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CHAPTER 1
Leo
“WHAT THE…?”
Pink flyers—a sea of them—are plastered on the windshields of every car in MY gym’s parking lot. I snatch one off a Honda, hissing curses as I recognize the all-too familiar advertisement that has been circulating around the neighbourhood.
I crumple the sheet in my fist. The nerve of this woman. She must be violating some law or ordinance. Facts matter. I pull outmy phone. “Hey, Siri, what’s the bylaw in Toronto for putting up flyers on someone else’s private property?”
“Flying is the act of moving through the air with wings.”
“Not flying, flyers.”
“A flyer is a person or thing that flies.”
I clench my teeth. “What’s the law on?—”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite get that.”
“Thanks for nothing,” I grumble.
“You’re welcome.”
Frustrated, I turn to Google for the information.A-ha.According to Chapter 693, Section 7 of the municipal code, flyers cannot be posted without the consent of the property owner. That would be me, and I for damn sure hadn’t given my permission. What’s more, a violation could result in a fine of up to $25,000. I bet the owner didn’t see that coming. But she’s about to.
Instead of the evening I had planned, enjoying a cold beer and watching the Raptors defeat the Kings, I’m now heading over to Fab Fitness. It’s a short walk away, situated on the Danforth, the heart of Toronto’s east end. Affectionately known as, “the Danny,” this neighbourhood is a vibrant mix of flavours, styles, and cultures. Having lived here my entire life, I’ve witnessed the area’s growth and transformation, with new businesses and urban professionals flocking in. While I’ve embraced these changes, I can’t help but feel irritated by Jazz Legend’s pink invasion.
Yeah, I know who she is. We haven’t met, but I looked her up—more out of curiosity than because I saw her as any real threat to my business. From what I’ve gathered, her facility is housed in a former dance studio. She doesn’t offer a weight-training room or state-of-the-art machines—just classes and bold promises.
I can still picture her headshot on the website. How could I forget that lush mouth quirked up in a teasing grin? Or thosebrown eyes that held an impish glint, as if she knew something you didn’t? Judging a book by its cover, I should have known that Jazz Legend wasn’t a woman who played by the rules.
In less than ten minutes, I locate the one-storey building, squeezed between The Greek Kitchen and Fashion on Consignment. The mild April weather has done little to cool my mood. I scowl upon seeing the welcome sign,Fab Fitness: the joy of movement,embellishedin pink letters—I’m seriously starting to despise that colour.
I pull open the door and it smells like a damn spa. The interior itself is all clean lines and open space. The maple floors gleam, and the walls, painted in some soft sage tone, are covered with her Fab Fit logo and motivational quotes, urging women to love themselves and embrace their worth.
The merchandise case displays T-shirts, tank tops, and water bottles that scream “I’m Fit & Fab!”Give me a break. Jazz Legend—what kind of name is that, anyway? —seems like nothing more than a feel-good coach. She doesn’t even have any legitimate fitness credentials.
I played college hockey in Montreal where I got my degree in Kinesiology, and after graduating, worked as an athlete trainer until I nearly lost everything. But I busted my ass to claw my way back, building F.!.T.—Focused Individualized Training—from the ground up, pouring in five years of blood, sweat, and tears. And now this inexperienced, new-age wannabe thinks she can use my place to advertise her so-called gym?
It hits me then that I don’t even know if she’s here. Something I should’ve confirmed before rushing over to confront her. With the reception desk empty and no one in sight, I approach the closed door, from where the sound of loud music is thumping. I peer through the square glass panel...and there she is.
Her honey-brown hair is piled on top of her head like a lopsided pineapple, with a few strands escaping and curling around a face that’s been etched in my brain ever since I saw her photo. She’s wearing a headset and psychedelic leggings, paired with a pink tank top that hugs every inch of her. Speaking into the mic, she confidently leads a group of around thirty women, guiding them through her movements.
I don’t know what the hell kind of class this is, but she plants her feet apart and seductively executes a series of hip rolls. “Make it sexy,” she calls out, gliding her hands down her luscious, tawny curves.
At thirty-seven, I should be past letting my hormones call the shots, but her alluring movements ignite my imagination. I find myself fantasizing about her in my bed, her nipples hard and pointed at the ceiling, her thick, buttery legs wrapped around my shoulders. Toys buzzing in her pleasure spots as she screams out my name.
Jesus, Foster, pull it together. I tear my gaze away, breathing heavily as I adjust myself, and think of those obnoxious pink flyers. I need to keep a level head. I’m here to deliver a cease and desist message, not get caught with my tongue hanging out. The sooner I convey my purpose, the sooner I can rid my mind of the countless dirty ways I want to make Jazz Legend come.
CHAPTER 2
Jazz
AS THE ENERGETIC BEATS OF “Booty” by J-Lo fade out, I stand at the front of the Voltage Vixens class, basking in the exhilaration of another successful session. The women are glowing with energy, their smiles and sweat-drenched faces a testament to their hard work. It’s moments like these that affirm my decision to change career direction and pour my heart and every cent into Fab Fitness.
“You all crushed it today. Thank you for your enthusiastic participation. And for those interested, I’m starting a walking class, called Strut because we keep it fabulous ’round here.” I snap my fingers in a sassy zig-zag, and the women hoot in agreement.
“There’s more information and a sign-up form on the website. Get home safely and have a great evening.” I end with my palms pressed together and head lowered in a reverent bow of appreciation.
