Giovanni: The Cougars and Cubs Series, #3

By GiGi Meier

Where cardio is more than a gym workout. 

In a swanky gym where the city's elite fine-tune their physiques, Giovanni Marconi is the golden boy of fitness, an alpha male trainer whose charisma rivals his physical prowess. He's on a quest for Mr. Olympia glory, but he's about to find out that muscle alone doesn't win hearts.

Kacie Yacob, a powerhouse in the courtroom, has let her health slide in the chase for career success. Facing a health scare and a New Year's resolution, she realizes it's time to take control of her wellbeing. When Kacie steps into Giovanni's gym, it's more than just a fitness journey, it's a life-changer. Giovanni becomes more than her trainer, sparking a steamy, reverse age-gap romance that defies expectations. Together, they discover that true strength comes from within, forging a bond that goes beyond the gym.

Giovanni is an endearing romance of body positivity and transformative growth, charting two divergent paths converging towards a shared realization that true strength lies in the harmony of physical, emotional, and mental well-being.

Giovanni is the third book in The Cougars and Cubs Series and is a connected standalone. It is a steamy, reverse age gap, new year resolutions, health and fitness, protector, alpha male, opposites attract romance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: GiGi Meier
• Release date: Jan 31, 2024
• ISBN: 9781963625028

Book preview

1

GIOVANNI

The throb of the bass beats with my heart as I power through another set. I’m in my zone. Lifting the cool barbells is a breeze today, like I’m in sync with the universe or something. I’m chasing something bigger than just muscle—my dreams. Each lift is a step closer to the Mr. Olympia stage, where the gods of iron battle. I glance at Marco, my training partner, mirroring my movements on the bench press.

All about consistency, brother, I shout over the music. Marco flashes a grin and hoists the barbell up with a grunt.

Pure beast mode, Gio, he pants, the bar hitting the rack with a satisfying clang that resonates through the gym crowded with all the new members conquering their New Year’s resolution of getting in shape. He mops the sweat off his forehead.

I start moving to the beat, dancing between sets. The gym’s my playground, and the mirrors are my cheering crowd. I throw in a flex here and there, watching the light dance across my biceps. It’s not vanity—it’s artistry. Analyzing the various muscle groups to see which need further development and which are on track thus far. This is what the crowd will see when I step on that Mr. Olympia stage and what will set me apart.

Easy on the showboating, Marco chides, the lower half of his face hidden in the towel, still catching his sweat.

Not showboating, I quip back, arms flexing into a perfect double biceps pose. Studying my progress. Seeing it from different angles is important, especially since I’m still working through my posing routine. If I miss something, it costs me points, and I must be perfect on stage, or else the guy next to me will be.

I wink at him, twisting my hat backward as my curls jut out the sides. Curls for the girls is what my mamma always used to say. Not sure if that’s ever been true, especially with my hair too long and looking a little ragged. An Italian Ronald McDonald, according to Seb. With his straight blonde hair, he gives me grief over my chocolate curls, even more grief about my thick ‘stauche. He hates it. What does he know?

I’m not telling him, but I’m thinking about cutting my hair. This African American dude comes in with lines on the side of his head. His curls are tighter than mine, but the sides are trimmed close with designs on the edges.

It would be pretty cool if I did something like that, but I have yet to talk to the guy to see where he goes to get that done. I doubt my dad’s barber, where I’ve gone my whole life, would know how to do it.

Showboating, studying, it’s all the same thing with the number of women that stare at you in this pace.

He chuckles before laying back and killing another set. His good nature keeps him from being jealous of anything about me besides my height. His definition is more pronounced as his frame is thinner and shorter in stature. He competes in the lightweight category and wins most of the local shows. I asked if he’d ever compete with me at Mr. Olympia, but he mumbled some nonsense about enjoying being a big fish in a small pond—unwilling to become a tiny fish in a world pond.

I don’t take him seriously as I finish dancing and flexing to the song. I examine my arms and chest muscles as I do different poses. I have my problem areas, specific muscle groups that are taking longer to grow than I’d like, but what’s life if you’re not having fun doing it?

I return to the bench, balancing the barbells on my thighs before easing backward. Today is about reps, not heavy weights. If the reverse were the case, I’d spot Marco and vice versa. I’m easily pumping out another set when Jenna enters my line of sight. The cold air conditioning does nothing to cool my heated skin.

I glance down at my cock to make sure it doesn’t pop up like it does every time she’s around. I’ve been crushing on her for months, thinking we were getting closer until last month when she slid that big ring on her finger, and I found out she was married or getting married, whichever. I didn’t hear much of what she said, too focused on the ring and the crushing disappointment that killed my growing love for her.

Happy New Year, Gio, she calls out, her voice slicing through the music and the clatter of weights. Hey, Marco.

Happy New Year, Jenna. My voice is steady despite the adrenaline from my workout. I pound out an extra set, trying to look calm while my heart does its best impression of a jackhammer.

Wow, you’ve really got some gains since the last time I saw you.

I don’t allow my face to crack with emotion, but my stomach is doing flips at her compliment. If she only knew how much I like her, she’d probably never talk to me again.

No days off.

I finish my set, lean forward, and dump the weights on the ground. The pump flowing through my biceps is insane, causing her to reach out to touch them. This is why I thought she was single. All the flirting and touching sends me mixed signals.

I haven’t seen you around.

I hate myself for asking. I also hate myself for looking for her whenever I set foot in here. A guilty smile and pink flush cover her skin, making her look adorable.

It’s been busy between the holidays and our engagement photos in Cancun.

My heart drops into my stomach. Marco glares at me from behind her, shooting me a warning look, which I ignore. He knows how I feel about her, having busted me getting a woodie when I spotted her working out. An awkward pause lingers, and I adjust the Velcro straps on my wrists.

Any resolutions for 2024? she asks, following me as I rack the dumbbells for others to use.

To stand on the Mr. Olympia stage, I say without hesitation. This gym is where my dreams will come true. To show them what I’m made of.

Jenna’s eyes hold mine, and there’s a flicker of something like admiration—or is it challenge?

Wow! That would be something. I believe you can do it.

I believe I can too.

Her words stoke the already burning fire in my belly. I’m not just building a body. I’m sculpting a legacy. Every drop of sweat, every weight I push, pull, or lift, every meal measured down to the last macro—it’s all for that moment under the bright lights.

So, what did you do for New Year’s Eve? Jenna asks, beginning her workout ritual.

Marco pipes up about his wild night on 20 th Street and falling off the swings at McIntyre’s. He’s sporting a cut above his eye because of it, and she awws at him like he’s a damn baby. He is a big fucking drunk baby and not the cute ones that coo and shit their pants.

I stay silent for a beat. With Paolo and Taylor attending a hotel party downtown and Seb taking Chloe to New York to see the ball drop, I was left in my own company on the last night of the year. Not that I’d admit this to her, but I got too fucked up over her last month. Getting trashed and Seb taking care of me on more than one occasion was stupid and not something I want to repeat. The hand on the clock hitting a new year was just what I needed to reset my life.

I was here, I admit, the echo of the empty gym still vivid in my mind. Just me, the weights, and a midnight toast of my protein drink. And a decision to compete in Mr. Olympia.

Jenna pauses, the dumbbells in her hands forgotten for a moment.

You weren’t lonely?

I duck my head behind the squat rack, grab a forty-five-pound plate, and put on my poker face. She hit the nail right on the head, and I feel a twinge in my gut that I’m not keen to divulge to her.

Loneliness is for people who don’t have goals, I deflect with a half-smile as I slide the plate onto the bar with a clang that I hope sounds more confident than I feel. Wasn’t lonely, just focused.

She’s watching me, her gaze kind of piercing in a way that says she’s not buying it, but she lets it go when her eyes flash to Marco.

Focused is good, Jenna concedes, resuming her reps. Especially with a goal like Mr. Olympia on the line.

There’s a beat where I just watch the smooth control of her movements, the determination in each lift that mirrors my own. It’s clear she understands the grind, the sacrifice, the tunnel vision I need to have if I’m going to make it to the top of anything.

I step under the squat rack, feeling the familiar weight settle across my shoulders.

What about you? I ask, pushing up the weight in a steady rhythm. Your New Year’s was good?

She nods, setting down the dumbbells and taking a sip of water.

It was quiet. Just family and some reflection on the past year. Made some resolutions, too.

Resolutions, huh? I grunt out another rep. Like what?

Jenna laughs a sound that makes the gym feel less empty. Not telling. It’s bad luck to share them too early.

I rack the weight, turning to face her, curious despite myself.

Since when?

Since I decided it’s a new rule, she teases, picking up her towel. I can’t help but laugh, the tension from her loneliness question fading.

Fair enough. I’ll just have to wait and see then.

She gives me that smile again, the one that’s too knowing, too warm. The twinge in my gut turns into a stabbing of my heart. This is why I like the girl. She’s nice and friendly and always has this sweet side about her.

Guess you will.

I glance down at her left hand, the ringless ring finger without so much an indent or tan line indicating she’s taken. Fucking mixed signals.

As she moves to the next part of her workout, I find myself watching her again. Jenna’s got this way about her, an open honesty that makes me want to spill all my secrets and plans. But I’ve learned the hard way that the less people know about my inner battles, the better. My family being some of them.

I turn back to the mirror, to the weights, to the silent promise of a new year and a new start. I’ve got a title to win, a physique to perfect, and a heart to protect—getting fucked up over anyone or anything isn’t part of the plan. Not this year.

This year is about discipline, about reclaiming every piece of myself that I let slip away last year. As I lift, I can almost feel the burden of past poor decisions being eliminated with each rep. I sink into another squat, muscles burning with the sweet agony of growth and determination.

You’re really gunning for it, huh? Jenna’s teasing voice cuts through my concentration.

Absolutely. I push up, locking my knees with a slight jerk. Mr. Olympia isn’t just a competition. It’s the pinnacle of everything I’m working toward.

She nods, appreciative, her eyes reflecting a respect that makes me feel proud of my choice to compete.

I can see that. Your dedication is kind of . . . inspiring.

Inspiring, huh? I can’t help the smirk that plays on my lips. I could say the same about you.

She’s ripped herself. She could easily compete in a bikini competition or even fitness if she added more bulk. Either way, she is perfect, and her glutes are something I can’t help but stare at. Jenna picks up another set of weights, the motion fluid and deliberate.

We all have our mountains to climb.

She’s right. We all have our mountains, our giants to slay. And here, in this temple of transformation, we’re all warriors in our own right. I move on to the next set, adrenaline pumping through me while the energetic music pulsates around me.

You’re pushing hard today, Gio, Marco observes, coming over with his water bottle. He takes a swig, his eyes never leaving mine.

Got to, man. I pause, breathless, as Jenna starts chatting with a female trainer. New year. New goals.

He casts a curious eye over his shoulder at her. Wouldn’t have anything to do with her, would it?

No.

Marco chuckles, downing more water before replying, "Sure. Just don’t burn out, yeah?"

I give him a nod, but the hunger inside won’t be tamed, regardless of who’s around me. No chance of that. It’s all about pacing, brother.

My eyes catch Jenna’s reflection as she talks animatedly with her hands. Marco follows my gaze, his eyes narrowing slightly.

Just remember, she’s got a rock on her finger even if she doesn’t wear it, he murmurs a hint of protectiveness in his tone. I look away, a twinge of something—loneliness or longing—pulling at my chest. I’m not looking to start anything, Marco. Just friendly talk, that’s all.

He raises an eyebrow, unconvinced.

Friendly talk can lead to . . . complications.

I jerk the plate from the bar, ready to rack it and move away from my greatest temptation—Jenna.

I know, I know, I reply, keeping my voice even. No complications.

Marco claps me on the shoulder, a silent show of camaraderie.

Just looking out for you, Giovanni. You’ve got a good thing going. Don’t want to see you get hurt.

I glance her way again, the ladies’ conversation still flowing, before I turn my back.

I won’t, I assure him and myself, more than anything. I’ve got too much riding on this year to get sidetracked.

My gaze doesn’t stray again. The rest of my workout passes in a blur of focus and determination. The space around me narrows when I concentrate on the rest of my training. The music, Jenna, and even Marco fade into the background as I finish with a heaving chest and a sweaty sheen coating my skin.

As I head for the locker room, I don’t look back. There’s nothing for me there—not in the past, not in distractions, not in the blue of Jenna’s eyes. There’s only the path forward. I’ve got a title to win. And nothing, not even the soft curve of Jenna’s smile or the sweet melody of her voice will stand in my way.

2

KACIE

The fluorescent lights of my office flicker overhead, casting a clinical glow over the chaos of my desk. Right now, I feel more like a ringmaster at the world’s most disorganized circus than an assistant district attorney for the fourth largest city in the nation. My fingers drum impatiently on the mountain of files that stand between me and a semblance of order.

I’m on the phone with Dr. Bennett, our go-to forensic expert, trying to nail down a time for him to testify. He’s as busy as I am, and we do this awkward dance around our calendars.

I understand, Dr. Bennett, but Judge Warner announced his retirement today, and now everything’s been pushed up.

He sighs, a sound that carries his weariness.

Kacie, I can do the fifteenth or nothing at all. You know how it is.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, feeling the start of a headache.

Fifteenth it is. I’ll rearrange the docket. Again.

If you can get this case, the Brown murder, and the Flores assault moved to that date, it would help me out. 

His voice rattles through the phone with a seemingly impossible request. Instead of being a ringleader, I’d need to be a magician to make that magic happen. It would also help me, but those cases fall across three presiding judges, two with the most impossible schedules. 

I’ll see what I can do. 

It’s the best commitment I can make at the moment. The phone call ends, and I’m left staring at the mess in my office. It’s a reflection of my life. Takeout containers from this morning and yesterday are stacked precariously on the corner of my desk, a testament to the many nights spent working late. My case files are a jigsaw puzzle of criminal charges, witness statements, and plea bargains waiting to be struck.

A knock at my door barely registers before Ethan, my fellow ADA, steps inside. He’s holding the Jackson file, a high-profile murder case that’s become my waking nightmare.

Kacie, we need to go over this.

His tone is urgent, and his face pinches with worry. I gesture to the chair opposite my desk, and he sits, sprawling the Jackson file across my desk.

The defense is going to argue self-defense based on the knife wounds on his hands. We need to be prepared to counter that.

I nod, my mind racing through the evidence photos, the angles of the wounds, the blood spatter patterns, and other notes.

The knife was in the defendant’s hand when Mr. Jackson, the victim, was stabbed. It doesn’t make sense for self-defense. The defendant was the aggressor.

Ethan leans forward, his eyes intense.

I agree, but we need to make the jury see that. The defense is going to play up the victim’s military background and his PTSD. They’ll say Jackson was a trained government killer, confusing the defendant with an insurgent from his time overseas. They’ll flip this and paint the defendant as the victim.

I rake a hand over my curly black hair, a strand catching on my watch.

We’ll highlight the premeditation, the threats he made. We’ve got the text messages and the emails.

We’ll dissect the narrative they’re trying to sell. Show motive and opportunity and expose every inconsistency in their self-defense claim.

Ethan’s nod is sharp and decisive. 

I’m working to bring in our expert to discuss the nature of the wounds and reenact the scene. Make it clear that the wounds on the defendant don’t match the story they’re peddling.

I swipe at a stack of folders, searching for a specific report, my fingers brushing against the cool plastic of my keyboard.

The transcript from the message is the most damning. It paints a picture to clear intent. Ethan. 

He leans forward, his gaze meeting mine when his elbows hit the edge of the desk.

We’ll need to prep our witnesses again, ensure they’re solid on the stand. The defense will be gunning to discredit them.

I nod, aware of the monumental task ahead.

They’ll be ready, I assure him, more a promise to myself than anything. We’re not letting this guy walk. Not after what he did to the victim.

I gather the content of the Jackson file to shove in the folder, the edges frayed from handling, and push it toward him. He stands, his eyes roaming stacks of documents for current cases, my notebooks scribbled with daily to-dos, and the collection of half-drunk coffee cups that I’m too lazy to wash out in the breakroom. 

We’ve got a strong case, Kacie. Ethan lingers in the doorway, clutching the file and tapping the frame. Another late night for you?

You know it. Bennett is only giving me one day this month. He’s off on some safari the following month, so everything is getting double booked. Not to mention Judge Warner’s retirement announcement. Did you hear about that? 

He frowns, his finger tightening over the worn wood of the door trim.

I did. It’s no wonder we’ll never catch up. If we could get more funding out of the city. 

He sighs, and I roll my eyes. The fight with the mayor’s office is recurring, resulting in the same old excuses. Bipartisan politics, corruption investigations, and failed voter amendments. 

Until then, I’ll need to decide which place I’m ordering dinner from tonight. I lean back in my chair, going over the usual places in my mind. You staying late?

"No, it’s the science fair at the school tonight. I’ve got to see how well the volcano my son built erupts." 

His use of finger quotes to drive home the point that he made the volcano makes me chuckle. I don’t have kids, married to my career of pursuing justice for the victims, but I hear enough stories from my colleagues to know that most parents construct their kids’ science and history projects. 

Didn’t you build a replica of the Alamo out of popsicle sticks last year?  

Sugar cubes. And yes, it never ends. He groans in frustration. Well, don’t stay too late. I’ll see ya in the morning. 

I’m still chuckling when he leaves, relishing the simplicity of my life. Me and work are all I have to focus on. The former is severely neglected. The latter monopolizes my waking hours. I wouldn’t have it any other way. 

The door closes with a soft click, leaving me in the quiet aftermath. I stand and stretch, my body stiff from hours of sitting, and my eyes burn with screen fatigue. I down the cold remains of my coffee and tidy up to create an open spot on my desk. The rest of my office is too overwhelming to even bother with. 

I collapse in my chair, my hips hurting and my back aching from the hours hunched over my computer. Reaching for the phone, I dial the familiar number of the barbeque place down the street. 

The usual but lean brisket this time and an extra fried okra.

I change my order ahead of my doctor’s appointment tomorrow morning. It’s no secret that I’ve gained weight over the years. The size four I used to be in college progressed to a size eight in law school, which turned into a size twelve with all my years here. 

Not that I like the weight gain. The rolls collecting around my middle don’t make me feel confident being naked in relationships, so I avoid them. Every new year is paved with good intentions of losing weight, so I feel comfortable starting dating. My procrastination and lack of discipline in putting myself first always win, resulting in me staying married to my work and putting on the pounds.

The food arrives as delicious as ever, and I continue working. Hours slip past, marked only by the rhythmic tap of my keyboard and the occasional murmur of the janitors as they make their rounds. They’re the witnesses to my relentless routine and the evidence of me living in my office. 

When I finally call it a night, my eyes are dry, my veins vibrate with too much coffee, and my body slumps with exhaustion. The janitors nod as I pass with a wave. Night security stopped acknowledging me leave long ago, even though I mutter goodnight every time I exit. The streets are cold and empty. The synchronized traffic lights are the only signs of life around me. By the time I get home, I’m walking dead and can’t even muster the energy to do anything more than brush my teeth and go to sleep. 

⚖️

The phone wails from my living room, where I dumped my purse last night. I peel my eyes open, regretting not washing my face and removing my stinging contacts. My eyes