SWEAT

  FIRST ORIGINAL EDITION, AUGUST 2017

  Copyright © 2017 by Deborah Bladon

  All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without written consent from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used factiously. Any resemblance to actual person’s, living or dead, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.

  ISBN-13: 978-1975740443

  ISBN-10: 1975740440

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-926440-46-0

  Book & cover design by Wolf & Eagle Media

  www.deborahbladon.com

  Also by Deborah Bladon

  THE OBSESSED SERIES

  THE EXPOSED SERIES

  THE PULSE SERIES

  THE VAIN SERIES

  THE RUIN SERIES

  IMPULSE

  SOLO

  THE GONE SERIES

  FUSE

  THE TRACE SERIES

  CHANCE

  THE EMBER SERIES

  THE RISE SERIES

  HAZE

  SHIVER

  TORN

  THE HEAT SERIES

  MELT

  THE TENSE DUET

  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

  Epilogue

  Preview of Troublemaker

  Preview of WORTH

  Thank you

  Deborah’s Mailing List

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Brynn

  "It wasn't your virginity that he stole, was it?"

  I glance over at my roommate, Sydney Tate, to find her smirking. She's still working her ass off on the elliptical machine she's been on for the past thirty minutes. You'd never know it by looking at her. Not one light brown hair on her head is out of place. I wish I could say the same for my shoulder length black hair. It's twisted up in a messy bun, but it's not helping to cool me off.

  Not only did I just spend the better part of thirty minutes on a treadmill, but Smith Booth, asshole extraordinaire and all around man I love to hate arrived right when I hit my stride.

  Seeing him here, in my favorite gym, was enough to break my pace. I almost fell off the treadmill mid-jog. I didn't though. I slowed to a walk, checked my pulse and resisted the urge to look in his direction.

  Sydney gave in and stared at the man doing reps on the bench press. She wasn't the only one who interrupted their workout to gawk at him.

  Smith, in all his black haired, brown eyed, muscular glory, turns heads wherever he goes. A big part of that is the fact that he has one of the most recognizable faces in all of New York City. It's also one of the best looking. I'd never admit that to another soul, but Smith is gorgeous. The problem is he knows it.

  Since landing the job as the newest co-host of the most watched morning show in the country, Smith's picture has popped up on every digital billboard in this city. He's quickly become the most sought after single man in Manhattan.

  "No one stole my virginity." I run my fingertips over the back of my neck as I step closer to the elliptical. "I gave it willingly to a man I thought I'd marry."

  "Cue the violins and flying doves." Sydney presses the palm of her left hand to the middle of her chest. "I think my heart is about to explode."

  "Shut up," I joke before I crack open the lid of a bottle of chilled water.

  "Obviously, the getting married to your first didn't work out." She nods at my left hand. "There's no ring and you haven't been laid in three months."

  Her words hit harder than intended. She has no clue. She doesn't know any details about my life before she moved in with me six months ago. "Remind me again why we are friends, Syd. I confide my sexual secrets in you just to have you throw them back in my face."

  "Is Smith Booth one of your sexual secrets?" She exhales deeply as the machine comes to a stop. "Do you hate him so much because he sucks in bed? Did he take and not give? Is that what this is about?"

  "I've never slept with him," I answer easily, tugging at the bottom hem of the blue tank I'm wearing. I paired it with an old pair of black yoga pants. It's one of my go-to outfits when I hit the gym. I'm not here to impress anyone. My too-round ass is the reason I drag myself down here three times a week. "He's my brother's friend. Julian and Smith have known each other forever."

  I take a long sip of water as I wait for the inevitable remark about what she wants to do with my brother. She's only met him once, but that was enough to fuel her dreams for the past four months.

  Muting the comments that my friends have made about Julian over the years has become easy. I don't see what they see when they look at him. I see a supportive, ambitious man who resembles a younger version of our father. We both have black hair and blue eyes, but Julian's face is all hard lines etched to symmetrical perfection. My nose is softer, my chin rounder and my smile is just like my mom's, a little lopsided.

  Sydney judges Julian by his polished presence. To her, and most of my single friends, he's my hot older brother. To me, he's the person who encourages me to follow my dreams, and now, he's my silent business partner.

  When your surname is Bishop and you live on this island, you can expect someone to ask you at least once a day if you know Julian Bishop, CEO of Bishop Hotels or Fulton Bishop, real estate wizard. My dad owns one of the premier real estate brokerage firms in the state. Bishop and Associates sold more residential properties in New York City last year than any other company.

  I'm learning how to master the art of flipping the conversation, so the focus is on me whenever anyone brings up my brother or my dad. It's a constant work in progress.

  That's all going to change once my interior design business takes off.

  "I haven't forgotten that you told me that Smith stole something from you." Sydney steps down from the machine. "You've never told me what it was. Spit it out. Tell me what he took from you."

  I know she's expecting me to say it's my heart or the promise of a happy future, but that's not what this is about.

  In my family, there's one tangible thing that you value more than almost anything else.

  "It happened three years ago."

  "When you were twenty-two?" She lowers her voice and leans in closer. "You've never struck me as the type to stay mad at someone for more than a day. Remind me never to piss you off."

  I bite back a grin, squaring my shoulders. "I'm not that type. It's different with Smith. He infuriates me."

  "You don't have to tell me. I'm pretty sure I saw a voodoo doll in your bedroom with a picture of his face taped to it."

  I look down at the floor with a huff of laughter. "You know that's not true."

  "It's just a matter of time until you get one. If looks could kill, Smith would be a goner." She reaches for my hand. "You know you can tell me anything. Give me the goods on Mr. Booth, so I have justification for going over there and kicking his ass."

  Sydney is six inches shorter than me, and I'm five foot eight. Smith has a solid foot on her and at least one hundred pounds. I have no doubt she could knock him on his ass just by looking at him. She's beautiful, and from what I can remember, she's exactly his type.

  "It's simple." I glan
ce over my shoulder to where Smith is standing next to a woman with red hair. He's even better looking than I remember and he knows it, the bastard. He's playing the part of Prince Charming to a tee, right down to the grin and cock of his dark brow as the woman he's with laughs at something he says. Her eyes move over his bare chest and tight abs to the black shorts he's wearing.

  "Brynn." Sydney taps my hand. "Tell me."

  I turn back to look at her. "Smith stole the one thing from me that every single woman in Manhattan wants."

  It takes a few seconds for her to sit on that and think it through. "A rent controlled apartment with a view of the park?"

  I nod slowly, taking pleasure in the fact that all of my well-intentioned lectures have paid off. Sydney is finally learning that owning a piece of the property pie in Manhattan is a better investment than a long term relationship with any man. A diamond engagement ring may seem like the brass ring to many of the women in this city, but an address in the right neighborhood isn't going to break your heart. "Close. Smith Booth stole a brownstone on the Upper East Side that I was desperate to buy. He took it right out of the palm of my hand."

  "You're a Bishop," she points out. "Your dad practically runs the New York real estate market. How the hell did Smith manage to get his hands on a property you wanted?"

  "He convinced the seller to take his offer even though it was lower than mine." I shake my head still regretting the fact that I didn't go straight to my dad to help me broker the deal. I used an agent who was a friend of a friend instead. That's what I get for trying to surprise my family. "My terms were better. My offer was the right choice."

  "So what happened?" She raises an eyebrow. "What did he offer that you didn't?"

  "His dick." I turn and look at Smith walking out of the gym with his arm around the redhead's waist. "He screwed his way into that brownstone and I'll never forgive him for stealing it away from me."

  Chapter 2

  Smith

  Brynn Bishop.

  That name has been haunting me since I saw her at the gym yesterday. She may have thought I didn't notice her looking at me, but I did.

  I type her name into every social media platform I can think of on my smartphone. The results on each of her profiles are the same. Everything is set to private. The only hint into her world is one visible picture of her. It's a tightly cropped image of her face in oversized sunglasses. There's no mention of her fiancé. I don't see a single picture of the elaborate wedding in the Hamptons that was planned for last summer. She didn't have a ring on her finger at the gym yesterday, but she could have slipped it back on after her workout.

  Frustration pecks at me as I exit the browser and scroll through the emails that arrived in my inbox overnight. Not one of them is urgent enough to warrant my full attention. I close the email app and switch the phone's ringer back on. I silence it every night before I call it a day. I have to. My weekdays end earlier than anyone I know and as phone calls, text messages and emails roll in, I'm already clocked out, asleep in my bed in Brooklyn.

  When you have to drag your ass out of bed before the crack of dawn five days a week, your bedtime rivals that of a four-year-old. I should know. Earlier this year, I spent time at my sister's place in Kentucky.

  My twin nephews are fed, bathed and dressed in their pajamas before most people in Manhattan have given dinner a thought. If nothing else, the ridiculous lights out before eight p.m. rule prepared me for my new job.

  Being the co-host of Rise and Shine comes with a multitude of perks I'll never complain about. One is this chauffeured SUV. Hopping on the subway when I've just roused myself out of bed, is something I did in college, but no more.

  I use these moments during the drive to the studio to go over the notes Resa, my executive producer, sends me thirty minutes before I wake up. It's a routine we established straight out of the gate when I took this job.

  "Do you need anything, Mr. Booth?" My driver, a man with salt-and-pepper hair and a slight English accent, asks as he peers at me in the rear view mirror. "We have time to stop for a coffee. I know how much you hate what they serve at the studio."

  He knows that because he heard me complaining over the phone to Resa two mornings ago.

  My agent requested the essentials in my contract. That started with an eight figure a year salary and the non-negotiable role of associate producer. I want a say in the stories I'm bringing on air. He also secured a decent sized dressing room and office, one Friday off a month, my suits and shirts custom tailored from Berdine, the premier men's wear store in the city, and a driver who was supposed to keep the small talk to a minimum.

  Good coffee wasn't mentioned, but unless Resa replaces the shit they've been serving me, I'll comment live on air about my love for the premium blend at Roasting Point, a family run chain of New York based cafés. I have little doubt that a plug to our daily audience of several million will benefit the owners of the business enough that a free cup of their coffee will never be more than an arm's reach away.

  "I could use a decent cup." I reach forward to tap Arthur on the shoulder. "There's a twenty-four-hour Roasting Point a block over on Broadway. Pick up one for yourself too. Bill it to my expense account."

  "You have excellent taste, sir." He replies with a curt nod. "Is there anything else you need?"

  That list is a mile and a half long. It begins with a redo of the last twelve hours of my life and a miracle. Arthur isn't equipped to deliver either. "Just the coffee."

  He pulls the car into a tight spot a half a block from the café. "I'll be but a minute."

  "Take your time." I glance at the watch on my wrist. The same watch my younger brother gifted me on the day I graduated from college.

  The car door slams shut just as my phone chimes. I look down at a text message from Caprice, the woman I spent a fun and forgettable afternoon with before I hopped on the subway eight hours ago to head home.

  She wants more than I have to give her. Yesterday was the second time I went to her place. It was also the last.

  A heart emoji at four a.m. does nothing for me. I delete her message suggesting we hook-up again tonight.

  Stroking my chin, I scroll through the hundreds of names in my contact list before I land on Julian Bishop. We haven't seen each other in years. That changes today. I make a note in my calendar to call him once I'm off the air.

  Catching up with an old friend will get me back on track. Hearing about what his beautiful younger sister is up to can't hurt either.

  Chapter 3

  Brynn

  "I'm not sure pairing lavender walls with this pattern is the best way to highlight this room," I say with a smile.

  I am sure that it's a horrible idea and if a picture of this Park Avenue penthouse bedroom sees the light of day, my career will be toast. It will be done when it's just begun. I'm finally starting to get recognition for my work. I won't let this purple catastrophe take me down.

  "I had my heart set on that for the bedding, Brynn." Mrs. Pentlow, my client, whines. "I think the magenta in this fabric complements the color we chose for the walls."

  I think the magenta in the fabric is burning my irises.

  "You chose the color for the walls before you hired me," I point that out because there's no way in hell I would have even considered the hue as a wall color. I love the shade, but this bedroom is larger than most apartments. The tone isn't subtle enough for a room this size. It's overpowering. "I think if we want the room as a whole to be a statement, we need to use muted colors and patterns for the bed coverings and accessories. Let's make the wall color the star of the show."

  She thinks that over with a furrow of her brow and a scratch to the side of her nose with a periwinkle manicured fingernail.

  "I have some artwork that is to die for, Mrs. Pentlow." One of the pieces is not only striking, but it's large. It's big enough to cover most of the bare wall we're facing. "I want this room to be a sanctuary that you can retreat to at the end of the day."

 
; "Is it expensive artwork, dear?"

  Money is the measure of happiness for too many people in this city. I purchased two of the pieces from Bridget Grant, an emerging artist. She recently opened a small gallery in Tribeca. Charcoal portraits are her calling and the custom pieces she did for me of Mr. and Mrs. Pentlow will make the space that much more personal. I gave her two photographs of the Pentlows I found in their living room as a starting point and she worked her magic. The finished framed pieces are expensive, but not unreasonable.

  I can't say the same for the Brighton Beck painting that will cover the wall we're looking at now. That was a fortune. It stands to reason since Beck, as he's called by his fans worldwide, commands more than six figures for every watercolor on canvas he creates.

  "I think you'll be pleased to know that a few weeks from now, a Brighton Beck original will be the first thing you see when you wake up."

  Her husband should be the first thing she sees, but judging from the fact that every stitch of his clothing is in the guest bedroom, I'd say Mrs. Pentlow is breaking the bank to create a room-to-die-for that will accommodate just one person.

  Mr. Pentlow and the glass tumbler that holds his dentures will most likely continue to reside down the hall in a guest bedroom that hasn't seen the stroke of a paintbrush since sometime in the late eighties.

  I mistakenly barged into that room during my second visit to the penthouse under the assumption no one was home. A toothless and pants-free Mr. Pentlow is a sight I'll never forget.

  "As I told you, dear, money is not an object." She flashes me a grin. "I'm pleased that you see fit to incorporate a Beck into this room."

  I make a mental note to call Mr. Beck's assistant this afternoon to ask how much purple is in the painting I commissioned. "I have several other surprises in store for you."