He takes two long strides toward my desk, then leans over, placing his hands on the hardwood. His gaze pins me still in my seat. The scent of him, something musky and dark, like warm spice with a warning label. My pulse reacts, throbbing. I swallow hard.
He smiles, just a fraction, as though he knows his impact. His next words are almost under his breath, as if only meant for me.
“Amy Trodden,” he says.
“Corrigan,” I correct him. “My name is Amy Corrigan.” He raises an eyebrow.
“Amy Corrigan.” He emphasizes each syllable as if rolling my name over his tongue. “I prefer that.”
His lips curl upward, satisfied. “All you need to know is when I see something I want, I take it. No questions asked. Make me chase it…” He leans in, voice dropping to a dark promise. “And I’ll run hard to hunt it down.”
He flexes his fingers, and the muscles on his forearms pop. My breath stutters. I should tell him to leave. Tell him to take his masculine energy as far away from me as possible. But my body doesn’t get the message.
“Now the question is,” he murmurs, “are you going to make me run?”
I meet his gaze for a heartbeat. The air hums with silent challenge. I don’t know if we’re talking about the gym anymore. And I’m not sure if I care.
Chapter twenty
Ivan
June 2021
Amy Corrigan is the most infuriating creature on the planet. For a year, I’ve sent offers, emails, invitations—nothing. She ghosts me with such finality that it feels personal. This is a stance I’m not used to. Ivan Harley always gets what he wants, both in business and in pleasure. Or he did, until her.
Over the last twelve months, I’ve watched her become one of the most explosive competitors on the bodybuilding circuit. She’s transformed. Every time she steps on stage, she owns it with unshakeable confidence. Her eyes locked forward. The trophy is hers before her first pose.
At night, I lie awake replaying her every move, the sharp flick of her ponytail, the disdain in her eyes. Sometimes I can’t tell if I want to argue with her or drop at her feet.
This woman has me acting like a hormonal teenager, and I haven’t even touched her. In passing, she smiles and is perfectly polite, but her dismissal of me makes me want her desperately.
It takes all my restraint not to run after her, grab her arm and demand why she pretends I don’t exist.
Normally, I don’t follow the competition circuit in detail; I attend enough to maintain a presence and keep the bodybuilding society’s decision-makers happy. Once my quota is met, I retreat to the shadows and watch from a distance.
Crowds make me restless. Applause means little once the lights dim. I’m happier bench pressing at midnight in a deserted gym, considering the next business deal. My next big leap. In the end, control is what I have, most of the time.
But Amy, she’s become the exception that has me attending every damn event just to watch her win. Just to see if this time, she’ll grace me with a glimmer of attention.
Harley’s Gymhas hosted the key competitions in the British bodybuilding calendar for over a decade. Everyone who is anyone trains at my gym.
Years ago, I headed up the training team; now, my role is spent behind a desk or networking with those who can invest in my larger business. Three years past, we rolled out an expansion scheme across the country and opened five other establishments in major cities.
In London itself, I began purchasing smaller gyms. The thought behind this was to open bespoke training venues for our most demanding clients. Some of the wealthiest will hire these venues for weeks, if not months, at a time, along with hiring my personal training staff. It has proven extremely lucrative. People pay for tight lips, excellent results, and guaranteed discretion.
Perhaps it’s time I paid Ms. Corrigan a personal visit. I haven’t been to her gym since I initially told her of my intention to buy her business. She’d looked at me as if I was the vilest being onearth. The conversation moved quickly from friendly to fierce, sexual energy buzzing between us as we debated. I’d leaned across her desk, invading her space, and she hadn’t moved back. Her shoulders squared, she flicked her long blonde ponytail over her shoulder before looking me up and down.
That ponytail still haunts me. I’ve imagined it coiled around my fist, me holding her head back, waiting for her permission to pull. Her knowing she has all the control.
“Listen to me,” she’d said last year in her office. “Who the fuck do you think you are, waltzing into my gym and demanding I sell it?” She’d narrowed her eyes. “Yes, I’m getting divorced, but that doesn’t mean I’m ready to roll over and play dead. Far fucking from it!” Pushing herself up to stand, she leaned forward, into my space. “Ivan, you may be able to push people around with your expensive suits and no-shit talk, but I’ve dealt with enough crap these past years that you don’t fool me.”
That’s when I realized why she’s infuriating but so damn intriguing. Most people cower when I raise my voice; she laughs. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t play. Amy sees right through my bravado and keeps walking. Whether I want her to or not.
“The man with the shiniest car and the biggest wallet doesn’t impress me, and it doesn’t give you the right to tell me what the fuck to do. Now leave,” she’d said, deadpan.
Then she smirked, dropped into her chair, and started tapping away at her keyboard with determination. After a few minutes, she paused and glanced up, “Still here?”
I’d left her office shaking, part rage, part want. I didn’t know which one would win, only that I’d be back.
