A compromise?” Amber asks. “What were your other choices?”

I freeze, knowing that I can’t tell them what’s been bubbling under the surface for months. That the career I fell into, the lifelong dreams I realized, no longer fulfill me like they once did. This is just our Thursday catch-up session, a regular ritual for us to stay connected amid the chaos of our personal and professional lives. It’s after nine-thirty P.M. and the evening is winding down. It’s too late tonight to open this can of worms.

At least, this is what I tell myself. The truth is that I’ve been too scared to say anything to anyone, including my best friends. Saying it would require action on my part. I’d have to do something about my restlessness, address my anxiety about the future, and put myself out there. I’m still firmly in the wallowing stage.

When I stay silent, Serena takes the reins. “Should we order another drink for this, babe?”

“I’m fine, really,” I reassure them, knowing Serena will not let this drop if I don’t give her something. As Bon Jovi begins to serenade us, I continue. “I just feel stagnant. So much is happening in both of your lives that I can’t help but think: Where am I going? What am I doing?”

“Jo, you can’t compare yourself to anyone…”

I wave off Amber’s words with a flick of my wrist. “I’m not. I promise. By the way, did you figure out the wedding cake situation?”

Using Amber’s upcoming wedding as a distraction is a cheap ploy, but she takes the bait. “Yeah, I finally got in touch with that bakery.”

“That’s the last of the big stuff, right?” I ask, as if we haven’t been wedding planning nonstop for the last several weeks. As a bridesmaid, I have my own personal to-do list, which Serena sent me in all her type A, ultra-organized glory on Amber’s behalf.

“Wait a second,” Serena interjects, her gaze fixated on me. “You’re deflecting.”

Serena’s tenacity, plus her ability to see what others don’t—that’s what put her on a fast track to partner status as a consultant. She’s one of the smartest people I know, second only to Amber.

In spite of our many differences, we are now lifelong friends—courtesy of a Craigslist “roommate wanted” ad more than a decade ago.

My cheeks heat as Amber shakes her head at me, as if she can’t believe she fell for my trick. “Maybe a little,” I reply sheepishly. “I really am fine, though. I just see you two going places, accomplishing stuff, all of which you deserve. And I’m here, still doing the same thing for the last ten years.”

What I want to say is, I’m at the top. Where do I go from here?

But I can’t say those thoughts because they’re terrifying. Vocalizing them would be like opening my eyes at the edge of a cliff. The same cliff that I just spent years climbing up. Who the hell would jump from that?

“Jo, you have an… unusual job,” Amber says thoughtfully. “It’s not like the corporate track that Serena and I are on. You should talk to Z about this. I bet she would be willing to help you find your way out of this funk.”

My mentor and boss, Z, is the enterprising woman who plucked me from obscurity back when I was barely getting by teaching cardio dance and Zumba classes in a Chelsea studio that always smelled like spray paint. She spun a tale of grandeur so explosive that I couldn’t help but listen.

Not sure if I was being stupid or naive, I followed her to a tiny studio named Haven in NoHo and began teaching spin with no experience. When the classes started filling up, I was surprised, but then even my inner skeptic couldn’t deny that Z had hit a golden vein. This was New York, and word traveled fast. Studios came in Washington, DC; Los Angeles; Miami; Chicago; the waitlists running hundreds of people deep… and then Haven Home.

When we started streaming classes to bikes where people lived, my world turned upside down. Suddenly, people from every corner of the country were riding with me. Lifting weights with me. Listening to me talk into a microphone while we sweated and pushed and worked together.

All these years later, and I’m still not used to it.

“I agree with Amber,” Serena says as she brushes her honey-blond hair behind her shoulders. “You should talk to Z. Maybe take some time off. Go on a vacation or something.”

“I just went on vacation,” I remind them both. That long weekend visiting my family back in Texas is what sent me further down this spiral. Vacations were meant to relax and recharge you; I had come home more stressed out than when I left.

Serena looks me over as if she’s trying to read my mind. “Still, talk to Z. Then report back at my goodbye party next weekend.”

Right—an informal affair to say good luck before my best friend leaves the country. Her work as a consultant at one of New York’s oldest and most prestigious firms has her on the road constantly, but she’s never been gone this long before. The party was supposed to be a small, casual get-together at Serena’s favorite trendy bar, but it has since evolved into a much larger party courtesy of my friend’s enormous professional network.

“I still refuse to believe you’re moving to Tokyo,” I say. “What the hell am I supposed to do without you for three months? We’ve never gone more than a couple of weeks without seeing each other.”

Serena heaves a heavy sigh and traces a manicured finger—painted a simple but elegant nude pink—along the rim of her empty glass. “It’s going to be weird, isn’t it? It’s a lot of change, but I’ll be back before you know it.”

“In the meantime, don’t get bangs. At least wait until Serena leaves,” Amber cautions with a friendly wink in my direction.

I can’t help but laugh at Serena’s offended face. We all rise from our table and perform our usual hug goodbye routine. As always, I wonder how Serena’s gray suit and cream-colored blouse isn’t wrinkled after her flight back from whatever client’s city she’s just returned from, her little Tumi suitcase in tow, or how Amber always smells so good no matter where we are. After a full day of teaching and two cocktails, I look and smell like a drowned rat with whiskey breath.

It’s not until I’m outside, enveloped in the unseasonable warmth of an early-May New York night, that I feel the tension start to lift from my body. My muscles are tired. My whole body is sore. I’ve pushed it hard the last few days, with back-to-back classes and not enough recovery time. My feet feel like two stiff bricks the entire four-block walk home. I can feel my age creeping up on me now that I’m on the other side of thirty, an unwelcome weed in my personal garden of youth, dragging me down as I fight to maintain the same pace I’ve kept for so long.

Yet I continue to trudge through without doing anything about it. I’ve been watching the days melt into weeks that turn into months without feeling like I’m actually living, all while watching as the people around me fill their time with excitement. Promotions. Weddings. Adventures abroad.

What kills me most about this is that I know I’m the problem.

I’m the one who’s too scared to make a change. I’m the one who’s too afraid to make a leap.

I wasn’t always this way. Granted, I’ve always been an anxious person, especially when considering what ifs—what if I get my period on this trip, I better pack tampons; what if this midterm paper doesn’t save correctly, I better email it to myself three separate times to be safe—but I’d been able to manage it before. Even the big stuff, like moving to New York, hadn’t felt impossible once I’d prepared enough.

Only somewhere along the path into adulthood, I lost that spark. That little flame of confidence was extinguished. I can almost pinpoint the moment it went out, and despite all the effort I’ve put into pulling myself out of that hole, nothing is the same as it was before.

I’ve never managed to light that fire again.

So, yes, I can listen to Amber and Serena; I can wait for bangs. But getting my spark back cannot.

The news feed blurs as I scroll through without reading more than the headlines. When I start seeing articles from yesterday, I check the time at the top of my phone screen. We are now starting this meeting at least eight minutes past, which is late enough for my patience to grow thin. I hate meetings as it is, but when they’re not on time? There’s nothing worse.

After placing my phone face down on the glass tabletop, I begin drumming my fingers. My colleagues know to ignore my impatient fidgeting, focusing on the blue glow of their laptop screens. As the small but mighty culture and lifestyle staff, we’ve worked together long enough that they’ve grown to accept my stupid little idiosyncrasies.

To my left, Colin types with fevered fingers. To my right, Helen’s eyes are scanning what looks like a long-form article.

Just as I’m opening my mouth to complain, our last attendee comes barreling down the hall, wet hair flying behind her as she rounds the corner and wrenches the door to the conference room open. Mia is breathless and red-faced when she sits down, throwing her tote bag into the empty chair next to her.

“Nice of you to join us,” I say. She rolls her eyes without even meeting my stare.

“Sorry,” she says, her voice winded. Did she run across Manhattan to get here? “Opportunity of a lifetime this morning. Had to take it.”

This piques Colin’s interest. He glances up from his computer screen to watch Mia gulp down several mouthfuls of water from her green reusable bottle. “Oh? Was it the chance to race Usain Bolt?”

Colin’s teasing doesn’t even faze her. Mia pulls her laptop from her bag and sets it on the conference table before she answers. “No, actually. I finally got off the waitlist at the Haven studio.”

“No shit?” Helen looks up this time, her eyes wide behind her red-framed glasses.

“No shit,” Mia says, a wide grin spreading across her face.

“Who did you take?” Helen asks.

“Jo!” Mia practically squeals. I would recoil if I weren’t so confused.

Both Colin and Helen are looking at Mia with… is that awe? My eyes flit back and forth between the three of them, because, frankly, I don’t understand what they’re talking about. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a memory tugs at me: a hazy twinge of recognition. I’ve heard of Haven.

But who is Jo?

Colin’s chair whines as he leans forward to place his hands on the table. The only time I’ve seen him this focused on anything other than work, we were down to the eight ball in a game of pool in which the prize was $100 and endless bragging rights. “How was it?” he asks, eyes wide.

“Uh-mazing,” Mia replies, drawing out the last syllable several seconds. “You know how they say it’s different when they’re not recording? Well, it’s true. She is even better in person. The shit she makes you do… I don’t know how she does it. She’s like some kind of spin god.”

Comprehension dawns, and I recoil into my chair. Right, Haven—the fitness empire with a cult following. As if a regular gym membership wasn’t enough to begin with, this company had the audacity to sell people $3,000 bikes that go nowhere just so that you could never escape the crushing guilt of not working out.

I groan as I rub my hands over my face. Going to a spin class is an acceptable reason to be late for work now?

“I see Silas is in his usual mood today,” Mia mutters from across the table.

“I’m sorry,” I say tartly as I push myself forward in my chair. “Do I not have a reason to be annoyed that you were late to our monthly pitch meeting because of some culty workout class that probably cost you, what, fifty dollars? Don’t tell me you have one of those bikes at home too.”

Mia straightens her shoulders and tosses a damp strand of black hair out of her face. “It was forty-five dollars, and yes, I do have a bike at home. I wouldn’t have been late if the showers weren’t backed up after class. Besides, riding with Jo in person is a completely different experience.”

Helen pouts. “I’m jealous.”

“Me too,” Colin says.

My brows furrow as I stare at my colleagues, who all seem to have lost their damn minds. “What is so special about Jo? Does he blow cocaine in your face before you start or something? Is that why you’re all addicted to him?”

“She is a founding instructor,” Helen replies. “And she’s the best.”

Mia shrugs. “If you know, you know.”

“Show me who this person is,” I say, a little more demanding than I intended. But Mia is eager to prove me wrong, to show me how amazing this Jo is. She has her phone in one hand and the remote to the conference room TV in the other. Within seconds, her Instagram is cast to the screen in front of us. Once she finds Jo’s account, the TV is filled with colorful tiles of images.

Images of a woman. A beautiful woman, with a head of dark, wild hair that seems to bounce even in still frames.

A woman wearing a lot of spandex.

There are toothy grins set against varying backdrops, with just enough Photoshop to eliminate any semblance of a physical flaw. There are endless pictures of innocuous actions—like holding a water bottle or showcasing a crewneck sweatshirt—that are too poised to be candid. There’s so much joy and positivity radiating from this Instagram feed that my lips curl in disgust.

“Ugh,” I mutter. “How obnoxious.”

“I think eight hundred thousand people would disagree with you,” Helen chides.

“Almost nine hundred thousand,” Mia says.

At this, I glance at the top right corner of the screen—sure enough, Jo is inching toward a million followers.

“Hold on a second,” Colin says as he cocks his head to look at me. “Silas may be on to something here.”

My eyebrows raise as I return his stare. Colin and I have been working together for the better part of ten years, off and on, at various magazines and publications in New York’s tight-knit journalism circle. We complement each other well; whereas I lean toward the dutifully critical angle, Colin is more open-minded. Our personalities pulled us into our respective career paths. I made a name for myself as a culture writer who dabbles in art and politics while Colin rose through the managerial ranks to become an editorial director of Metropolitan magazine and, ultimately, my boss.

“Why do people gravitate toward certain Haven instructors? Or any fitness coach, for that matter?” he asks.

“For me, it’s the music,” Helen replies.

Mia nods. “And the message. What they say to me matters.”

My fingers thrum on the glass tabletop. This is not how I imagined the pitch meeting going.

“It’s harder for us to answer that question with any real depth,” Colin picks up after a long beat. “We’re already in Jo’s Squad. But you, Silas… you could dig into that question.”

“I’m sorry, did you just say Jo’s Squad?” I ask, my eyes wide.

Colin waves his hand. “It’s what Jo’s regular riders call themselves, but that’s not the point. What I want to know is this: Why do some of these personalities stand out in a crowded market? Health and wellness is a multi-million-dollar industry. Why do certain people, like Jo, rise to the top?”

My focus returns to the Instagram feed on the TV. Despite her toned physique, I don’t see anything special about the woman we’re discussing. I’ve been online for most of my life; I’m well aware of social media influencers and the strange pseudo-celebrity culture that has been built around them. For every Jo, there are thousands of other conventionally attractive people vying for the spotlight.

So why do seemingly rational people—like my adult colleagues—worship her?

I run a hand through my hair as I struggle to resist the root of a story taking place in my mind. This morning, I walked into Metropolitan’s offices planning to pitch a deep dive on the history of a small but mighty theater in the city, one that’s often overlooked outside the arts circles of New York. Metropolitan always has a New York focus to it, but our national print reach—plus our global online readership—means I don’t always get to write about the underdogs of the city. Sometimes, I get assigned subjects that I’m not particularly interested in for the sake of the magazine.

Like right now.

“I’ll explore it,” I say with a sigh. “But I don’t think you’re going to like where this story goes.”

All around me, my colleagues stifle their laughter. Before I can ask why, Mia clears her throat and says, “You’ve built a career around being a contrarian, Silas. Colin is expecting you to find fault in these people.”

“That’s not even remotely true.”

Helen looks at me over her glasses. “Remember your article about that members-only club in Cobble Hill last summer? You tore that place to shreds even though they’d gotten a rave write-up in the Times.”

“First of all, that was an opinion piece in the Times—not an official review—and the writer went to grad school with the owner of the club,” I counter. “And second, the club had a social ranking system where you could get kicked out if you weren’t popular enough. They deserved it. Besides, the founder got arrested for securities fraud a few months ago. The whole place shut down.”

“Okay, then what about that museum thing that opened in Tribeca?” Mia asks with a smirk. “You chose to write about it, and you still hated it.”

“It isn’t a museum,” I grit out. “There are no exhibits, or anything of any historical interest or value. It’s literally just a place to take pictures for social media, but they charge you seventy dollars to do it.”

“That place is a rip-off,” Helen concedes.

“You’re conveniently forgetting all the profiles I’ve done and my glowing write-ups on really important pieces of New York’s cultural landscape,” I add as I fold my arms across my chest.

Colin doesn’t miss the defensive edge to my tone. “Calm down, everyone. Silas is a part-time hater, but he’s also full-time curious, all right? We need someone who is going to look at this from all directions.”

I fall silent, a tiny bit smug that Colin came to my defense even if he included a backhanded compliment. Part-time hater is a title I can accept; after all, it’s a writer’s job to look critically and carefully at the world around them. While Helen launches into a mini-thesis about food trucks and immigrant identity for autumn story ideas, I scribble two words into my leather-bound notebook:

Find Jo.

A week later, I’ve decided that this is the worst story I’ve ever been assigned. I’ve spent the last few days poring over Google results for Johanna De La Cruz—better known as Jo. I’ve found a few dozen articles covering the success of Haven, its dominance in the fitness market, the launch of the Haven Home Studio, and the evolution of the brand. Within these articles, there are mentions of Jo and her history with the company, but it’s the same story repeated ad nauseam: how Haven’s Founder and CEO, Zoe “Z” Friedman, a former venture capitalist who went rogue, found Jo teaching cardio classes at some no-name studio in Chelsea and convinced her to join Z’s “revolutionary” new fitness studio with nothing but a promise. How, in the span of just a few months, Z, Jo, and another founding instructor named Mike built a loyal legion of clients based solely on word-of-mouth recommendations within New York’s gossipy upper crust. How Haven’s grip on the home fitness market is relentless, despite the entrance of several worthy competitors in the last few years.

What’s missing from this sea of Google results is a hot take: a prominent voice disliking what Haven offers. On a gray Tuesday afternoon, I wonder if I could be that naysayer. It’s what I’m good at, after all.

Jo has appeared in a few ad campaigns for wellness-adjacent brands on Haven’s social media feeds: athleisure clothing, water bottle companies, even a haircare line. I’ve pored over her Instagram with its little certified blue checkmark, studying thousands of comments from her followers. Begrudgingly, I follow her. Sifting through Jo’s responses proves difficult; there’s little of her personality to be found, any meaningful interaction replaced by lots of heart and smiley emojis. I can’t help but memorize her face in my research, one-dimensional as it is.

Jo is everywhere in this corner of the Internet, yet she’s little more than a pretty face attached to a bottomless corporate purse.

When I tap over to her tagged photos, I’m surprised to find a different variation of her. Most pictures aren’t taken with a professional camera, nor are they edited into oblivion like the ad campaigns. There are hundreds—if not thousands—of images of her posing with people who I assume are Haven clients. In these, she’s flushed and sweaty, eyes bright as she drapes her arms around equally sweaty strangers, a big smile showcasing a set of straight, white teeth. I assume they’ve been taken inside a Haven studio right after her class, as they all have some iteration of the same background: gray walls with block lettering I can’t quite read or tall glass windows that overlook the street outside.

These raw, imperfect photos of Jo and a bunch of strangers are grounding, a reminder that she is a real person—no matter how much she resembles a puppet created by a boardroom full of people who needed a face so inoffensive and generic that everyone would like her.

Many weeks back is a photo of Jo in regular street clothing. It’s strange to see her in a big black coat and pink lipstick inside what I can only assume is a bar, based on the low-lit backdrop. But what catches my attention—aside from seeing Jo not at Haven—is that she’s leaning against a person I know. The man to her left, sandwiched between Jo and another woman I vaguely recognize, is Derek Miller, my college roommate from Boston University and one of my oldest friends.

My first thought is jackpot.

My second thought is how the hell does he know her?

I’m surprised to find I liked the photo, probably back when Derek first posted it. Now that I’m in familiar territory, my palms dampen as I tap and scroll through Derek’s grid; accidentally liking something from weeks ago would be an embarrassing faux pas I’m determined not to commit.

Derek doesn’t post much, but his photos and followers help me put together the connection. The other woman in the photo is Amber, his fiancée I have yet to meet. Her profile is set to private, but I learn what I can: Amber has 498 followers, she follows 292 people, and one of our mutual follows is none other than @johannahaven.

After an ungodly amount of time spent tapping and scrolling across various social media profiles, I conclude that Derek knows Jo by way of Amber, who appears in pictures with Jo as far back as ten years ago. There seems to be a third girlfriend in this mix, a blond woman named Serena who always looks a little angry, but her account is also set to private. Most of what I can deduce comes from haunting the page of a former Haven instructor turned full-time influencer, who left the company in a sappy albeit heartfelt post a few years ago.

I set my phone on my desk and spin around in my chair, my vision blurry after hours of scrolling on a small screen with a tiny font. The office quietly buzzes around me as I press the heels of my hands against my eyes. A few feet away, I hear Helen’s voice over the clicks of constant typing. “Hi, this is Helen Pappas from Metropolitan magazine, calling to follow up—”

I place my noise-canceling headphones over my ears to drown out the rest of the conversation. With a sigh, I spin back around to face my. . .