Page 33 of Rebel Hawke

At least, looking at it now, it almost feels like I’ll be ready to open by Monday. I just have to figure out the whole “finding clients” thing, which hopefully startstoday.

Right now.

A sleek black SUV pulls up to the curb in front of the studio, and I pause my pacing and yank my hand from my mouth so whoever might be coming in doesn’t see me gnawing at the beds of my fingernails like some nervous teenager.

“You have to look like a professional if you want them to treat you like one…”

Those words ring in my head the same way they did growing up. And despite how long she’s been gone, I still hear them in Grandma Nancy’s voice and tone, saying them so casually, like it was so easy for me to convince people to see past my scars.

Some can’t.

They’re incapable of not staring.

It used to bother me—not looking like the other kids, never being able to go anywhere without eyes following me. But ultimately, it only built up my resolve not to care what anyone else thinks and to never quit. Never fail.

And I cannot fail at this…

I hold my breath as the back door of the SUV opens, but the person who steps from the back isn’t at all who I expected to see this morning.

Damn…

A man who must be in his early sixties steps out smoothly, a perfectly tailored silk suit that fits him like a glove settling over him as he nudges the door closed and takes in the front of the building with observant eyes.

His focus drifts to the gym briefly, and the corners of his lips lift into a smirk before his gaze moves over to the studio and meets mine through the window. That little grin turns into a full-blown smile that would melt the panties off any woman who sees it.

With his silver hair glinting in the early morning light, his chiseled jaw, high cheekbones, and perfect lips surrounded by a well-manicured white beard, the man screams “smooth and seductive” in a way that makes my whole body heat.

Jesus Christ, this can’t be my client.

He casually approaches the studio, and two burly men climb from the SUV and follow him, standing guard outside the door as he tugs it open and steps inside.

A warm smile graces his lips as he approaches. “Good morning. You must be Wren.”

Shit, find your words, girl.

I take a step forward and offer my hand. “I am…Wren Mason. Nice to meet you.”

Give the man credit—his gaze doesn’t linger on my scars. Either he is very good at covering his surprise and reaction, or he already knew they were there before he came.

He accepts my palm in his warm grasp and shakes firmly, clasping his other hand on top of it before he leans in and presses a kiss lightly to each of my cheeks. “Well, aren’t you just lovely?Bellisima.”

The slightest hint of an Italian accent slips in his words, and I pull back and smile at him, doingmybest not to react to how handsome he is or the way his aura seems to draw me in.

I don’t even know the man’snameand I’m already letting myself get all worked up in his presence. “And you are?”

“Oh, my apologies.” His mouth curves again. “You may call me Damon.”

“Damon, nice to meet you. Were you the one who texted me last night?”

He releases my hand and nods as he scans the studio. “I was.”

“And you’re looking to do Pilates?”

I don’t mean the question to sound so…confused, but I can’t keep it out of my voice. Because he isn’t my normal clientele. Not by any means. In the last five years since I started teaching Pilates, I can count my male clients on a single hand, andnoneof them rolled in like Damon.

His gaze snaps back to me, and he smirks as he slowly wanders between the reformers, examining everything. “I’ve been considering it. The grayer my hair gets, the more my body reminds me that I’m not twenty anymore.”

I can’t help but chuckle at his comment as I follow him, keeping at least one reformer between us, leaving enough space for him to take in what I have to offer and for me to watch him and the way he moves.

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