Home > A Lot Like Adios (Primas of Power #2)(2)

A Lot Like Adios (Primas of Power #2)(2)
Author: Alexis Daria

“I’ll help how I can from afar,” Fabian offered. He held up his other hand, which had three pink sticky notes stuck to his fingers. “That’s what I wanted to update you on. I’ve made some inquiries.”

Gabe shifted in the chair, getting comfortable. “Let’s hear it.”

Fabian peeled a note off his finger and squinted at whatever he’d written there. His notes looked like they were written by a two-year-old who’d decided to try writing upside down.

“I’ve reached out to a real estate agent to help us find a space, a contractor to give us a renovation quote, and . . .” Fabian wiggled his middle finger, which held the final pink sticky note. “I found the mastermind behind the Victory Fitness rebrand.”

At that last bit, Gabe leaned forward. “Really? You found them?”

Victory Fitness was a bicoastal gym chain whose clout had skyrocketed three years earlier thanks to an ad campaign that went viral. At the time, Fabian had tacked up the magazine ads on his office corkboard, and they’d kicked around the idea of hiring whoever had come up with the concept. There were already a lot of gyms in New York, but if they could bring that person on board, it could be exactly what they needed to make the expansion a success.

As much as Gabe didn’t want to return to New York, if he had to do it, he wanted to blow it out of the water, to have the name of his gym—a take on his own last name, Aguilar—splashed everywhere.

Especially where his father could see it.

“It took a little work to track her down, because she’s freelance now. But I got someone at her old firm to give me her contact info. Her name’s . . .” Fabian peered at the sticky note. “Michelle . . . Amato.”

Gabe’s heart leaped into his throat and his skin prickled like someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over his head. “What did you say?”

“Michelle Amato. She used to work for a marketing and advertising firm—”

“Oh shit.” Gabe put a hand on his forehead and fell back into the chair, the strength draining out of him. Even though they’d been out of touch all these years, the last thing Gabe had heard about Michelle was that she’d gotten a job in marketing. “It’s Michelle. It has to be. Goddamn.”

It was a small fucking world after all.

“What is it, dude?” Fabian tossed the sticky notes onto the desk and got up. “You look pale.”

“Michelle’s my . . .” What were they? “We used to be friends. Best friends. She—”

“Wait, this is that girl? The girl? The one who you—oh damn.” Fabian pulled out his phone while Gabe stared into space, swamped by memories.

Of playing in their adjoining backyards. Of dinner with her family. Of her keeping him company during his shifts at his father’s stationery store.

Of her taste on his lips the last time he’d seen her.

“This is the one you wrote that sci-fi fanfiction for?”

Gabe narrowed his eyes at Fabian’s question. “I wrote it with her, not for her. We were fifteen. And I told you never to bring that up again, pendejo.”

“Not my fault you spill your deepest, darkest secrets when you’re drunk.” Fabian’s eyebrows rose. “Daaaamn. She’s smoking hot, dude.”

“What?” That snapped Gabe out of his reverie. “How do you know?”

Fabian turned the phone to face him. “Her Instagram.”

Gabe grabbed the phone, suddenly ravenous for a glimpse of Michelle after all these years.

Fabian stuck his hands on his hips, mouth agape. “You mean you haven’t Internet-stalked her?”

“Not . . . not in a long time.” He had in the past. But it had been too painful, and scrolling through her photos without commenting made Gabe feel like a creep. It had been more than five years since he’d last looked her up. And shit, Fabian was right. Mich was gorgeous.

She was pale, but there was a warmth to her skin, offset by her long dark hair. Her light brown eyes held that glint he remembered, like she knew a secret and didn’t you wish she’d tell you.

The photos in her feed were a collection of selfies, family pictures, a black cat, and Manhattan street photography. Gabe zeroed in on the selfies, which showed her giving the camera a range of looks that went from sultry to silly.

It was, in essence, Michelle. Just as he remembered her.

He’d always thought she was the most beautiful girl in the world, and age had only made her hotter.

“Stop it.” Fabian snatched the phone back. “You’re torturing yourself.”

“No, wait—” Gabe reached for the phone, but Fabian held it over his head.

“I’ll email her to apologize and say we found someone else,” Fabian went on. “No harm, no foul.”

Gabe was already pulling out his own phone to look her up through the gym’s Instagram account, taking care not to accidentally like one of her photos with an errant thumb tap. “Did you mention my name in the email?”

Fabian hesitated before answering. “I might have.”

Gabe sent him an exasperated look. “Is that yes or no?”

Fabian sighed. “It’s a yes, but let me handle this. For your own good.”

Gabe shook his head, suddenly filled with certainty, and . . . some light feeling he couldn’t name. “Nah, I gotta email her.”

“Son, listen to me. This is the one who got away. You’re not thinking clearly.”

Fabian was right, but it didn’t matter. “I have to,” Gabe said, getting to his feet. “The way I left things, and now this . . . I’ll be a total dick if I don’t even email her to explain.”

He’d already ghosted her as a friend. He wouldn’t add professional ghosting to the list of his sins where Michelle was concerned.

Had he really thought he could keep his old life separate from this expansion? He should have known better. It was only day one and a gigantic piece of his old baggage had already been dredged up. Now he had to address it.

Gabe grabbed the duffel bag he’d set beside the chair. “I’m gonna email her.”

“Let the record state that I think this is a terrible idea,” Fabian told him. “This is my fault. You should let me fix it.”

“You have enough work to do trying to manage everything from here so I spend as little time in New York as possible.” Gabe’s phone dinged with another fucking calendar alert.

“Conference call with the managers in ten minutes,” Fabian said, glancing at his computer screen.

“Yeah, yeah.” That meant Gabe had ten minutes to reply to Michelle. “Forward me the email you sent her.”

Fabian let out a soul-weary sigh and dropped into his desk chair. “Fine.”

Gabe left his partner’s office and headed to his own.

He dreaded returning to New York, dreaded facing Michelle. But somewhere deep inside, he also felt . . . glad. All the times she’d reached out to him over the years, he hadn’t known what to say . . . so he hadn’t said anything. Now he had a real reason to reply.

He was nervous as all hell, but also . . . he still missed her. After all this time, an ache still formed in his chest at the thought of her.

Mouth set in a grim line, Gabe sat at his own desk, which contained not a single piece of paper or sticky note, and pulled the ergonomic keyboard closer. Then he began to type.

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