Page 13 of The Fighter

And he’s going to fix my books, which means I’ll be seeing him every single day this week.

I hate it.

My only hope is that overexposure is going to quench my lust. Because I cannot—will not—jump into bed with my annoying partner.

There are a handful of MMA gyms in Venice, and most of them are closed on Mondays. Not Groff’s. It was a strategic decision I made when we first opened, and I’ve never regretted it. As exhausting as it is to open the gym after a full weekend of teaching, it’s worth it. Most new members join at the start of the week. They eat badly over the weekend, or they drink too much, and then they resolve to be better come Monday.

Sure enough, at five in the evening, a woman walks into my gym.

She’s obviously never been here before. She looks around at the space with wide eyes. Sara and River are in the nearest ring, jabbing at each other. In another, two guys whose names I can’t remember are working on their Brazilian jiu-jitsu grapples. The free weights benches are busy tonight, and so are the cardio machines. I make a mental note to buy more ellipticals before greeting her with a friendly smile. “Hi, can I help you?”

“You’re Alina Zuccaro, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am. Do I know you?” I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen her before. She’s in her late twenties or early thirties; I can’t tell. Her dark blonde hair is drawn back in a sensible bun at her nape, and her clothes are similarly conservative—a high-necked blouse, a narrow skirt, and low black pumps.

Her face breaks out in a smile. “Not exactly. My name is Gemma. I’m a fan.”

I blink in confusion. “A fan?”

“I used to work out at MMA Roma,” she says, naming the gym I taught at before I moved to Venice and struck out on my own. “My instructor, Camilla Bottino, still uses your techniques.”

My expression clears. Camilla used to be one of the junior instructors there. We were work acquaintances, not friends. “Ah, okay. How is she doing? I haven’t talked to her in two years.”

“She’s doing well,” she replies. “She just got engaged to an extremely rich doctor who is at least twenty years older than her. I think she’s going to quit the gym.”

Yeah, that sounds like Camilla.

“Anyway, I’m moving to Venice for three months on a work assignment,” Gemma continues. “I was looking for a gym to work out in, and when I discovered you’d won an award for innovative teaching methods at the Leone d’Oro, I knew where I had to go.”

Umm, okay, weird. Yes, I won an industry award, but it’s not a big deal. The annual Leone d’Oro ceremony is just an excuse for the MMA people in Italy to get together, gossip, drink, and hook up. I didn’t even get to do the last thing because Simon showed up unexpectedly and told everyone at our table that he had come up with the teaching method that won me the award. By the time the evening was done, I was too irritated for casual sex. Not even my vibrator got a workout that night.

Gemma has to be one hell of an MMA groupie to even know about the existence of the Leone d’Oro, let alone track the winners.

“Umm, thank you.” I take one last sip of the smoothie I made in place of lunch. “Would you like a tour?”

“Yes, please.”

I show the woman around my space. “When are you moving?” I ask when I’m done, not from any real desire to know, but because she’s staring at me in a way that’s making me mildly uncomfortable.

“Next month, if my transfer comes through.” She gives me a wry smile. “To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure if I want it to happen. Venice is a little chaotic. There are a lot more tourists than I expected, and finding an apartment has been insanely difficult.”

“Chaotic is about right,” I agree. It’s September, and the peak rush is technically over, but Venice is still swarming with tourists. It feels like there are more Airbnbs than homes on the island these days. The mayor is even proposing an entry fee to combat the increasing numbers of day trippers who throng the city but don’t spend any money. “If I didn’t need to be here every day, I’d flee during high season.”

She gives me a curious look. “Do you like living in Venice? Have you lived here long?”

“Two years. And yes, I love it. My mother used to bring me here for a week every year, and I’ve wanted to live in Venice for as long as I can remember.”

Gemma smiles a little wistfully. “For me, it was Paris. My mom grew up on the outskirts of the city, and she’d take me back there every year. She died four years ago, and I haven’t been able to make myself visit Paris ever since.”

Losing a mother is so hard. Especially if they’re the only parent you’ve ever had. I give Gemma a sympathetic look. “You should go to Paris,” I say softly. “My mom died two years ago, and yes, when I came back to Venice the first time, it hurt. The first year was awful, and if I hadn’t already bought property here, I would have fled back to Rome. But I’m glad I didn’t. When I eat a pastry at our favorite bakery, or when I haggle with vendors at the Sunday antique market, my mother is right next to me.” I take a deep breath and push back the wave of grief that overtakes me. “That got really heavy really quickly. Back to the gym. We’d love to have you once you’re here. Our latest class schedules are always online.”

“Perfect.” She slings her tote over her shoulder and nods at my paper cup. “You want me to toss that in the trash for you?”

She looks like she’s trying not to cry. I shouldn’t have talked about my mother; I think it’s brought back memories for Gemma that she’d rather not have. I remember too well the embarrassment of breaking down in public places. I have a trash can under the reception desk, but if she needs my smoothie cup as an excuse, she can take it. “Thank you. I’ll see you in a few weeks?”

“You will.” She grabs the cup and turns around to leave. I watch through the glass window as she hurries away, her head bent with grief. She’s not looking where she’s going and almost collides with Samuel, one of our regulars, and then rounds the corner and disappears from sight.

Sara and River swing by the front desk a few minutes later. “Who’s the guy, Ali?” River demands without preamble. “The hot one you were chatting with this morning.”

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