16. Kendall
Chapter 16
Kendall
When Betty and the driver depart, I roll my suitcase to the front staircase of the mansion and take it all in: the giant columns, the twenty-foot ceilings, and—thanks to it being beachfront—the smell of the salty air.
“Let me help you with that,” says a deep, smooth, and all-too-familiar voice.
I narrow my eyes at Ashton, who’s just exited the front doors and is coming down the stairs. “You’re also staying here?”
Is it my imagination, or does he look even hotter than he did on the plane?
“Everyone is.” He stops next to me and grabs my bag before I can stop him. “I thought you knew that.”
I glare up at him. “If you’re here, then I’m not.”
Ignoring my statement, he carries my bag up the stairs with ridiculous ease. “I thought we agreed to be civil.”
I hurry after him and grab the handle of my suitcase as soon as he puts it down. “And I will be. At the wedding. Tomorrow.”
He blows out a frustrated breath as I begin rolling my suitcase back toward the stairs. “You can take the room that’s farthest from mine.”
Before I can respond, Janie—the third musketeer to me and Emma back in college—runs out and lays it on very thick about how happy she is to see me.
Fuck. I can’t bail now. Ever since Janie started dating her current boyfriend, whom I’ve dubbed Mr. Suck-Up, two things have drastically changed: her appearance and how frequently we hang out. If I walk away without explaining my beef with Ashton, she’ll think it a snub to her.
So I pointedly ignore Ashton’s glare as I wheel my suitcase deeper into the mansion, with Janie trotting next to me and telling me all about how she and her boyfriend flew on Marcus’s plane, along with everyone else—and had a blast, of course.
“One second,” I tell Janie, stopping as I realize I don’t know where I’m going. Pasting on a fake smile, I turn around to face Ashton, who’s standing in the entryway, watching us with slitted eyes. “Which room should I take?”
As in, which is the farthest from his?
He gestures at the south wing. “Third door on the left. Help yourself.”
And before I can reply, he disappears down the hallway opposite the entryway.
“What was that about?” Janie asks. “Do you know him?”
“No.” If I didn’t explain this to Emma, I’m certainly not going to share with Janie.
“Well, I think he likes you,” she says. “He was eyeing you like you’re edible.”
My mind flashes back to all the times he ate me out during our night together, and an unwelcome flush creeps up my neck. I huff to cover up my discomfort. “I’m sure that’s how he looks at anything with breasts.”
Janie snorts. “He didn’t look like that at me, and I have breasts.”
That she does—and they’re still natural, as far as I can tell, though she’ll probably get a boob job soon.
Back in the day, I called Janie “Miss Natural” because she studiously avoided chemicals, fragrances, and dyes. Now, due to Mr. Suck-Up’s influence, she looks like she’s stepped out of one of Tierre’s shoots. The only nod to her former self is the lack of perfume, but that is merely to appease Marcus, the person Mr. Suck-Up is dying to please.
“Did you know that tonight’s dinner—and tomorrow’s reception—will be prepared by a Michelin-starred chef?” she asks.
“No.” And the Janie I knew never cared about things like Michelin stars; her main concern would’ve been whether the ingredients were non-GMO.
“I wonder which one,” she muses. “Landon thinks it’s one of Gordon Ramsay’s students, or maybe even the man himself.”
Right. Landon is her boyfriend’s actual name. “Listen, Janie, I’m pretty beat after the flight. Can we catch up later?”
“Of course,” she chirps. “See you at dinner.”
Maybe. If Emma and Marcus aren’t there, I won’t be either.
I claim my room, which turns out to have a glorious ocean view and is bigger than my Manhattan apartment.
Watching the waves break against the golden sand, I call Emma to find out about dinner. Turns out, she and Marcus are visiting her grandparents and won’t make it to the mansion until late.
That settles it. I’m going to order in some food. But first, I need to plan a proper vacation activity for after the wedding—because I told Mr. Boss the festivities would last four days, since I haven’t had an actual holiday in ages.
The question is, what do I do with my free time?
It’s February, so the ocean is going to be too cold for my liking despite the heatwave forecasted for the next couple of days. Nor am I into theme parks, especially if it’s going to be in the upper 80s, as predicted. Though something nature-y might be nice, something unique to Florida.
I end up settling on Swamp Sparkle Safari, which is an overnight airboat tour that sounds amazing. According to their spiel, the owner takes you to a remote swamp location that only he knows about, and you get to experience bioluminescence and encounter gators cavorting with turtles, along with a firefly light show that accompanies a frog serenade.
“I’m sold,” I tell the owner, Bubba, who picks up the phone when I call. “Book me for the day after tomorrow.”
“You’re not going to regret this,” he says in a charming Southern accent. “The cabin where you’ll be staying at just got renovated.”
“Thanks. I’ll see you soon.”
I’m glad I planned for this. Even if I weren’t desperate for a vacation, I’ll need the relaxation after the hard work of being civil to Ashton.
Vacation plans arranged, I order Mexican takeout and deal with the numerous emails and texts from Tierre that piled up while I was offline.
Once my inbox is blissfully empty, I open Adobe Illustrator and stare at the screen, hoping for a visit from the design inspiration fairy—whom I picture looking like a hybrid between Tinkerbell and Tierre.
I feel like I might be on the verge of an idea, but then the chiming of the doorbell interrupts my musings and the inspiration vanishes. Annoyed, I get up and go to the front door to get my food.
“Here are your orders,” the delivery guy says and gives me two bags, one heavier than the other.
“Orders, as in plural?”
“One of those is mine,” Ashton says from behind me. “The one with shrimp tacos.”
“Good choice.” The guy points at the heavier of the two bags. “That would be that one.”
Damn it. Now I want shrimp tacos. Mine are grilled steak and pork.
“Why are you ordering takeout?” I demand as soon as the delivery guy leaves.
“Because I figured you’d want to dine with your friend Janie.”
I know this might be hypocritical given that I’m avoiding him, but the idea that he’s avoiding me pisses me off.
“Fine. I guess I will join Janie and the rest of them.”
“Go ahead,” he says with infuriating magnanimousness. “I only know two people at that table, Geoffrey and Jarrod, and I’m not that close to either.”
The names sound familiar.
Ah, right, one of them is Marcus’s CIO and the other is his butler—not sure which is which.
“Have fun,” he says, then turns around and leaves.
I locate the dining room and add my tacos to the pile of food already on the table.
Unlike Tierre, I don’t believe in juju or the evil eye, but if I did, I’d be positive Ashton’s “have fun” cursed this dinner because it turns out to be boring, awkward, and tedious, with Mr. Suck-Up telling us endless stories about Goldman Sachs, the investment bank where he works.
On the bright side, the stories manage to make me so drowsy I fall asleep as soon as I get to my room.
Unfortunately, the curse continues.
I’m bombarded by a variety of wet dreams, all of which feature Ashton.