Page 2 of The Fighter

“I’m really sorry,” I say again. “The best I can do is comp your next class as well.” And there goes our profit margin for the week. It’s a good thing Simon isn’t here because if he was, I’d be tempted to wring his neck.

The guys continue to grumble but eventually disperse. Fifteen minutes later, my phone rings. Shocker of shockers: it’s my missing partner.

“Where have you been?” I demand, too angry to hide it. “You didn’t show up to your class today, and you were a no-show yesterday as well. What the hell, Simon?”

“I was in the hospital,” he huffs. “That’s why I couldn’t call you. I have two broken wrists.”

I roll my eyes as I doodle on the notepad in front of me. Two broken wrists—that’s a likely story. He couldn’t even be bothered to think up a decent excuse. “Both your wrists are broken?” I ask skeptically. “How did that happen?”

“It was an accident,” he says evasively. I grind my pencil on the sketchbook so hard that the point snaps. “But that’s not why I’m calling. I’m leaving Venice and moving back to London.”

I set down my pencil. “You’re doing what now?”

“I’m out, babe,” he says. “Arrivederci to the canals, the ombre, and the fucking tourists. I’m in London already, and I’m not planning to come back.”

My heart starts to beat very fast. For eighteen months, I’ve been trying to get Simon to sell, but his asking price has always been ridiculous. He wants a million euros for his share of the business, and even if it were worth that much—it isn’t—it’s not money I have.

But now?

This is the opening I’ve been waiting for.

And you know what they say about opportunity. When it knocks, you don’t just open the door. You kick the damn thing down.

“What about the gym?” I ask, doing some mental calculations about how much money I can access in a hurry. “I hope this means you’re finally willing to quote me a reasonable price, Simon, because if you think you can do your part from the UK, think again. Both of us need to be here every single day, teaching classes, unplugging toilets, pulling hair out of drains, and doing whatever else is called for. You’re already not pulling your weight here, and in fact?—”

“You make it sound so attractive,” he sneers, cutting off my rant. “But you’re too late. I already sold my share of the gym.”

For a long instant, his words don’t register. When they finally sink in, I see red. “You did what?” I say slowly. Carefully. I’m on the verge of exploding in sheer rage, but I have to keep it together for the customers. “Simon, you can’t sell your share of the gym to anyone else. The contract we both signed says that I have the right of first refusal.”

“Well, it’s a done deal,” he says, as if that somehow makes it okay. “The guy who bought my share said he’d drop by the gym sometime this weekend to meet you. You can discuss the details with him. Bye, Ali.”

Then the jerk hangs up.

As if on cue, the door opens, and a man walks in.

2

ALINA

My first impression of the man who just walked in is that he’s lost.

He’s tall and lean, and his navy suit fits so impeccably that it has to be bespoke. This guy doesn’t belong in my gym, where the air is laced with testosterone, and the men are sweaty and muscled. He’s too clean. Too manicured. He looks like he belongs on a runway somewhere or on the cover of a fashion magazine.

Not my type at all.

He walks up to the desk, his strides sure and unhurried, and as he nears, I get a better look at his face, and wow. He’s gorgeous. His dark hair is ever so slightly tousled, as if a woman’s been running her fingers through it. A smile dances on his full lips, but when he reaches the front desk and I look into his gray eyes, there’s no answering smile there.

A frisson of warning rolls down my spine.

“Il Doge is two doors down,” I tell him. The trendy restaurant doesn’t have a sign or any other indication that it’s a commercial establishment. For reasons I am too unsophisticated to understand, it’s supposed to be difficult to find. I’ve never eaten there, but I’ve heard the menu doesn’t have prices either. If you need to ask how much the food is, you don’t belong there. It’s not my kind of restaurant at all, but Mr. Bespoke Suit would fit right in. “It’s the one with the black door and the doorknob in the shape of a lion.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “I’m not looking for Il Doge,” he replies. His voice is gravelly, and his Italian has just a hint of an accent. Sexy. “Mediocre food in a pretentious atmosphere. No thanks.”

Up close, he’s not quite as manicured as I thought. There’s a hint of stubble over his cheeks and a spiderweb tattoo on the back of his left hand, the combination giving him a bit of an edge. Enough of an edge that I find myself wanting to engage in conversation with him. “You think so?” I ask, a wicked urge seizing me. “It’s one of my favorite restaurants.”

Hello, Ali? Why are you trying to flirt with a perfect stranger?

He doesn’t miss a beat. “I’ve put my foot in it, haven’t I?” His lips tilt up charmingly. “Let’s start over. I love Il Doge. The food is truly exceptional. As for the decor?—”

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