Luca
A Chicago Blaze Romance
Brenda Rothert
Silver Sky Publishing, Inc.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
Author’s Note
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 ret
ired 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.
Anthony comes into my office with a fresh mug of coffee, setting it on my large glass-topped white desk and looking over my shoulder as I open the architectural firm’s new designs for two of our three Chicago-market stores.
“What the hell?” I murmur at the screen as the first image opens.
It’s all glass and steel, its look modern and cold. My stores all have warm, earthy vibes, with exteriors made of natural stone or wood planks.
“Yeah,” Anthony agrees.
I turn to him. “This is so far off what we discussed last week. What are they thinking?”
“Their email said they’re trying to curb material costs and adhere to the covenants in the city’s zoning.”
“And who asked them to cut the material costs?” I demand sharply.
It’s a rhetorical question; Anthony’s used to them from me. He shrugs silently.
“I need to call Stephen. If he’s back to thinking I’ll bonus him for coming in under budget, I’ll fire him. This is getting ridiculous.”
“Want me to get him on the line?” Anthony starts toward the door that adjoins our offices.
“No, I’ll call him on my cell.” I stop scrolling for Stephen’s number and look up from my phone. “Hey, am I at the Palmer House tonight?”
“You’re there for the next two nights; will that work?”
“Yes, perfect. Can you call and ask them to deliver a case of bottled water to my room?”
“Already done.”
“You’re the best.” I smile gratefully. “What time’s my flight?”
“1:30 p.m. I have you scheduled to leave the office at 12:40 and eat a spinach wrap on the drive to the airport.”
“Perfect.”
He nods as I push the button to dial Stephen. “Let me know when you’d like breakfast brought up.”
I just meet his gaze in response, because Stephen answers.
“Hey, boss lady,” he says, a smile in his tone.
I hate it when he calls me that. And I hate having to check up on him this way. I can already tell it’s going to be a long day. But I dive in, resolving to get as much work in as I can before my flight.
Chapter Two
Luca
“Hold still, Uncle Luca.”
My niece Emerson gives me her best glare, but she’s five and cute, so it makes me smile.
“I’m trying,” I tell her, checking out the dark purple polish she’s trying to brush onto my nails.
It’s not my inability to hold still that has more nail polish on my skin than my nails; it’s her technique. My “MANicure,” as my two nieces like to call it, started with my ten-year-old niece Cora and was then passed off to Emerson.
“I found yogurt!” Cora says as she breezes into my bathroom. “It’s got strawberries in the bottom, but that’s okay. This face mask will make you smell good, Uncle Luca.”
I try not to roll my eyes. It’ll be better than the last face mask they whipped up in the kitchen, which had butter in it and was a bitch to scrub off in the shower.
“I have to leave for practice in twenty-five minutes,” I remind the girls. “And I still need a shower. So you have ten more minutes to beautify me.”
“Will you paint my nails, too?” Cora asks me.
“Sure.”
I was shit at painting nails when I first became the legal guardian of my two nieces and one nephew a little over a year ago. With practice, though, I’ve gotten pretty damn good at it.
“How long ‘til Gram and Gramps will be here?” Emerson asks, still painting my thumb nail even though she’s looking at me.
“About four hours ‘til their flight lands, then maybe an hour for them to get to the house.”
Her toothless grin of excitement makes me ignore the nail polish I can feel on my knuckle.
“Emerson!” Cora yells. “You ruined it! That looks awful.”
Cora picks up the bottle of purple nail polish and Emerson’s happy expression drops away.
“Give it to me,” Cora huffs, holding out her hand for the polish brush. “I never should have let you do it.”
“Hey, now.” I give Cora a sharp look. “She was doing her best.”
Cora’s eyes flood with tears. Emerson edges closer to me, because she knows what happens when Cora gets upset.
“He won’t let us do spa days if you mess it up!” Cora cries, glaring at her younger sister. “You ruined everything!”
“You didn’t ruin anything,” I tell Emerson. “And Cora, I never said we wouldn’t do this again. We can do a big spa day after my road trip, okay?”
Cora wipes her eyes and nods, still crying. It kills me to see her like this. As the oldest, she carries more of the weight from the deaths of her parents than her siblings. We’ve been in counseling for more than a year now, transitioning through the death of their mother, my sister-in-law Danielle, to the kids’ new life with me as their guardian. The clinical terms for what Cora struggles with—anxiety and controlling tendencies—are easier for me to handle than her breakdowns.
The tension leaves the room and Emerson starts my massage, which is pretty much just her karate chopping my shoulders, while Cora slathers strawberry yogurt onto my face.
“Is your shoulder better?” Cora asks me.
“Yep, it’s all good.”
“Think my mas-shage helped?” Emerson asks from behind me.
She can’t pronounce some words, and I kinda hope that’ll last longer, because it gets me every time.
“It definitely helped,” I tell her.
I tweaked my shoulder at practice yesterday, and Cora noticed me wince when I was taking out the trash last night. She worries about every sinus cold and bruise I get. I can’t blame the kid. Her dad, my brother Matt, died serving in Iraq and her mom passed away from cancer a year later.
“Hey, let’s get your nails painted, Cora,” I say after
glancing at my watch. “I’ve only got five minutes ‘til I have to hit the shower.” I turn to Emerson. “Can you go get the nail polish remover, peanut?”
“Okay.” She races from the room, brown curls flying behind her.
“Are you going on a date tonight?” Cora asks me once we’re alone.
My parents always insist I take some time for myself when they come help with the kids. Usually I’m wrapped up with work, because the hockey season is busy and there’s lots of travel, but one time I got a hotel room, watched R-rated movies and slept in. Tonight I’m going to make an effort to be more social, because I’ve really fallen behind on keeping up with friends since getting the kids.
“Nah, I’m just going out with Vic and Anton for dinner and drinks.”
Cora nods. “Just don’t drink and drive.”
“Never. I’ll catch an Uber home if I need to.”
She looks down at her nails as I smooth on the polish, her expression serious.
“You okay?” I ask her.
“There’s a pause before she says, “Yeah.”
“What’s up, buttercup? I can tell when something’s not right with you.”
She looks up at me. “I don’t want Gram to be sad.”
Fuck. I hate what these kids have been through. My parents came to help with the kids a lot when Danielle was sick. I moved her and the kids into my house so I could be there for them and provide nursing care for her. The loss of my brother was still fresh for my parents, and just seeing the kids would make my mom cry. I know she didn’t mean to upset them, but she did.
“Gram won’t be sad this time,” I tell Cora. “She’s really looking forward to doing fun stuff with you guys.”
Luca: A Chicago Blaze Hockey Romance Page 1