My Personal Trainer is a Demon (Demons for Hire)

Chapter One

Lily

The soft scent of hyacinths and fresh grass drifted through my car window as I sped down Clover Street, heart pounding and head throbbing. It was a deceptively beautiful morning in Sweetberry Hollow, where every yard looked like the cover of a gardening magazine. Flowering dogwoods lined the sidewalks, their white and pink petals fluttering in the cool spring air, and the well-maintained lawns gleamed under the bright mid-April sun.

Yet, despite the idyllic surroundings, I was a complete mess. My copper curls were frizzing wildly from the humidity, and the pounding headache behind my eyes reminded me that cheap wine and late-night TV marathons never mixed well with early morning responsibilities. As usual, I had about fifteen minutes to get my life together before facing a group of restless house-hunters.

I glanced in the rearview mirror and tried to tame my hair with one hand. It was no use—my curls were as stubborn as my Irish grandmother had always predicted. I’d give anything for some hair serum right now , I thought, ignoring the fact that I was already five minutes late for my own open house. The blinking clock on my dashboard confirmed my worst fear: 8:55 a.m., five minutes until showtime, and I had at least ten more minutes on the road.

“Of course,” I muttered, scowling at my reflection. My brown eyes, ringed with dark circles, stared accusingly back at me. This was definitely not how I wanted to start a pivotal day in my career.

I worked as a real estate agent for Crestwood Real Estate, one of the more reputable firms in Sweetberry Hollow. We specialized in matching folks to the town’s historic cottages and blooming orchard properties. Spring was peak selling season. Everyone wanted a piece of the postcard-perfect atmosphere—complete with blossoming trees, pastel-painted shutters, and vines of wisteria creeping over charming porches.

When I first joined Crestwood nearly three years ago, I’d been starry-eyed and hopeful, imagining myself as a top-producing agent selling dream homes like hotcakes. Reality hadn’t been quite so kind. Crestwood Real Estate was cutthroat in its own polite, small-town way, and Amelia Caldwell, my supervising agent, had a reputation for expecting nothing less than perfection.

Lately, I was falling short of her exacting standards. My leads were drying up, my closings were down, and Amelia’s exasperated looks during team meetings were all but spelling out “shape up or ship out.” Last week, she’d issued an ultimatum: If I didn’t show a marked improvement in sales —and professional conduct—she might not be able to “justify keeping me on staff.” My heart had plummeted at her words.

Despite my personal chaos, Sweetberry Hollow was coming alive with the promise of a new season. Cherry blossoms lined the main avenue leading into downtown, their pink petals blowing across the road in gentle drifts. The sweet, earthy smell of freshly turned soil and newly mulched flower beds made the entire town smell like a giant garden.

This was a time of year that normally uplifted my spirits—the big annual Spring Berry Festival was just a couple of weeks away, and the locals were already decorating the lamp posts with pastel ribbons. The festival celebrated the region’s famous “Sweetberries,” a unique hybrid berry that thrived in the local climate. Every bakery window was full of berry pies, tarts, and pastries. I used to love sampling them while strolling through the historic district.

But this morning, the bright sunshine and cheerful blooms only highlighted how disheveled I was. My wrinkled blouse, the skirt that was suddenly too tight around my hips, and a mind half-clouded by a throbbing headache—nothing screamed “professional agent ready to sell your dream home” about me.

I screeched to a stop in front of the listing—a modest ranch house with a well-kept lawn. A small group of prospective buyers was already waiting on the sidewalk, checking their phones, or glancing at their watches. My stomach sank. Being late yet again wouldn’t do me any favors with these clients or with Amelia.

I grabbed my real estate brochures from the passenger seat, nearly dropping them in my haste. An empty coffee cup rattled across the floor. My heart pounded as I hopped out of the car, balancing the brochures in one hand and rummaging in my purse for the keys.

“Morning, folks! Sorry for the delay,” I called, pasting on my brightest smile. The group stared at me with varying degrees of impatience. “Let’s get inside and take a look around.”

I fumbled with the lockbox, my cheeks heating as I tried not to notice the sideways glances and muted sighs from the buyers. The door finally clicked open, and I led them into the living room. It had a large bay window overlooking the budding rose bushes in the front yard, and I tried to launch into my usual spiel about the home’s features—new appliances, energy-efficient windows, the whole nine yards.

But between the slight hangover, the pressure to perform, and the guilt roiling in my stomach along with what may have been a bad poached egg, I could barely focus on my own words. I gestured toward the kitchen, realizing with a jolt I hadn’t set out refreshments. The homeowners had requested something simple—a plate of pastries and maybe coffee. I’d completely forgotten.

If the missing refreshments weren’t enough, the universe decided to hammer the point home by way of a bored six-year-old. One of the buyers had brought their son, a restless little boy who found more entertainment in racing around the empty living room than in listening to me prattle on about the property tax rates.

While explaining how the built-in bookshelves could be a focal point, I heard a shriek of glee followed by a tremendous crash. I whirled around just in time to see a decorative vase topple from a side table, shattering into a dozen pieces across the hardwood floor.

The boy froze, his eyes widening with fear. His mother rushed to his side, stammering apologies as the rest of the group looked on with a mixture of horror and amusement.

“Is this your vase?” she asked, blushing furiously.

“It belongs to the homeowner,” I managed, forcing a polite grimace as I bent down to collect shards. “Don’t worry, accidents happen.”

But inside, I felt a fresh wave of dread. Now I’d have to report the damage—and that would likely mean one more nail in the coffin for my professional reputation.

By the end of the showing, the mood was irreversibly dampened. A few people left early, muttering about wasted time. One couple actually seemed mildly interested, but they offered vague contact details before slipping out, obviously unimpressed by the overall fiasco. I could almost feel Amelia Caldwell’s judgment from miles away, her voice in my head telling me I’d blown it again.

Heart pounding, I waved goodbye to the last buyer and locked up, then leaned against the door with my eyes closed. The spring breeze carried the faint scent of newly mowed grass, a mocking reminder of how everything else in Sweetberry Hollow was so fresh and put-together—while I was unraveling at the seams.

My drive back through the blossoming streets felt like a walk of shame on four wheels. Homeowners were out planting flowers, chatting with neighbors, and enjoying the sunshine. I loved Sweetberry Hollow with its warm sense of community—but right now, it felt like the town was reminding me I didn’t measure up.

I tried to steady my breathing. I was Lily Green, a proud Irish-American with enough gumption to handle a bit of adversity. My paternal grandmother, who immigrated from Ireland, used to say, You come from a line of strong women, Lily. A hiccup is just a reason to push harder . But apparently, my “hiccup” was quickly becoming a full-blown meltdown of my career.

As I pulled into the parking lot of the firm, I spotted Maya Lopez, my friend and one of the administrative assistants, heading into the office with a folder tucked under her arm. She shot me a sympathetic glance, probably already understanding from the look on my face that the open house had gone poorly. I sighed and turned off the ignition. I’d have to face the music eventually—Amelia would want a report, and I doubted the news I had to deliver would be welcomed.

Walking into Crestwood, I tried to straighten my skirt and smooth my hair, but the day’s stress had already undone most of my efforts. The lobby was bright and airy, with a large window that showcased a bank of flowering tulips outside. The walls were adorned with photos of the firm’s most successful closings: happy couples standing in front of their new homes, holding “SOLD” signs. It was a visual reminder of what I’d once hoped to achieve.

Maya crossed the lobby toward me, her short burgundy hair gleaming under the overhead lights. “How’d it go?” she asked in a hushed voice.

I scrunched up my face. “Do you really want to know?”

She winced. “That bad, huh?”

I nodded, glancing toward Amelia’s glass-walled office. Through the blinds, I could see her silhouette, probably poring over charts and performance reports. “Bad enough that if Amelia hears half of it, I might be unemployed by the end of the week.”

Maya let out a low whistle. “Well, maybe she’ll cut you some slack. It’s springtime—people are in a good mood.” She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. We both knew Amelia wasn’t known for leniency.

“I’ll go see her in a bit,” I said, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Gotta write up the fiasco first.”

Maya just patted my shoulder, sympathy evident in her expression. “Hang in there.”

After uploading my open house notes (and bracing myself for my boss’s reaction later), I headed back to my car, determined to salvage the rest of the day somehow. The crisp scent of fresh blooms hit me again, the swirl of pink petals across the pavement reminding me that I used to love spring in Sweetberry Hollow. I used to feel renewed by this season, energized by the warmer temperatures, the bright skies, the townspeople bustling about in floral dresses. Now, all I felt was anxiety.

I slid behind the wheel and stared out the windshield, picturing the half-finished marketing postcards strewn across my desk. Maybe I just needed a better approach—a bigger push to stand out. I couldn’t keep half-assing my life if I wanted to stay at Crestwood.

That was when a billboard in the distance caught my eye. It showed a woman with a radiant smile, toned arms raised in triumph, beneath bold text that read: VitalityFit —Transform Your Body, Transform Your Life! The woman in the ad appeared confident, unstoppable, like the kind of person who had the discipline to handle anything thrown her way.

Could working out help me feel more in control? Sure, it sounded shallow, but real estate was a business of appearances, after all—confidence, image, that unspoken sense of authority that made clients trust you. If I looked and felt better, maybe that would translate to stronger sales. Hm.

I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, turning over the idea in my mind. I hadn’t exercised regularly since college, relying on good genes and my curvy figure to coast along. But that was no longer cutting it in a world where top agents had professional headshots, personal brand videos, and an overall air of polished perfection.

Heading home, I rolled down the window for some fresh air. I lived alone in a small, tidy apartment just outside the historic district—nothing fancy, but it had a decent view of the orchard beyond. That orchard was now a riot of blossoms, bright pink and white against the rolling hills.

Kicking off my scuffed heels by the door, I sank onto my sofa with a heavy sigh. My phone pinged: a reminder about the homeowner’s vase, which I needed to replace. Fantastic, I thought, rubbing my temples. Another expense on top of the financial strain of late. And it wasn’t like I had a high-paying sale coming in any time soon.

I scrolled absently through messages from a few potential clients who’d attended the open house, each politely declining further viewings. My heart sank lower. What am I doing with my life?

That billboard image kept replaying in my mind. An ad for VitalityFit. It promised transformation, but would it really solve my problems? The cynical side of me snorted internally—like a few squats and a better diet will fix my chaotic career. But a tiny spark of hope remained. Sometimes, a person had to hold onto anything that offered a glimmer of self-improvement.

I found the VitalityFit website on my phone. Their marketing was almost nauseatingly upbeat: pages full of before-and-after photos, success stories, and quotes from clients raving about newfound confidence. Under normal circumstances, I might have dismissed it as gimmicky, but desperation had a way of making a believer out of me.

Biting my lip, I navigated to the sign-up page. The membership fees made my eyes water, but they had a payment plan. My credit card details were already trembling in my mental wallet, but my pride—and my job—was on the line.

After a few indecisive minutes, I took a deep breath and clicked Sign Up . A confirmation email chimed into my inbox almost immediately, welcoming me to the “VitalityFit Family” and inviting me to schedule my first session. My stomach fluttered, equal parts fear and excitement.

That evening, I changed into pajamas and stood by my open window, looking out at the trees by the silver glow of moonlight. The spring air carried the sweet fragrance of blossoms, drifting in to mingle with the faint smell of coffee from my kitchen. My thoughts drifted to my grandmother again—how she used to talk about new beginnings, how winter gave way to spring in a rush of color and possibility.

Well, Gran, I’m about to embark on a new beginning of my own , I mused, fingers absentmindedly twisting a curl. If VitalityFit could help me gain the edge I needed—help me find the confidence to look Amelia Caldwell in the eye without flinching—then maybe I could still salvage my career. Maybe I wouldn’t have to abandon my dream of excelling at Crestwood.

I felt a sliver of relief at having a plan, however half-formed. Tomorrow, I’d call VitalityFit and set up my first session. Tomorrow, I’d deal with Amelia’s lecture, apologize for the open house debacle, and hopefully convince her to give me another chance. Tomorrow, I’d start pulling my life back together.

I closed my eyes, inhaling deeply and letting my shoulders drop from around my ears. For the first time all day, my heart felt a little lighter. If a real estate agent can’t sell herself on a new dream, who can? I thought wryly, a small smile tugging at my lips. Maybe stepping into that gym would be the fresh start I needed in more ways than one.