Fit for Love

1. Kendall

Chapter 1

Kendall

Ugh, why are men such dogs?

Mr. Boss’s Wife Number Five turns around, arching a trendily bushy eyebrow. “What did you say?”

Oh, crap. Did I say that out loud? I put on my most professional smile. “Nothing. Just?—”

“What is that mopey face doing on my set?” Tierre vigorously fans himself with peacock feathers. “I told you, I can’t have any negative juju here.” He points his bejeweled finger into the distance, away from the dreadlocked white tiger, the albino iguana, and the giant mist machine working overtime—in other words, the usual things that make one think “high fashion.” Or just “high.”

I back away until I’m out of Mr. Boss’s sight. It’s my first week on the job, and I’ve already been in hot water twice—once for getting barked at by Tierre’s female French bulldog (a bitch that is apparently hypersensitive to “sad juju vibes”) and now again for somehow looking “mopey.”

I mean, I do feel a bit sad and mopey. Or more than a bit, to be honest. I may have even cried in the bathroom on my lunch break yesterday. Which sucks because the cheating asshole I was dating doesn’t deserve a single tear. Unless it’s somebody tearing him a new one—a task for which I’d gladly volunteer.

I should probably just stop dating. Become a nun, stop waxing, and forget pedicures. Or worse, date total losers, like my friend Emma does. The guys she goes for could never get another girl of her caliber, so she’s been spared the heartache of getting dumped by yet another hot dude. Or dumping him after finding out he was dating three other girls at the same time—which is my latest situation.

Whatever. I need to focus on de-mopefying myself… somehow. Maybe I should listen to some Bach? Meditate? Rewatch Zoolander ?

“Hey, wait up,” Wife Number Five says, catching up to me.

“Hey… you.” I mentally kick myself for not writing down her name as soon as Mr. Boss introduced us. The problem is, a second later, he also introduced me to his dog, and as a result, I’m not sure which of them is Cleopatra and which is Catherine. The mnemonic for both is that there was a historical queen with the same name, but that only helps when it comes to not forgetting the names.

“Are you going through a breakup or something?” she asks.

Shit. The last thing I want is to have a girl talk with my boss’s wife. Then again, if she sympathizes, maybe she’ll ask her hubby to be nicer to me.

“I got cheated on,” I admit.

She cocks her head. “And then?”

And then? “I dumped his ass.” And I might’ve stuffed his favorite T-shirt into the garbage disposal and let it run.

“I see,” she says sagely. “That’s one of the many problems with the whole monogamy paradigm.”

“Oh?” Please, for the love of God, don’t invite me to an orgy—because that’s where this seems to be headed.

“Not sure if you know this, but Tierre and I have an open marriage,” she says, proudly lifting her surgeon-sculpted nose. “This way, cheating is impossible.”

Is it? “That sounds really evolved,” I say as nonjudgmentally as possible. “I’m just too possessive for that, I guess.”

“You’re just young,” she says. “Your passions are running wild.”

“Thanks?”

She’s in her mid-forties to Tierre’s sixty. Rumor has it, the gap between Mr. Boss and each wife gets wider with each iteration. Then again, also according to rumor, he may not be interested in women at all, except that he thinks a wife keeps people guessing at his sexual preferences and therefore gives him an air of mystery.

“Come closer,” she says.

Reluctantly, I do—and it’s like diving into a pool of perfume.

“I know exactly what you need,” she whispers, leaning in.

“Oh?” Seriously. Don’t invite me to an orgy. I beg you.

She pulls out a business card. Printed on it in neat letters is the word “Essence” and an address. “Go to this gym and ask for Ash,” she says. “Thank me tomorrow.”

Oh. A workout. That’s a great idea. With enough endorphins in my body, I may look less mopey after all.

“Thanks.” I pocket the card.

“No problem.” She hands me her credit card, and when I glance at it, I see which of the two queen names is hers.“The first session is on me.”

Does she realize she sounds like a drug dealer?“Thanks again, Catherine,” I say earnestly. “I really appreciate it.”

She waves that away. “I’m a good judge of character, and I think you’re perfect for this job.”

I feel like kissing her for saying that, but that’s inappropriate, right? Not to mention, if I do kiss her, she may invite me to that orgy, so I just thank her gushingly instead and commit her name to permanent memory.

Emma calls me right as I finish telling my cabbie where I’m headed.

“Hey, Ems,” I say. “How are things going?”

“The kittens are driving me insane,” she says without missing a beat. “Especially the biggest one.”

“That’s Mr. Cottonball, right?”

I’m more of a dog person myself—at least when I’m not mad at men—but the kittens mean so much to my bestie that it’s only polite to allow her to talk about them.

“Wrong,” she says, and I can tell she’s grinning without needing to see her. “The demon spawn’s name is Mr. Puffs. Cottonball is actually an angel, and so is Queen Elizabeth.”

Hmm. “If I were Cottonball, I’d be the one giving you shit for not bestowing me with any honorifics or titles.”

She laughs and launches into a long story about something the kittens did, followed by several more. After about ten minutes, she must realize that even a saint would be losing interest in the subject, so she asks how things are with me. Sighing in relief, I tell her about my latest failure in the dating market.

“That really sucks,” she says sympathetically. “After all the rotten luck you’ve had lately, you deserve a lucky break.”

“Nope. No more getting lucky for me,” I say firmly. “I’m done with men.” And having kissed our mutual friend Janie back in college, I—unfortunately—have zero desire to bat for the other team.

Emma snorts. “Yeah, right. How long is that going to last? A week? Or—gasp—a month?”

“Listen, my darling,” I say with an eyeroll. “Not all of us have an old lady’s libido.”

“Excuse me?” She huffs. “My libido is perfectly fine, thank you very much.”

“Oh, yeah? When was the last time?—”

“Kendall?” she says theatrically and hisses like a cat. “Kendall, can you hear me? I think I’m losing connection.” She hisses again—though it might actually be one of her kittens this time.

“Seriously, Ems?”

Yep. She’s dead serious. The sneaky little bitch hangs up on me, which is just as well because the cab stops at my destination.

When I step into Essence, I realize it’s a social club for the uber rich that masquerades as a gym. Behind the front desk is a Warhol painting—a genuine one, I’m pretty sure—and in the far corner, I spot a celebrity heiress on an elliptical machine.

“Hello.” I slide Catherine’s card toward the supermodel-hot front desk woman. “I’m here to see Ash.”

She looks flustered for a second but recovers quickly. “You will find clothes in the locker room.” She gestures at the swanky entrance nearby. “Go and change, then warm up on that treadmill.” She points to a machine near the heiress. “I’ll have him find you there.”

I head to the locker room as instructed, not surprised in the slightest when it turns out that the place provides you with activewear by Versace.

As I change, I make a mental note to find out if Tierre has ever dabbled in gym clothes and to suggest it in case he hasn’t.

Exiting the locker room, I go to the treadmill in question and fiddle with the unfamiliar controls.

Soon, I’m running and generating those endorphins, but sadly, mopey thoughts intrude, so I bump up the speed, once. Twice. Thrice.

Crap. I never attached the red safety thingy to my leggings.

Well, better late than never. Panting, I grab the bar and reach for it—but just then, my right foot steps on the left.

Fuck me.

Instinctively, I let go of the bar as I fight to regain my balance, and that’s a mistake because the belt carries me back in an eyeblink… and I find myself airborne.