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.
Chapter twelve
Terry
Amy comes home from her latest competition high on life. She bursts through the front door holding theMost Improvedtrophy high above her head.
“I won! Kind of!” she shrieks. “Can you believe it? Open the bubbles, we’re celebrating.” Her eyes spark, and the huge smile splitting her face hits me square in the chest. Since our appointment with the consultant, she’s been down and brooding.
As I push myself off the couch, popcorn scatters over the floor. “Congratulations, honey,” I call as I head to the kitchen where late spring rain taps on the window.
My hand hesitates on the bottle neck. The 0% label mocking me, like it knows I’m about to start another fight. Amy didn’t know I bought the alternative bottle, and, hopefully, she wouldn’t notice when it’s in her glass. The clinic said limit. I heard zero. I’m doing this for both of us.
Taking two champagne flutes, I pour in the amber liquid. My wife appears behind me, wrapping her arms around my waist and dropping a kiss on my shoulder.
“That’s funny-looking champagne,” she says, scrunching her nose.
“It’s limited edition,” I mumble, keeping my eyes fixed on the glasses. Picking both up, I turn and pass her one.
“Thank you,” she says, raising the crystal to her lips. Her face pinches. “Urgh! Terry, what is this? It tastes like sour fruit juice.” She lifts the bottle, and my heart sinks as she focuses on the label. Not looking at me, she slams it on the counter. Glass fractures, the neck snaps. Sticky bubbles race across the tiles, glittering with the shards.
The crack resonates in my ears like a gunshot. My fingers twitch to reach for her, but retract.
