2. Alina
2
ALINA
M y 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?—”
I have to fight not to laugh. “I’m going to stop you there,” I tell him. “I’ve never been to Il Doge; I was just messing with you. How can I help you?”
He holds out his hand. “My name is Tomas Aguilar. I just purchased Simon Groff’s share of this gym.”
The words are like a bucket of cold water, and any attraction I’m feeling instantly evaporates. This is the guy that Simon told me about. I stare at his outstretched hand. His fingers are long and elegant, his fingernails neatly clipped, and I’m sure that his handshake will be firm, straight out of a Business 101 book.
When Simon told me he was done with Venice, there was a moment when I was almost hopeful that the gym could finally be mine.
This is the guy who destroyed those dreams. Tomas Aguilar, with his fancy suit and his smug smile.
“Alina Zuccaro,” I reply, my voice clipped. This situation might not be his fault. I wouldn’t put it past my former partner to hide the relevant details from a potential buyer. “Simon signed a contract with me, Signor Aguilar. I’m afraid he was in violation of it when he sold his share to you. I had right of first refusal.” Maybe he’ll be willing to listen to a reasonable offer. He’s looking around dubiously, and it’s obvious he’s out of place here. “I’d like to resolve this amicably. If you tell me how much you paid?—”
“A million euros.”
Disbelief fills me, followed swiftly by disappointment. Tomas Aguilar wildly overpaid Simon. There’s no way I can offer him anything close to that much money. I’m about to admit that to Tomas when he looks around dubiously and adds, “I can’t believe I paid that much for this dump.”
He called my gym a dump.
Fury fills me. Yes, the couch in the lobby is worn and sweat-stained. The reception area badly needs a new coat of paint—another thing Marcelo was supposed to do—and the smoothie machine has been broken almost since the day Simon bought it. But still. How dare he walk in here and insult my business? Who the hell does he think he is, anyway?
“Why the hell would you pay Simon his asking price?” I hiss, hot rage sparking under my skin. “Are you insane? It isn’t worth anything close to that.”
“Yes, that much is clear,” he replies, giving the gym another disdainful glance. “Your drywall looks like it’s water damaged. And is that mold I see?” He shakes his head. “It’s a miracle the authorities haven’t shut you down.”
“Our contractor has been giving us the run-around, not that it’s relevant to this discussion,” I say through gritted teeth. Tomas Aguilar was never going to be my favorite person—he bought Simon’s share of the gym from under my feet. But after the repeated insults? I don’t just dislike him—this is hate. “Nobody asked you to be here,” I bite out. “And Simon shouldn’t have sold his share to you; he should have offered it to me first. It’s a clear violation of our contract. I should take you to court.”
He doesn’t seem disconcerted by my antagonism. In fact, he has the nerve to smile as if my fury is amusing to him. “Let’s say he did offer to sell to you,” he says calmly. “You would have had a week to come up with a million euros. But you clearly have no access to money. If you did, you’d have already used it to fix this space. We can pretend, if that’ll make you happy. Would you like me to offer to sell my share to you, then come back in seven days to have this exact conversation again?”
Trust someone wearing a custom suit that probably costs more than I make in a year to throw my lack of money in my face. Asshole. Smug, conceited, supercilious asshole . “You think you’re funny?” I demand. “You think it’s a joke that you’ve waltzed in here to trample all over my livelihood?”
Someone clears their throat. “Tomas, play nice,” another suit-clad man says. I didn’t even see him enter. He comes forward and offers me a warm smile. “My name is Daniel Rossi,” he says. “I’m acting as Tomas’s lawyer.” He gives the other man a wry look. “Apologies for the way Tomas delivered the news. My friend frequently forgets that some of us have emotions. If he had his way, we’d live our lives with Vulcan detachment.”
I give him a blank look. “ Star Trek ?” he says. “No? Never mind. What Tomas meant to say was that, yes, Simon Groff should have offered you the first right of refusal, and he didn’t. You have a legitimate cause for complaint. Against Mr. Groff.”
“Let me guess,” I say bitterly. Daniel might be smoother than Tomas, but both men are saying the same thing, and if I’m honest, I prefer Tomas’s blunt, no-bullshit approach. “You guys did nothing wrong, and it’s Simon I should sue.”
Tomas frowns.
“Exactly,” Daniel says, jumping in before his friend gets a chance to snipe about something else. “However, given that you and Tomas will be working together, we’d like to make it up to you. In the interests of maintaining a peaceful and collaborative partnership?—”
“A bit late for that,” I mutter under my breath.
Daniel pretends not to hear me. “We thought it best to compensate you for the inconvenience involved in this transition.”
“You’re going to buy me off. How much?” I fold my arms over my chest. This has the unintended effect of pushing my breasts up. Tomas’s eyes snap to my ample cleavage before he drags his gaze away.
Ha. Made you look.
My bluntness seems to disconcert the lawyer. “I beg your pardon?”
“How much are you prepared to offer?” Whatever the initial amount, I’m going to haggle hard and get him to double it. As much as I would like to pretend that I can’t be bought, the gym needs repairs, and money would solve most of my problems. Twenty thousand euros would pay for some of the most urgent items. Fifty would be even nicer. “And before you tell me what that number is, let’s not forget that the contract I signed with Simon specified that each partner would be at the gym for thirty-five hours a week and teach half of the classes. Signor Aguilar isn’t going to be able to adhere to those terms.” I give my new partner a slow and dismissive once-over. “He’s obviously not a fighter.”
The intended insult rolls off Tomas’s back. “Obviously,” he agrees, looking down his long nose at me like I’m a speck of dirt on his sleeve. “Fighting is a waste of time, and besides, my schedule doesn’t allow me to be here thirty-five hours a week. Even if I wanted to, which I don’t. ”
“Too manly for you?” I ask snidely. This guy is bringing out the worst in me because I’m now evidently an advocate for toxic masculinity. Ugh.
The corners of his mouth twitch. “It’s impossible to dry-clean the smell of testosterone out of a woolen suit,” he agrees.
Daniel clears his throat again pointedly. “If the two of you are finished, some of us have places to go and things to do.” He sets a folder on the counter. “This is a new contract proposal with revised terms. Tomas recognizes he doesn’t bring the same skills to the table as Mr. Groff did?—”
“I don’t, for example, molest every woman in sight,” Tomas says.
I wince. That’s a direct hit. Simon made the women in the gym extremely uncomfortable, but as much as I hated it, there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to stop him. God knows I’ve tried.
“Like I was saying,” Daniel says, giving Tomas an irritated glance, “he doesn’t bring the same skills, and so he’s proposing a different profit distribution. If you’re willing to hire instructors to teach classes, he’ll take twenty percent of the profit instead of the fifty that Groff took.”
“Twenty?” That definitely sounds too good to be true. “What’s the catch?”
“There isn’t one,” Tomas says with irritation. “I invest in businesses for the long-term. Without a change in your profit distribution, you won’t stay open for another six months.”
Daniel sighs with exaggerated patience. “I believe what Tomas meant to say is that you should do your own due diligence. This folder has a copy of the revised contract proposal. I recommend running it by your lawyer before you sign it. And to answer your earlier question about the goodwill amount?—”
“Ah, yes, the bribe.” I’m not sure if there’s enough money in the world to buy a peaceful working relationship with Signor Jerk-in-a-Suit, but I wisely keep that thought to myself. “How much?”
“Two hundred thousand euros,” Tomas answers. My mouth falls open, and he smirks at my surprise. “That’s the offer. Shall we shake on it?”
He holds out his hand again. In a daze, I reach out to take it. The moment I touch him, a zing of electricity goes through me.
Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no. The zing is that mysterious thing that I can’t explain, the chemistry that makes me lose my mind and make stupid, stupid decisions like going into business with Simon. And now I’m feeling tingles from shaking hands with the man who bought out his share.
No. Not again. The Queen of Bad Decisions isn’t going to make the same mistake twice. Tomas Aguilar is the last person I should get involved with—no matter what the butterflies in my stomach suggest. No, I refuse to be attracted to my new partner, the one who was foisted on me without my consent. I refuse.
I drop his hand like it scalds me.
The sooner I buy out his share, the better. Two hundred thousand euros or not, I’m going to be a royal pain in his ass. I’m going to be snide and snarky every opportunity I get. There will be no truce. Tomas Aguilar is going to discover that it’s a really bad idea to go into business with me.
“I’ll take your proposal to my lawyer,” I say grudgingly. “We’ll see what he has to say.” I’m not going to go on the attack immediately; I need time to plan my strategy. “If that’s all, I have a class to teach.” I give him my most innocent smile. “I’d invite you to join, but…” I shrug my shoulders and let my voice trail off suggestively.
He’s not fooled by my sweet tone, not even a little. “But you’re afraid I might be hurt,” he finishes. “That’s smart. After all, if I get a hangnail, I might sue.”
Daniel shakes his head and shuts his suitcase. “I can see this is going to be an eventful partnership. Come on, Tomas. I’ll buy you a drink. There’s a restaurant next door, Il Doge, that I’ve been meaning to try.”
It takes superhuman effort to keep from laughing out loud at the look on Tomas’s face. “I’ve heard the food is truly exceptional,” I say helpfully.
“Of course you have,” Tomas says, his voice bone dry. Then he drops his next bombshell. “As your new partner, I’ll need to be consulted about the improvements you’ll be making. Let’s do a walkthrough on Monday.”
Ugh. I should have known the money came with strings. Damn it all to hell. Tomas Aguilar might have injected very necessary funds into the gym, but it’s going to come with him micromanaging my every decision.
This is going to be lovely.
My grip tightens on my pencil, and I stab it hard enough into the pad to tear the paper. Baring my teeth at him in a terrible imitation of a smile, I say, “I’m looking forward to it.”
I can’t kill him—I can’t afford bail or a lawyer. But one way or the other, this guy needs to go.