Luca: Chicago Blaze #2

Abby
I only have one love now—the home furnishings business I’m building into an empire. Maybe money and success can’t love me back, but they keep what’s left of my heart safe. One-night stands are my way of scratching the occasional itch I get for something more. And no one’s better for that than a sexy as sin hockey player I’ll never see again after one very hot night together.

Luca
I used to love two things: hockey and women. But now my nieces and nephew are my top priority, because I’m raising them after tragedy stole their parents. Somehow I balance single parenthood and my career as a forward for the Chicago Blaze. There’s no time for women, until I get knocked on my ass by Abby Daniels. She’s everything I’ve ever wanted, but her devastating past may end us before we even get started.

Chapter One

Abby

I wouldn’t even need a sledgehammer to pound my alarm clock into hundreds of pieces right now—I could do it with my bare hands. My subconscious is ready to go full-out Office Space on the black box blaring the rhythmic, shrill buzz on the other side of my bedroom.

After pulling myself out of bed, I absently push the tangle of long blond hair out of my face and then stumble across the room to silence the alarm. I pause in front of the dark wood dresser the clock sits on, gathering myself. I’m still so tired.

It’s like this most mornings. Occasionally, I wake without the dull pounding in my head that’s my body’s way of saying four or five hours of sleep isn’t enough. But most days, it’s there. I don’t mind it, though. As long as that groggy, achy feeling is there, I know I’ve slept enough to make it through the day, but not enough to have nightmares. Or even dreams. For nearly three years, they’ve been one and the same, anyway—unbearable.

I make a quick trip to the bathroom and then head to the kitchen, where a full pot of coffee is waiting for me. Coffee pot timers—best invention ever.

Every day at 3:52 a.m., I pick up a mug of coffee and down half of it. I get just enough caffeine to make the pounding in my head stop. Then I go to the walk-in closet in my bedroom and dress in a sports bra, leggings, a t-shirt, socks and my workout shoes. I pull my hair into a ponytail, grab my gym bag, ride the elevator in my building down to the opulent, marble-floored lobby, and say good morning to whichever doorman is working.

Monday through Friday, it’s Chase. Saturdays, it’s Larry. And Sundays, it’s Diana. The faces may change, but every morning, I walk through the open door and get into a waiting SUV at 4:06 a.m. 

“Morning, Ms. Daniels,” my driver says.

“Good morning, Ben. How are you?”

“Can’t complain, ma’am.”

Even in Manhattan, traffic is light at this hour, and he pulls the SUV out into the driving lane with no wait. Just like every day. This is our usual conversation, and I know it’s over now, so I take my phone out of my gym bag and open my email.

Unless there’s something urgent happening at work, I stop checking email at 10:00 p.m. every night. But with time zone differences, I always have new emails waiting.

I forward a few to my assistant, respond to a couple and save the rest for later, smiling over one with the subject line, “Chicago Clusterfuck.” I hired an experienced project manager to oversee the expansion of my company into the Chicago market, and he’s always blunt. The challenges we’re facing with the three stores we’re building in that market are mostly political—zoning and design spec issues. That’s why I’m heading back there again today. Stephen is a very capable project manager, but I like to have a hand in every aspect of my company. That’s how I’ve built Cypress Lane into one of the most successful home furnishings businesses in the industry in less than three years.

Twenty-nine and on top of the world, the headline on the cover story in a prominent business magazine said of me.

I am twenty-nine years old, they got that part right. But I’m far from on top of the world. More like treading water in the world’s deepest, most remote ocean. I do that very well, though. 

Ben drops me off at the door of my gym, where the faithfully fit crowd I see every morning is already pushing weight bars and cranking up the speed on treadmills. 

“Morning, sunshine,” my trainer Percy says as I approach a mat in the corner of the gym.

“Morning,” I mutter back.

She passes me a tall, stainless steel bottle filled with ice and water. Automatically, I take a long sip. 

“You look exhausted, Abby.” Percy narrows her brow and glares at me.

“Good thing I’m not paying you to tell me how I look,” I grumble.

She sighs and crosses her arms. “How many times do I have to tell you fitness isn’t just physical? You won’t get results if you don’t commit body, mind and soul.”

We’ve had this conversation a few times in the six months I’ve been training with Percy, a former Olympic runner. And every time, it grates on my nerves.

“My work is demanding,” I say defensively.

“Sometimes you have to silence the demands to take care of yourself.”

I remind myself she means well. Percy is a stunning woman with flawless deep mocha skin, short braids and golden-brown eyes. Add in her lean, gorgeous body and she could easily make her living modeling or doing motivational speaking. But training is her passion. Even with my ability to pay her whatever fee she demanded, it was damn hard to get a private training spot with her.

“I hear you,” I say, hoping to placate her. “I struggle to squeeze everything in, and sleeping usually gets the shaft. I’m eating well, though.”

She shakes her head, her lips set in a grim line. “Your body needs recovery time. Fitness requires a foundation of nutrition and quality sleep.”

“I’ll try harder,” I offer.

I won’t. But Percy nods and leads me in the series of stretches we start our workouts with six days a week. Sunday is supposed to be my rest day, but I work out on my own then and just don’t mention it to her.

I’m no fitness fanatic. I’ve never liked exercise, but I love the demanding paces Percy puts me through. I kickbox, lift weights, flip tires and run sprints, doing something a little different every day. It takes all my energy and focus to get through her rigorous workouts. 

“Full extension!” she yells as I punch a heavy bag, her pretty face now twisted into a scowl. “Harder, Abby!”

I gulp in hard, fast breaths as I complete each set of exercises. I burpee, plank and squat until my body feels like a limp rag. Percy doesn’t make small talk during my work outs. She just passes me the water bottle every few minutes, monitoring my intake.

At the end of our sixty-minute session, she tosses me a towel to wipe off my face.

“Get at least seven hours of sleep tonight,” she says. “Come in here with those purple bags under your eyes tomorrow and I’ll send your ass home.”

I nod as I wipe sweat from my forehead and chest.

“I don’t have to be here, Abby,” Percy reminds me. “I’ve got a waiting list of clients willing to commit fully.”

“I get it.” 

I grab my gym bag and head for the door, disgusted. It’s my own damn business how much sleep I get. I’m not looking to become a professional athlete or anything. 

“How was your workout, Ms. Daniels?” Ben asks as I get into the backseat of the car. He eyes me in the rearview mirror.

“It was good, thanks.” I meet his gaze and give him my usual perfunctory smile.

Ben’s a nice man—a retired firefighter who works as my driver on weekdays. He quickly caught on to my desire for privacy and never pries.

Once back at my apartment, I shower, drink a fresh cup of coffee and dry my hair. Then I secure my hair into a bun at the nape of my neck, put on some light makeup and dress in a charcoal skirt and jacket with a light blue blouse beneath. I slip on heels, grab my bag and head back down the elevator. 

It’s back to my email on the drive to the office, where Ben gives me his usual, “have a good morning, Ms. Daniels” as I get out of the car. 

He used to try to race around the car and open my door, but every time, I was already out and walking away by the time he got there, so he gave up. Even in my past life, I was never one for being waited on. And now that I have the means to hire help, I only hire people to do things that save me time. 

The recent magazine feature cited my reputation as “a ruthless negotiator who refuses to be outworked.”

Me, Abby Daniels. I had to read that line twice because it felt so unlike me. Twenty-five-year-old me would have laughed at that description. But my life was very different back then.

“The new Chicago designs just came in,” my assistant Anthony says as soon as I walk into his office, which leads to my own.

“And?” I look over to gauge his reaction.

He’s hunched behind his computer screen, avoiding my gaze.

“Great,” I mutter, exhaling deeply.

“I only glanced at them,” Anthony calls as I walk into my office.

“But you already know I’ll hate them.”

He doesn’t respond, because I’m right. Anthony has been with me since I started Cypress Lane, and he knows my tastes very well.

I hang my jacket up in the small, cedar-lined closet in my office and sit down at my desk, opening up my laptop screen. As the screen with a password prompt displays, I feel the rush of excitement I always get at the start of a workday.

It’s time to throw myself into my company. To dedicate as much of this day as I can to making decisions that will help it grow and prosper. Losing myself in work is part adrenaline rush, part survival.