Fit for Love

11. Kendall

Chapter 11

Kendall

“Yes, Tierre,” I say into my phone. “I told the dry-cleaning lady that her service was ‘merde.’” And then thanked my lucky stars she didn’t know French.

I suppress a sigh. Ever since Mr. Boss sniffed out that I want to be a designer myself, he’s dangled opportunities in front of me, but of course, said opportunities have come at a cost: I’m even more like an indentured servant these days.

“And you found a replacement?” he demands.

I don’t bother reminding him that today is Saturday, which means I’m supposed to only be available to him for emergencies. “I found replacements, plural. A new dry-cleaning place, friendlier landscapers, and an aesthetician who says she can wax anything you want and at any time of day.” Except Sunday mornings, but that’s okay because that’s the time Tierre usually sleeps in.

“Keep it up,” Mr. Boss says and hangs up.

Whew. I was afraid Tierre would get wind of the fact that I’m about to have brunch at a restaurant that even he can’t get into willy-nilly.

I still can’t believe I’m going to have brunch here, among all the models and celebs. And billionaires, like Emma’s new boyfriend, Marcus Carelli.

Yeah, that’s a new development, and an unexpected one. I mean, the dude is a Wall Street whizz who’s graced the cover of Forbes more than once—and my cat lady friend is dating him. Not that Emma isn’t gorgeous. Underneath her frumpy clothes, she’s totally hot, with her wild red hair and J. Lo. booty, but she’s barely dated anyone in the past couple of years. And then to score a billionaire?

I’m genuinely impressed, and more than a little jealous.

“Do you have a reservation?” the hostess—who totally did a few photoshoots for us a few months back—demands as I step in.

“Yes. It’s under Carelli.”

Her eyes widen. “Oh. I see. Right this way.” She leads me to a table in the back, and as I walk through the restaurant, I spot two female reality TV stars, a lead from the latest Marvel movie, and the male model who has a restraining order against Tierre.

I’m so excited I might pee my pants.

Almost as soon as I take a seat, Emma walks in with her billionaire.

My jaw falls open.

Firstly, Marcus is infinitely more handsome and intimidating in person. I can see why he’s swept Emma off her feet even though she claims he’s not her type. With his dark, boldly masculine features, powerful build, and piercing blue eyes, I’m pretty sure he’s everyone’s type. And would be even if he weren’t a freaking billionaire.

Secondly, and more importantly, Emma has had a makeover! Her worn-out, cat-hair-covered clothes and Walmart shoes are nowhere in sight. Instead, she’s wearing a hipster-cool dress-and-booties combo, and her long, bouncy red curls frame her face in a stylish new manner.

“Ems!” I yell as they approach the table. “Wow, look at your dress! And your hair! What did you do and when?”

And why was I not involved? I’m the friend who’s in fashion, after all, so if?—

“Got a haircut at a new place yesterday and did a little shopping,” she says, beaming at me. “You like?”

“I love it!” And I do. I love the new look, and I love the way she looks next to her very rich, very male accessory.

I give my bestie a hug, then turn to Marcus. “Doesn’t she look absolutely stunning?”

His gaze travels hungrily over Emma. “Yes. Always.”

Oh, wow. I barely resist the urge to fan myself. The two of them in real life is what porn would look like if it were made by Hallmark. The chemistry is palpable. His eyes say that he’d gladly fuck her right here and now, and it would be a no-holds-barred fuck.

Do I sound pervy? I think I do. It must be my viciously long dry spell talking.

Clearing my throat, I thrust out my hand at Emma’s boyfriend. “Kendall Bryce. I don’t think we’ve ever formally introduced ourselves.”

“Marcus Carelli,” he replies. “It’s nice to formally meet you, Kendall.”

“Marcus’s friend, Ashton, is joining us for lunch,” Emma tells me as we sit down and the waiter brings a pitcher of water for the table. “I told Marcus you wouldn’t mind.”

A friend? Another billionaire, hopefully. “Of course not. The more, the merrier.” I wait until Marcus looks down at the menu, then catch Emma’s gaze and pantomime swooning.

Emma’s lips twitch like she’s about to laugh, but then she looks at her boyfriend and I suddenly feel like a third wheel.

“So, Marcus,” I say when he raises his eyes from the menu. “Emma told me the two of you are doing a trial run of living together. How is that going so far? Are you surviving the feline invasion?”

He grins. “For the most part. I did wake up the other morning with a furry butt on my face, but Emma assured me that the cats clean themselves thoroughly—and that Mr. Puffs didn’t sneak into the bedroom and try to smother me on purpose.”

“Oh, no,” I say with a laugh. “I’d be careful if I were you. The things I’ve heard about that cat…”

“All true,” Marcus says. “He may indeed be of demonic origin. Luckily, his siblings are quite harmless, and I largely get along with them.”

“He’s being modest,” Emma says, laying a hand on his sleeve. “Cottonball has fallen head over heels in love with him. He follows Marcus around like a puppy.”

Before I can reply, the waiter comes over to take our drink orders. Emma—being her usual frugal, pathologically independent self—asks for plain water, while I get a hibiscus iced tea and so does Marcus.

Just as the waiter leaves, a man approaches our table, and I automatically scan him, starting with his shoes.

He’s wearing Italian loafers. Armani jeans. A light-colored cashmere sweater that he fills out very nicely. I can tell his face will be attractive even before I lift my gaze.

Oh. Fuck.

I know this face.

This is?—

“Great call on the place,” the newcomer says to Marcus as he takes a seat next to me. “I’ve been meaning to try it, but you beat me to it.”

What. The. Actual. Fuck.

The last time I saw him, he was?—

“Ashton Vancroft,” he says to me with a smile that is as fake as it is wide. “And you are?”

To add insult to injury, he extends his hand to me.

I give him my most withering glare.

“Kendall Bryce,” I grit out.

He keeps his fucking hand out, which makes me want to stab it with the butter knife. But I’m not the kind of person who makes a scene, so with great effort, I ignore the proffered appendage and angle my chair so I don’t have to look at his smug, gorgeous face.

Shit.

Maybe I have made a scene, after all.

Emma is gaping at me.

This is just great. I never told her about my one-night stand with this literal manwhore, so?—

“So,” Ash—or Ashton, or whatever the fuck his full name is—drawls. “What’s good here?”

Looking puzzled, Emma’s boyfriend says wryly, “Everything, I assume.” Then he cocks an eyebrow. “Do you two know each other?”

“No.” I flag down our waiter and, when he hurries over, order a pitcher of sangria.

This is what I get for not telling my best friend about the hottest—and most humiliating—one-night stand of my life.

“Are you going to share that?” Ashton—as I’ve decided to call him in an effort not to think about that night—asks, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “Or are you planning to drink the whole thing by yourself?”

My fists itch. Would it be considered a scene if I punched his fucking face as my reply?

Emma clears her throat. “So, Ashton, how is your business going? Any luck slowing down that revenue growth?”

Business? Revenue growth? Just how many women has he been “training?” Must be a lot, judging by those nice clothes he’s wearing. He totally looks like he belongs here, with the rich and famous. There’s even a subtle air of commanding arrogance around him, the same kind of power that Marcus Carelli exudes.

Except Marcus is a genuine self-made billionaire, and his friend is a “personal trainer with benefits.” How do the two of them even know each other?

Then again, Carelli wasn’t always a billionaire. In fact, he’s a classic rags-to-riches story, so this could be a friend from his rags days. Except Emma’s boyfriend went into finance, while his friend decided to fuck his way into money.

Damn it. Now I have a mental image of his massive cock poking through a hundred-dollar bill. A weirdly hot, unwelcome image that?—

“Afraid not,” the asshole replies with a grimace. “It’s like a snowball rolling down a mountain—just keeps gathering momentum.”

Now I see an image of a snowball covered with dicks. Wait, why multiple dicks? Or any?

As I’m trying to untangle that puzzle, Ashton looks from Emma to Marcus. “How about you two lovebirds? How’s everything? Is the wedding date already set?”

Emma bursts out laughing. “Oh, yes. It’s tomorrow night at Disney World. Six o’clock. Be there or meet Mickey’s wrath.”

She’s referring to a gossip rag article about the two of them with the clickbait headline of “Is One of New York’s Most Eligible Getting Hitched at Disney World?”

Yes, that’s right. My best friend now shows up in gossip rags. Like a freaking celebrity.

Marcus doesn’t look amused. Instead, he eyes Ashton like he’d help me punch his friend in the balls… for starters.

Ashton must feel our joint wrath because he clears his throat and motions to the waiter, who comes over with the same record-setting speed.

“What have you got on tap?” Ashton asks, and the waiter rattles off a list of beer names.

Ashton orders one, and Marcus gets one too—which means that the pitcher of sangria is going to just be for me, after all. Which is fine.

I’m pretty sure I’ll need it.

“So, everyone,” Marcus says. “What are your Christmas plans?”

I do my best to pull myself together and tell them I’ll be seeing my family. My nemesis says he has the same plans, though he doesn’t sound terribly excited. I wonder if it’s because his parents disapprove of his chosen profession.

If so, I don’t blame them.

Picking up on the continuing tension, Marcus steers the conversation back to Emma’s cats and their shenanigans—which, annoyingly, makes me remember Ashton’s dog, Sir Ems. Still, I laugh at the cat stories, if only halfheartedly, and avoid looking at Ashton because that way lies causing a worse scene.

When the appetizers arrive, I excuse myself to go to the bathroom. Emma is waiting for me when I emerge from the stall, but I avoid her gaze, not ready to answer her inevitable questions.

I don’t know why I haven’t told her what happened three years ago, but I’m even less inclined to do so now.

When I get back to the table, Marcus and Emma do their best to make the meal less awkward, but what it actually takes is three glasses of sangria, after which the buzz takes some of the edge off and allows me to tell them about the crazy errands Tierre sends me on.

“Why?” Emma asks when I describe the time Mr. Boss tasked me with locating him a female virgin with his exact blood type.

I shrug. “He read that giving an older person a blood transfusion from a younger person can make the former feel more youthful.”

“I think the ‘why’ Emma meant was, ‘Why a virgin?’” Marcus chimes in.

“My boss’s mind works in mysterious ways?”

To prove this point, I tell them a few more anecdotes in the same vein, but then the conversation veers toward crazy dating stories, so I share about the guy who was dead set on showing me his ex-girlfriend’s picture, no matter what I said. As I go on, I notice Ashton squeezing his fork and glaring at me through a clenched-teeth smile.

Huh.

Is he afraid I’ll tell them the story of how we met?

Serves him right, but no. That isn’t what I want either, so we end up talking about our favorite shows and movies instead—because that’s safe… unless someone here is an avid fan of Deuce Bigalow: Male Gigolo .

The conversation flows, and I manage not to cause a scene until the check comes, which is when Marcus and Ashton start fighting over who’ll pay it—and decide to split it in half. As if I were Ashton’s date.

Oh, no. Fuck that.

Normally, I don’t mind letting a guy pay for me, but not Ashton.

Never Ashton.

Unable to stop myself from shooting Ashton another glare, I whip out my credit card and plunk it into the waiter’s hand, telling him to put my portion of the bill on it.

“This isn’t a double date,” I say to Emma when she raises her freshly groomed eyebrows.

Without waiting for a reply, I chug the rest of my sangria, and as soon as the waiter comes back, I sign the check, mumble a rushed farewell to Emma and Marcus, and hurry out as fast as my Manolo Blahniks can carry me.

The first thing I do when I get home is pack my shoes in a plastic bag and seal it thoroughly to lock in the odor. The second thing I do is brainstorm something I should’ve figured out as soon as I finished my MFA: a dress design that is completely my own. That lasts about thirty seconds before I give in to temptation and look up Ashton Vancroft.

Holy fuck.

He’s got a whole fitness empire now. His ThriveFit app is at the top of all the app stores’ charts, with ravingly great reviews, and his clients include every celebrity I can think of.

And there are interviews with the asshole. Tons of them.

How did I manage to miss his rapid ascent? Normally, I know everyone and everything.

The only explanation I can think of is that after that night, I’ve pathologically avoided anything to do with gyms and fitness, my morning runs excluded.

In a moment of weakness, I click on a video of an interview with him and hear in his own words how the techie side of his business began when he wanted to help his clients remotely but couldn’t find an app that did everything he needed—so he had one created.

Stopping the video, I snort.

Help his clients remotely. What is that a euphemism for—phone sex or sexting?

Resuming the video, I listen to the rest and cringe as Ashton pretends that he cares nothing about the financial aspect of his achievements.

“Ultimately, I’m in the business of bringing happiness,” he says. “And that’s all I care about.”

Somehow, that just makes me angrier—because in a fucked-up way, it’s probably true. “Bringing happiness” one orgasm at a time was what he was doing when I met him. Catherine sure seemed happy with his services.

Maybe I should’ve been too?

No, fuck that. I didn’t know he was simply rendering services. He made me feel special, like what happened between us was unique—until I learned there was a conveyor belt of other women who felt exactly the same.

Well, whatever. Clearly, his strategy worked, and he’s insanely rich now. If not a billionaire like Marcus, then well on his way. No wonder he was dressed so nicely at that brunch—it’s all chump change to him now.

I must be a masochist because I pull up more articles about him and learn that he actually comes from old money. Which explains his air of commanding arrogance. Come to think of it, he even had it when we met three years ago, when he was still just a trainer who was working through the Kama Sutra with his clients on the side.

Ugh. I need to stop thinking about him. Delete him from my mind the way I did from my phone.

So that’s exactly what I try to do for the next few days: I refuse to talk about him no matter how hard Emma pries. I even manage to resist Emma’s most enhanced interrogation technique—a shopping trip for Manolo Blahniks.