Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 61705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 309(@200wpm)___ 247(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 309(@200wpm)___ 247(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
“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.
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.