Chapter 11
Chapter eleven
Amy
Harley’s gym is traditional and in need of some TLC, but it has one of the most comprehensive membership lists in the city. Everyone from sports personalities to politicians comes here to train. Ivan Harley, who now runs the enterprise, took over from his father ten years ago.
In his late forties, he’s known for his wit and ruthless business mind.
I’ve never met him in person but heard plenty through the grapevine.
If he's in your corner, he’s an asset. If he’s against you, you better watch your back.
Even muttering his name in the fitness world earns a pause.
If you’re connected to Ivan, you’re someone.
Trey and I are walking toward the competition suite when a deep voice calling his name stops him in his tracks. “Trey.” We both turn on cue and see Ivan Harley strutting over to us.
“You know him,” I hiss.
“I used to work here,” Trey admits in a whisper. “Ivan,” he says, holding out his hand in welcome. The men shake hands vigorously. “How have you been?”
“Oh, good. I can’t complain,” he replies, then he turns to me, his shrewd stare running up and down my body. “Who is this?”
“Ivan, I’d like you to meet the owner of Bex’s New You. Amy Trodden, this is Ivan Harley,” Trey says.
“Lovely to meet you, Amy.” He smiles and takes my hand between his two. “You’re the lucky gym owner who swiped this man. He’s an asset to any team. I was gutted when he said he was leaving.”
My pupils dart between the two men, completely awestruck. Both are big and brawny, older but well-kept. A cloud of testosterone and history swirling around them.
“Nice to meet you,” I whisper. He’s a good-looking man with a strong jaw and light stubble.
His short black hair is ruffled meticulously on his head.
The navy-blue suit and white shirt he wears scream money, and I can see my face in his shoes.
He gives me a sexy smile, which oozes confidence.
The kind of smile that used to get me in trouble in my teens.
“Are you competing today?” he asks, and I nod. “Which class? I’ll be sure to look out for you. You’re in incredible shape.”
My brain stutters, and I fumble, “U-um, thank you. I’m in the…” The answer jams in my throat; no one has looked at me the way he is in years. My cheeks flush hot as heat prickles my collarbone.
Trey interrupts the inappropriate moment.
“We’d best be going to get ready.” After pulling my focus from Ivan, it lands on Trey, and he opens his eyes wide, trying to snap me out of my daze.
“Let’s go,” he says again, more firmly. “See you later, Ivan.” He takes my hands and drags me off down the corridor.
I don’t look back, but I know Ivan doesn’t look away.
***
I’m slipping into the tiny silver bikini when there’s a knock on the changing-room door. A floor host peaks in, eyes anywhere but me. “Ms. Trodden? Mr. Harley wondered if he could steal you for two minutes. He’s in the hall.”
“Sure,” I say, confused but curious. My stomach flips. Not with fear but adrenaline. Similar to the buzz I get before stepping on stage. Throwing on my robe, I move into the corridor. Ivan is waiting, not a hint of a smile on his lips.
“Congratulations on poaching my best instructor. That’s one way to make a splash.” His voice stays cool, that shrewd look never leaving my face. “Beautiful form, questionable etiquette.”
“Pardon, I’m sorry, but I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I respond, my pulse beating loud enough I’m worried he hears it.
He smells of expensive cologne and power.
Ivan is the kind of man who never needs to raise his voice to control a room.
A trait that shouldn’t unsettle me, but it does.
“Trey, of course.” No snarl, just false pleasantries. “He’s a whale, Amy. Landing him puts you on the map. And maps are… political. Next time, call me first. Keeps the waters calm.”
The silver card flutters in front of my nose. I pinch it from between his fingers reluctantly. As he turns away, I find my voice.
“He chose us,” I say to his shoulder. “I didn’t poach anyone.”
“Homework, Ms. Trodden,” he mutters, sparing me a look. “Just remember you’re a small fish in this pond. And I like knowing where my people swim. Take my advice for your future business decisions… always check for skeletons in the closet.”
With that, he walks off, and I’m left staring at his back. His threat hangs there, seeped in charm. I have no doubt Ivan Harley has plenty of skeletons dancing in his closet.
My focus falls to the card in my hands, pristine white with HARLEY in clean silver type. It’s heavier than expected, thick, embossed and expensive. Both an invitation and a warning in one. I slip it into the pocket of my robe.
As I turn back to the changing room door, Trey’s coming toward me, towel slung over his shoulder.
“Everything okay?” he asks, brows raised.
“Yep,” I lie, letting the card press a warm rectangle on my hip. Radioactive almost―a reminder that I’ve been noticed, but that may not be a good thing.