My Curvy Rival: A spicy novella, page 1
My Curvy Rival
LEIGH CARRON
Copyright © 2024 Leigh Carron
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the proper written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations apart, embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. Use of this publication is permitted solely for personal use and must include full attribution of the material’s source. To get permission contact the author at:
https://www.instagram.com/leighcarronauthor/
Editing by Michelle Brown
Cover and character artwork by i. nashkolna
Interior graphics by Alice Creswell
Interior design by Marek Zahorec
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-7782806-4-1
Contents
Author’s Note
1. Leo
2. Jazz
3. Leo
4. Jazz
5. Leo
6. Jazz
7. Jazz
8. Jazz
9. Leo
10. Jazz
11. Leo
12. Jazz
13. Jazz
14. Leo
15. Jazz
16. Jazz
17. Leo
18. Jazz
19. Jazz
20. Leo
21. Jazz
22. Leo
23. Jazz
24. Leo
25. Jazz
Leo
Acknowledgments
About Me
Books by Leight
To all you fab women, embrace your feminine power.
Love,
Leigh xo
Author’s Note
As a body-positive author, my goal is to portray plus-size women in a positive light and challenge negative stereotypes. It is important to recognize that women of all sizes can enjoy movement, dance, and exercise.
I created Jazz Legend as a sexy, former ballet dancer turned gym owner who celebrates the joy of movement. In this novella, she refers to herself as “fat” as a description, not in a derogatory way, and is comfortable with her curves, rolls, and jiggles. She meets Leo Foster, a dirty-talking, ex-hockey player with a drawer full of toys. If explicit, consensual sex, and sex toys aren’t your thing, that’s okay. My books aren’t for everyone, and I wouldn't want any reader to be harmed by the content. However, if you're all in, thank you for taking this journey with me. I hope you enjoy Jazz and Leo’s rivals-to-lovers story.
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 out my 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 those brown 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, embellished in 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.
Several of the participants hang back to chat or ask questions. I love this aspect of the job. I’ve always been social, going from conversation to conversation, like a butterfly flitting between flowers, as my mom used to say. But tonight, I’m a little distracted. My eyes keep wandering to the door, where I spotted a man earlier. He’s gone now but in the quick glimpse I’d gotten, he looked familiar.
When everyone has left, I walk out of the studio with Gwen. She’s one of my regulars, a recent empty-nester who joined for the social connection as much as the exercise. We’re gabbing about the latest celebrity gossip when I see the man again. I recognize him clearly this time. Leo Foster. Strange that he’s here, but not in an unpleasant way.
He’s standing near the reception desk, his shoulder against the wall and his arms crossed over his broad chest. He sees me then too, and straightens. As if the gods of beauty had gifted him with extra sprinkles of dust, he’s even better looking in person, with all that dark, perfectly coiffed hair that beckons to be mussed.
“Ooh.” Gwen murmurs in appreciation, her green eyes darting between him and me in two rapid rounds. Even though we’re a good ten feet away from where he’s hogging his fair share of space, she leans in to whisper in my right ear. The lightning bolt tattoo behind my lobe serves as a reminder that it’s the only ear I can hear from. “Who. Is. That?”
“The gym owner of F.!.T., you know the one on Farrow Street?”
“I’m pretty sure I’ve passed it. Maybe I should check it out.”
“Traitor.” I playfully swat her arm.
“I would only go for the show,” she assures me with an amused smile. “So, what’s he doing here?”
“No idea.” I shrug, just as curious.
“Should I stay just in case? Show him what I can do with all this new muscle.” She flexes her bare arm, making me laugh.
Gwen, like me, is comfortable in her plus-size body; and in class, she puts it all out there, truly embodying, “dance like no one’s watching.”
“I think I’ll be fine. But thanks for the offer.” Her caution is understandable, considering his imposing form. I read in his bio that he used to be a defenseman for the Concordia Stingers, and he must take his weight lifting seriously, judging by the muscular arms and shoulders beneath his navy dri-fit jacket.
“Are you sure?” she asks, eyeing him up again.
“Yes. You get home to John,” I say, referring to her husband. “And I’ll see you tomorrow. Great job today.”
“You make it great.” She gives me a big hug, which I happily return.
I’m friendly with the members, getting to know them and their lives. I realize the general rule in business is to maintain some personal distance, but that’s not who I am.
Gwen slides on her jacket and Mr. F.!.T. gallantly holds the door open for her. She gives me a final wave and a wink before heading out.
“Leo Foster.” I approach. At five-six, I have to tilt my head back to meet those slate grey eyes, surrounded by a fringe of thick black lashes. “It’s a pleasure.” I extend my hand, mentally tracing a finger over his strong jawline that’s covered in a trim beard and a sensuous mouth that’s sloped in a slight frown. “I’m Jazz Legend.”
He looks down at my hand, and for the briefest moment, hesitates before taking it. The contact is nothing short of electric, sending a sizzle of heat through my body. His large palm on mine is firm, warm, and calloused. He doesn’t move or make a sound. Only his gaze flickers to my lips, and I can feel the edgy tension radiating from him that mirrors my own. Attraction with a capital A, and it runs both ways.
I just want to kiss the hell out of him. And be kissed back. Find out what his mouth tastes like…feels like. Does he kiss hard and rough or linger soft and slow? Does he groan as he goes deeper or is he the strong, silent type? Lusty minds want to know.
I’ve been so focused for the last eight months on getting Fab Fitness up and running, that I haven’t had time for a romantic relationship or even a fling. I’ve been too busy to ponder what I’ve been missing. A man’s touch. This man’s touch. On me. All over me. But just as my musings are heating up, right along with the tingling between my legs, he pulls his hand away and clears his throat.
“I’d like to discuss an important matter with you.”
“Oh?” That catches me off guard. “What is it?”
“Are you serious?” he snaps. “I found a bunch of your pink flyers all over my parking lot. You realize that’s a blatant violation of the municipal code, right? You can’t just go around slapping your ads on private property without permission.”
I’m stunned by his outburst. “Yes, of course, I know that but—”
“Then why in hell did you do it?” The vein in his forehead starts pulsating like a mini volcano. “Are you so desperate for business that you don’t care about breaking the law, or are you just reckless?”
I bite my tongue, holding back a snippy retort. Instead, I take a deep breath and pinch my fingers together, slowly dragging them down from my forehead to my chin.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Centering myself,” I reply calmly. “Perhaps you should try it.”
He gives me a death stare.
“I believe there’s been a misunderstanding.”
“I highly doubt that. I saw the flyers with my own eyes.”
“I mean, you’ve jumped to the wrong conclusion. I’m assuming Kai didn’t discuss this with you.”
“Kai? My brother?” He sounds surprised. “What’s he got to do with this?” Then as if realization hits, he curses under his breath. “Are you telling me Kai gave you permission?”
“Bingo,” I reply with satisfaction. “We met the other day at Second Cup. I went over to introduce myself, mistaking him for you at first glance.” Now I can’t fathom how that’s possible. Kai’s dark hair was deliberately styled to look tousled while Leo must use gel glue as there’s not a hair out of place. Kai’s grey eyes are lighter, like rain clouds, while Leo’s are dark and thunderous. Kai was funny and at ease. Leo is intense and uptight. Kai is more my type, but with him I hadn’t felt that instant jolt of sexual energies colliding.
“How did Kai come to give you permission?” he presses forward, impatiently.
“We ended up chatting for a while and he mentioned that he saw my flyers. He said what I was doing was cool and—”
“Yeah, I’m getting the picture.”
I’m not sure what picture he’s getting, but I intend to make one thing clear. “I would not have stepped foot on your property with my flyers unless I’d been invited. Your brother said he was the gym manager and authorized to make these decisions. I had no reason to doubt his sincerity.”
He clenches his fists. “Kai is not my manager and he has no authority to make decisions about my business. So, in future, keep F.!.T. out of your coffee dates or whatever you do together.”
I once again strive for calm. “Because I understand this is a shock, I’m going to give you a pass on your insulting insinuation. I genuinely believed I had permission. Now that I know I don’t, I will not do it again, I can assure you. I had no intention of stealing your customers.”
“Humph. I wasn’t worried about that,” he says dismissively. “It’s about following the rules. What you offer here is no threat to my business.”
I bristle at his condescending brush off. “Actually, three of your members will be joining Fab Fitness in May.”
He raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Yeah, right.”
“Don’t you have a process to follow-up with members who give their thirty-day notice?” I ask pointedly.
The embarrassment on his face tells me he doesn’t.
“Well, if you did, they might have told you that your program is too intense and regimented, and that your outdated BMI measurements make them feel uncomfortable and judged. Consider this complimentary feedback a token of my regret over the misunderstanding.”
He’s clearly fuming, that vein about to pop.
“Is there anything else?” I ask sweetly.
“No,” he grumbles.
“Good night then.” I open the door for him, and he walks through it, hands shoved angrily in his pockets.
I watch him leave, disappointed that the first man to turn me on in a long time had the personality of a limp carrot. He hadn’t even the decency to apologize for jumping to the wrong conclusion. And worse, he acted as if I were in cahoots with his brother.
I tell myself that I hope never to see Leo Foster again.
But deep down, I know I’m lying.
CHAPTER 3
Leo
IF ONLY I HAD HANDLED the situation better. If only I had approached Jazz with questions instead of throwing sharply speared accusations. If only I had been able to think straight instead of being consumed by the desire to slam her body against mine. And damn, if only I had recognized that this was exactly the kind of shit Kai would pull, it would have saved me from embarrassment and Jazz from an unfair confrontation.
