Fit for Love

18. Ashton

Chapter 18

Ashton

After the newlyweds leave, the reception winds down. Emma’s grandparents leave next, followed by a few of the younger guests. Since I’m staying here at the mansion, I don’t rush to my room. Instead, I chew the lamp from the chandelier cake and ponder an important question: Why do boner pill commercials tell you to visit the ER if an erection lasts longer than four hours? I hope that directive only applies after you’ve taken a boner pill. Because when I’m around Kendall—which I have been for more than four hours today—I’m hard almost all the time, so if I’m doing some permanent damage to my dick, it would be nice to know that.

Speaking of Kendall, she gets up from her seat, says farewell to a bunch of people, pointedly ignores me, and heads out, hips swaying from side to side, sending even more blood to my dick.

Fuck. Me. Why do I have this reaction toward the one woman who’s gotten it into her head to hate me? Is this some sort of fetish?

Just as I’m about to throw caution to the wind and follow her out, I hear a soft feminine voice say, “Hi,” yanking my brain back to reality.

I turn and see that it’s the photographer/MC, except she’s not holding the camera or the mic.

“Hey.” I scooch my chair deeper under the table to hide my Kendall-induced erection. “What’s up?”

Damn. Bad choice of words, all things considered.

The woman smiles. “You’re Ashton, right?”

I nod. “And you’re Gala?”

“Yes.” Her eyes gleam with delight. “That’s me…” She looks at me expectantly.

“You did a great job hosting the event,” I say. “And I can’t wait for those pictures.” Especially the one where Kendall’s butt was on my crotch.

Gala blinks rapidly, like a pretty owl. “I came over to tell you that I’m going to be off the clock in just a few minutes…”

“Oh. That’s great.” Is she propositioning me? Didn’t she tell me a few hours ago that Kendall and I had a vibe? Or is that what got her interested?

“Yeah. So…” She moistens her glossy lips. “I was wondering if you wanted to talk… afterward?”

Damn. She is looking for a fuck. I’m certain of it now. And she’s a great-looking woman, so considering that I’m a warm-blooded male with a hard-on problem, I should be jumping for joy.

I surprise all three of us—Gala, myself, and my cock—when I say, “I actually have to call my girlfriend in a few minutes.”

Given Gala’s grimace, I wasn’t exactly subtle. But she doesn’t question why I didn’t bring my imaginary girlfriend as a plus one, and in general, she recovers quickly.

Thrusting a business card into my hand, she says, “Take this. If you and your girlfriend decide to tie the knot, I’d love to host your wedding.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you.”

She takes a step back. “I’m going to network some more. That’s what I was doing, by the way.”

“Of course. Good luck.”

She heads toward Jarrod, and my cock demands to know why the fuck I just turned down such an opportunity. I mean, we both know it was either Gala or my hand tonight—or else I won’t be able to sleep. And my cock is very tired of my hand because that’s all he’s known for the past three years.

And no. The lack of female company had nothing to do with Kendall and our way-too-memorable night together. I’ve just been busy with my business and haven’t met the right woman.

The music stops. Gala announces that she and the band are finished for the evening, and so is the open bar—but that all are welcome to hang out as long as we want.

After saying my goodbyes to the people still in the ballroom, I head to my room. The thought that is front and center on my mind for the second night in a row is that Kendall is sleeping under the same roof. She’s naked (in my fantasy at least) only a few steps away, her long legs?—

Groaning in frustration, I enter my bathroom and angrily fist my dick.

There. Maybe now I can get some sleep.

I wake up just as the sun is beginning to rise. Despite the early hour, I feel wide awake.

Fucking great. There goes my chance to sleep in on a rare day free of business meetings and client sessions.

Oh, well. I put on a pair of boxers and go to my balcony to watch the sunrise and do a bodyweight workout, followed by some yoga and a hot shower.

Okay, so maybe waking up early wasn’t so bad. Once the sun is up all the way, I dress and head to the kitchen to rummage through the fridge for some breakfast. Then I return to my room and stalk Kendall’s social media—purely because, as Sun Tzu famously said, “Know your enemy.”

Eventually, I realize how crazy what I’m doing is, so I try to think of something else to do, something where I’m unlikely to bump into her.

The beach is out because that’s where most people are probably going to be.

Maybe a jet ski tour?

No. If I do bump into her there, she’ll be wearing a bikini, and that way lies madness.

But I like the idea of a water activity. Maybe something on a boat? And maybe where I can see some wildlife?

I do some searching until I find a winner: Swamp Sparkle Safari.

That’s it. A swamp is the last place a fashionista would want to be, but to me, this seems like a perfect way to spend the day.

In another life, I might’ve enjoyed being a survivalist, making fire by focusing the sun’s rays through a water bottle and living off roasted squirrels.

I book the tour, and the owner, Bubba, tells me I got the last of the two “coveted” spots.

Bubba, who greets me when I show up for the tour, reminds me of a swamp-dwelling version of Captain Jack Sparrow from Pirates of the Caribbean , with alligator teeth weaved into his orange dreadlocks, camo clothes, and a bull’s skull belt buckle that’s large enough to impale a cow.

“How’s your momma and em?” Bubba asks after he gives me a very thorough handshake.

“Good?” I glance at the two boats nearby. “How are things with you?”

“It’s fixin’ to be a good day,” Bubba says. “Today’s I’m gonna ask my darlin’ to be my wife.” He gestures at the hut that serves as the office of Swamp Sparkle Safari. “Just don’t tell her when she gives you your paperwork.”

At that moment, a woman comes out of the hut, holding a piece of paper. She’s wearing a dress made out of the same camo material as Bubba’s outfit, and her face is hidden by a beekeeper mask. To deter mosquitos, maybe?

“G’day, mate,” she says with an Australian accent. “Alligator Dottie is my name. Giving tours that blow your mind is my game.” She thrusts the paper into my hands. “But first, sign the waiver.”

According to the paper, Swamp Sparkle Safari LLC is not responsible for gators eating any parts of the signee, or the signee having an allergic reaction to ticks or mosquito bites, or the signee getting rat lungworm after eating a raw apple snail.

Hmm. “Was that last one based on something that happened?” I ask Dottie as I sign.

She nods. “And I told her, deep fry the critter, but she didn’t listen, and then later died of eosinophilic meningitis.”

“Right. Okay. Raw apple snails are off the menu.”

“It seems like you’re ready,” Dottie says. “Now go ahead, jump into my boat.”

“Hold up a minute,” Bubba drawls. “I’ve had a change of heart.” He looks at me, then at Dottie, and then at me again. “I’ll take him, and you take the other client.”

“Why?” Dottie asks. “You don’t trust me with this spunk?”

Is that an Australian compliment?

“I trust ya but…” I can see him thinking, hard. “It’s just that the other client sounded fancy pants. She might feel more comfortable getting a ride from a lady.”

“All right.” Dottie takes the paper from me. “Have a ripper of a time.”