Fit for Love

23. Kendall

Chapter 23

Kendall

When I wake up, I’m wrapped around Ashton like a slutty Snuggie.

Okay, this seems familiar. Does that mean it wasn’t a dream when we had sex for the third time?

I scan my body, particularly my private parts.

Shit. I’m sore enough to believe that yes, we did it again.

Which I guess makes sense. I pinched myself and that hurt, so it must not have been a dream. Then again, he made me come three times, each orgasm more powerful than the last—and I swallowed, all of which have never happened outside of a dream before.

I carefully extricate myself and look out the window.

It’s still pitch black out, so my best bet is to go back to sleep.

Except sleep doesn’t come, and I’m not sure if that’s because I already got my six hours or because I keep replaying our last conversation in my head.

I mean, did Ashton really expect me to believe that bullshit about not sleeping with anyone for three years? The very years he got rich and therefore had even more women throwing themselves at him? I mean, he was already swimming in pussy as a trainer at the time we met.

But what if, somehow, he told me the truth?

No, that’s impossible.

Then again, it happens. I mean, I’m not hideous or anything, but despite what Emma and my other friends believe, I’m not getting laid on the regular. In fact, in my case, I did have a three-year break from sex—but not because Ashton’s big cock ruined me for anyone else or any such nonsense. I’ve just had bad luck, that’s all. Horrible date on top of horrible date.

Could he have been too busy with his business? Or had a streak of bad luck, like I did?

No. No way. Once a dog, always a dog.

Then again, why does it matter to me? Even if he told me the truth, and even if I wanted something more between us, there’s a problem.

There’s the thing he said about sex workers.

I sneak a worried glance at still-peacefully sleeping Ashton. It’s crazy, I know, but even thinking about this so close to him makes me nervous, as if he might somehow overhear my thoughts.

No, that’s silly. He’s out like a light. And my thoughts are safe inside my head.

I sigh softly.

Something that I don’t like to even think about, let alone share with anyone, is that I have a side gig that some—maybe many—would consider… sex work. Not the traditional version, obviously, given my three-year abstinence streak, but there is something I do that’s vaguely in the same-ish ballpark.

Unless it’s not?

Not for the first time, I wish I’d spoken to Emma or some other friend about my secret project. I didn’t do so because I was embarrassed, doubly so because said gig has been the perfect cover for my family’s financial troubles.

I could talk to Emma after she comes back from her honeymoon.

Nah. Not worth it. In some not-too-distant future, I will come up with my own designs and drop the side gig because I’ll have enough money to live on from the job of my dreams.

Speaking of designs, I don’t know if it’s Ashton’s proximity inspiring the idea, but what if I created something like athleisure clothes, but more versatile? I mean, brands like Lululemon make yoga and workout clothes that you can wear to the supermarket, but is it possible to take that a step further and create an outfit that you can wear to the gym, and to work, and even to happy hour afterward?

Maybe even something you can wear to a formal party?

If nothing else, that sounds like a fun challenge.

Yeah, the gears are already turning. It would have to be some kind of a jumpsuit. Hmm. Maybe made out of a stretchy and moisture-wicking material? A blend of nylon and spandex?

Yes. That could work. I’d have to find the perfect ratio.

It would also need breathable lining and a built-in bra.

I can almost see it.

Adjustable straps, of course.

A zipper that’s easy to hide.

High-waisted, with tapered legs, so you can wear it equally well with sneakers or heels.

I’d call it FlexiChic.

No. That sounds like a porn site for people with a gymnast fetish.

Maybe VersaWear?

A blood-curdling scream rings out from outside, and my first thought is that Bubba and Dottie have come back, and now he’s murdering her with a dull butter knife.

Ashton sits up. “What the fuck?”

Dottie screams again.

Ashton leaps to his feet and rushes outside.

“Wait!”

I reluctantly follow him, cursing testosterone as I go. I mean, who runs toward such a scream?

Once I’m out, I find Ashton sans Dottie or Bubba, and cursing very creatively in the faint light from the half-moon above.

A moment later, I hear one more “scream.”

No, not a scream.

It’s a call of a large bird that resembles a crane. And now that I see the source, the call sounds much less like a woman being brutally tortured via butter knife and more like a “kwee.” Which is a good thing.

“That’s a limpkin,” Ashton says.

“A limp what?”

“Limpkin,” he enunciates. “I saw one on the way here, but it was blissfully silent. Bubba did tell me they have ‘interesting’ calls.”

I grimace. “Leave it to that guy to redefine ‘horrifying’ as ‘interesting.’ By that logic, this tour is very interesting.”

Ashton frowns. “I can’t believe they’re not back. It’s almost dawn. We were supposed to see the bioluminescence together—which implies evening or nighttime.”

My reply is my best “I told you so” look. “If they drowned during the storm, we’re screwed,” I say. “Even if our friends look for us, I’m not sure they’ll be able to find us. After all, Bubba kept emphasizing how secret this place is. What if it’s not on any maps? What if?—”

“Let’s not spiral,” Ashton says, a bit grimly. “When it gets light out, I’ll take a look at that boat once again. Maybe they left the key somewhere inside, or nearby?”

“It’s possible.” I heroically resist reminding him about his skepticism over our ability to find our way out on a boat.

He gestures for me to go back inside.

“No, you go ahead,” I tell him. “I’ll join in a second.”

He frowns. “Oh?”

“Nature calls.”

He nods and steps into the cabin.

With a sigh, I brave the outhouse, and by the time I’m done using it, I feel violated and in need of a shower—which isn’t available.

When I return to the cabin, Ashton hands me a bottle of hand sanitizer, and I want to kiss him for being so much better prepared—but I don’t, obviously, because reasons.

He returns to whatever he was doing by the water cooler.

I walk over and stare as he separates the trail mix into subcomponents.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Breakfast.”

“Yeah. Okay. That explains everything.”

“I figured I’d make you hot chocolate,” he says and gestures at the cup with M&Ms.

My stomach feels fluttery at his thoughtfulness—or maybe I just swallowed a few of the fireflies while I was asleep.

“How?” I ask.

“First, I will crush them in a plastic bag. Next, I will melt the powder over that”—he gestures at the candle—“and combine it with water.”

“Wow.” I take the cup with the chocolates. “How about I save you the trouble? I’m happy to eat them as is and then chase them down with water.”

“Sure, I guess,” he says, then takes the assortment of dried fruit he had separated and dunks them into a glass with water.

“What’s that about?” I ask.

He shrugs. “It makes them taste more like real fruit?”

Is that a good thing? But more importantly… “Why are you separating the peanuts?”

Another shrug. “They’re my favorite, so I wanted to enjoy a handful all at once.”

Huh. “I like walnuts myself.”

He gestures at the cup that contains nuts and seeds that aren’t peanuts. “Help yourself.”

We proceed to harvest our breakfast from there, which is a lot more enjoyable than you’d expect. I even like the rehydrated dried fruit—especially because it doesn’t stick to your teeth like the regular version. Not to mention, the leftover water from said fruit is a delicacy in itself.

As we eat and drink, Ashton tells me what else he’s considered making from the trail mix: ideas that include things like porridge, nut cheese, and protein bars.

“If only we had a blender,” he says wistfully. “I’d make a killer smoothie with what we have.”

I sip the dry-fruit emulsion water. “Looks like you have a backup career option as a chef.”

He smiles. “I give people advice on what to eat, and they often say, ‘But that won’t taste good,’ so I have to be ready with recipe ideas that contradict such statements.” He looks thoughtful for a second. “You know, maybe that should be the next feature of ThriveFit.”

“Food?”

He shakes his head. “We can already track calories and nutrition, but we don’t offer recipes. It might be nice if you could give ThriveFit healthy ingredients, and it suggested what you could make… It might require AI or something like that. I’ll have to talk to my sister about this.”

Huh. Who knew that watching a man come up with improvements to software could be such a turn-on?

“My brother works with AI,” I tell him. “Maybe I could put you in touch?”

Assuming we leave this swamp alive.

Ashton’s eyes light up. “That would be amazing, thanks.”

“It’s no big deal.” Cameron will be happy to get more business for his company.

“So, what about you?” Ashton asks. “Do you have a backup career?”

“No.” But if I were crazy enough to tell him about my secret source of income, this would be a great time. “It’s fashion or nothing.”

He nods. “That’s being focused. It should only help.”

“I’m not sure I’m focused enough,” I say. “Tierre has got me so busy at work that I haven’t had the time to sit down and come up with my own ideas.”

Ashton sweeps a hand over the dingy room. “Take advantage of the enforced downtime.”

“I already have,” I admit, and then tell him about my VersaWear idea.

“That sounds great,” he says. “I have countless clients who’d find such a thing useful. In fact, when it’s finished, I’d be glad to plug VersaWear for you.”

Seriously, how many of those damned fireflies did I swallow?

“That’s too generous,” I say. “I’m not sure I can accept.”

He waves that off. “Let’s make a deal. When you’re done, let me check it out. If it’s as good as it sounds, it would actually help my business to promote it.”

“It would?” Sounds too good to be true.

“Whenever I make my clients happy, especially the celebs, it obviously helps my business.”

“I guess… Well, if I make my VersaWear design a reality, you’ll be the first person I ping.” After I unblock his number, that is.

“Perfect.” He nods toward the window. “Now, how about we celebrate our pact by watching the sunrise together?”

“Sure.” Though it sounds a bit too romantic for my sanity.

As we leave the cabin and head toward the water, the sun just starts to peek over the horizon.

“From where should we watch it?” I ask.

“The boat has seats,” he says. “Let’s watch from there, and once everything is sufficiently illuminated, we can look for keys.”

“That works.” I have no idea why I do this, but I grab his hand—and am rewarded with the predictable sensual zings that always accompany his touch.

Squeezing my hand tenderly, he walks me to the boat, where we take our seats side by side, our knees touching.

Trying to ignore the impact of his nearness, I watch the majestic way the sun paints the sky in pink, orange, and gold hues. “This reminds me of some paintings we studied in my Art and Design History course.”

“Oh, yeah? Which ones?”

He likes art too? “‘Impression, Sunrise’ by Monet. But also ‘Forest Sunrise’ by Albert Bierstadt.”

He nods thoughtfully. “I’ve only seen the Monet, and you’re spot on. I’ll need to check out the other one when we get back to civilization.”

I don’t counter with “ if we get back to civilization” because the moment is too pleasant to spoil with such thoughts, no matter how pragmatic. I’m not surprised he’s familiar with that painting. A family like the Vancrofts probably travel regularly to Paris, so he could’ve seen the original in the Marmottan Monet Museum.

As the sunrise continues, we take turns noticing details that create the ethereal, and way-too-romantic, atmosphere—like the mist that hovers softly over the swamp and the herons walking bravely up to a gator, who in turn looks like he’s also enjoying the sunrise.

Once the sun is finally up, Ashton and I turn toward each other at the same exact time, and our lips come together as if of their own accord.

This kiss is sweet and tender, and it does to my lips what the sunrise has done for my eyes.

When things start to heat up, I force myself to pull away.

“We should look for those keys,” I say, more than a little breathlessly.

“Ah. Right.” He stands up. “Let’s.”

We scour the boat and then the surrounding area, literally leaving no stone unturned.

Sadly, all we have to show for our troubles is a rusty hammer that Ashton finds in the small console storage space.

He, however, looks extremely pleased with his find.

“Something to bash Bubba over the head with?” I ask, only half-jokingly.

“No,” he says. “I was thinking this will make it easier to crush nuts if I want to make a porridge, and—though I’m not sure it will work—smash peanuts into peanut butter.”

I sigh. “I see you’re now as convinced as I am that we’re stuck here for a while.”

“Just want to be prepared. And to that end…” He motions toward something on the ground. “This place is littered with apple snails—and we have the water to boil them, if you’re interested.”

I stare at him, but he’s clearly serious. “No. Not desperate enough for that yet.”

He scoffs. “Why? You’ve never had escargot?”

I scoff right back. “I’m not grossed out by snails, if that’s what you’re talking about.” Though frogs, whose legs are another French delicacy, are a different story. “I gladly eat escargot, and I use snail mucin on my face.”

He wrinkles his nose at that last one. “What’s the problem then?”

“According to the waiver that both of us signed, the local snails carry rat lungworm,” I remind him pointedly.

“Right,” he says. “Which is why we’d boil them.”

“And you’re sure rat lungworm is not some sort of an extremophile germ that can survive a boiling?”

He purses his lips. “I’m pretty sure, but you have a point. We’ll wait until we’re really desperate.”

Fuck. “Maybe we should go back to you being the optimistic one. When you talk like that, I get the feeling we’re going to die here.”

“We won’t,” he says confidently. “I know a bit about survivalism, and I’ve given this some thought. There’s fish all around us. I can make a spear. Or a bow using the rubber band in my pants. Armed with those, I can try bowfishing or spearfishing—maybe even regular fishing if I manage to make a rod. The bow and spear will also allow me to take down that annoying bird—which I bet tastes like chicken. And if I’m feeling really brave, I can hit a gator on the head with this hammer.”

I gape at him. “That’s a lot of plans. Are you planning for us to grow old here, Robinson Crusoe style?”

Except with a lot more sex. Friday and Robinson Crusoe didn’t have sex, right? Relatedly, did Tom Hanks face-fuck the volleyball, Wilson, in Cast Away ? He did draw a mouth on it, after all. I’ll need to look into this when—or if—I get access to the internet again.

Ashton smiles. “We’ll get out of here shortly. I just thought that coming up with multiple means of survival would calm you.”

“But don’t we still have a water problem?” I can’t help but ask. And I don’t mean just drinking it. If I don’t shower for two days, I may just die from griminess.

He gestures at the swamp. “We can boil that water if super desperate. But a better option might be to collect the rain water next time—and then boil that, just in case. If we’re still here when we finish the first water cooler bottle, we can put it outside and rig up a funnel into it to collect maximum water.”

Note to self: if it rains again, use that water to shower.

“Interesting.” Tension I didn’t even realize I had leaves my body. “I guess we really will survive.”

“And thrive—if we have to. Now, I was thinking we should take our phones and walk all over this island to see if we can get a signal.”

This is the best idea anyone has had since the invention of the vibrator, so I jump on it with enthusiasm. Sadly, we fail to locate any signal—even when Ashton climbs onto the roof of his cabin.

“Be careful,” I say sternly as he climbs down.

He chuckles. “I’m touched that you care.”

“If you break your leg, who will be spearfishing?” I grumble. “Or MacGyvering us a toaster out of a… toad.”

He looks thoughtful as he gets all the way down. “I know you were just kidding, but you just gave me an idea.”

I narrow my eyes. “I’m not eating toads. I’ll starve first. Or eat you.”

He laughs. “That’s not it. I just remembered that we’re in the Sunshine State, which means a solar cooker would be pretty practical.”

“A what?”

“It’s like a DIY oven,” he explains. “I think I can make one if I rip off some of that reflective material from the boat.”

“And it will cook?”

He nods. “In the heat, the temperature can reach three hundred degrees.”

“It’s official,” I say. “If we survive this, but there’s a zombie apocalypse after, I want to be with you.”

I expect him to make a “repopulate the Earth” joke, but he looks worriedly at the sun instead.

“We should hide,” he says. “Before we get overheated.”

We get into the cabin, and Ashton starts gathering our clothes.

“I’m going to hang them to dry,” he explains.

I nod.

He does as he said, then comes back and pours us each a glass of water.

“So… what now?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Usually I’d exercise, but I’m not sure it’s a good idea given the limited food and water situation, not to mention the lack of shower.”

Counterpoint: his exercising would have a lot of entertainment value for me. But I decide against telling him that.

“I guess we can just hang out and talk,” I say.

“Sure.” He takes a seat at the table. “What kind of music do you like?”

“To play or listen to?” I blurt, and instantly regret it.

“Play?” His eyebrow turns into a question mark.

With a sigh, I take a seat. “My instrument is the sousaphone. Or it was, at least. And my favorite piece that features it is The Muppet Show theme.”

I silently dare him to make jokes about me blowing. I heard them all back in high school.

Ashton cocks his head. “The sousaphone is like a tuba, right? One that wraps around your body?” For some unfathomable reason, he examines me with heat in his eyes.

“You can’t walk with a tuba,” I say. “And it would sound like crap outside.”

Shit. Ashton’s eyes light up as he connects the dots. “You were in the marching band?”

“You get great exercise from it,” I say defensively. “Something someone like you should appreciate. Plus, it looked great on my college application.”

“Hey, I have nothing against it. I bet you looked cute in your band uniform.”

“I was underaged at the time, you perv.” But I do appreciate how little he’s teased me so far—even less than Emma did when I shared this with her. “Now you owe me something embarrassing about yourself.”

“Being in a marching band isn’t embarrassing,” he says.

“Chicken.”

“Fine.” He grins. “A few years back, I went to check out puppy yoga at the gym where I was working. I got there early, so it was just me and the pups. Oh—and something I should mention about myself is that I like to talk to dogs. So, anyway, I was so absorbed in my conversation that I didn’t notice as the whole group and the yoga teacher gathered behind me. When I saw them?—”

“They started to ovulate?” I interject.

“Why?”

“Because that sounds more adorable than embarrassing.” And I bet he slept with every female in that class as a result.

“I wasn’t done with the story,” he says. “When the class started, for whatever reason, a German shepherd puppy named Waggatha Christie kept sniffing my butt.”

“Oh, please. That barely passes as an embarrassing story.” I’d bet good money all the other bitches in that class wanted to sniff around him. Waggatha Christie just had the chutzpah.

“You never said what music you like to listen to,” he says, deftly changing the subject.

“The Four Seasons,” I say. “By Vivaldi.”

“No way.” He takes out his phone. “Check this out.” He taps his screen a few times, and the familiar sounds of violins ring out from the tiny speakers.

“That’s my favorite piece of music,” he explains. “So much so that I downloaded it in case I want to listen to it while I’m stuck somewhere without service.”

For the next few minutes, we sit in a companiable silence, enjoying the music.

“So,” he says when the Spring part of the concerti concludes, and Summer begins. “Tell me more about yourself.”

“Like what?”

“Surprise me.”

I shrug. “I have a single bar stool in my apartment.”

“Why only one?” he asks.

“No space for more, and after dealing with my infuriating boss all day, I like to get home and relax with a glass of wine.”

He chuckles. “That almost makes sense.”

“What about you?”

He smirks. “I have a traffic cone in my closet.”

“You do?”

He nods. “When I foster boy pups that need to learn how to go on a wee-wee pad, I put the cone on said pad to help them out.”

“That also almost makes sense.”

We continue sharing random factoids about ourselves for a while, though some turn out to be controversial, like the fact that I jaywalk.

“You could get run over,” he says sternly. “In trying to save a minute by not walking to the crosswalk, you could delay yourself for days or longer, if you end up in the hospital—or worse.”

I reply with an eyeroll, and we continue the back and forth, which more and more reminds me of a get-to-know-you part of a good date.

“Mind if I take my shirt off?” Ashton asks just as I have my epiphany. “It’s getting hotter.”

It is getting hotter, and in more ways than one.

“Why would I mind?” I reply.

Given the kind of body Ashton possesses, I mind when it’s hidden.

“Cool.” He takes his shirt off.

Hmm.

If I didn’t want this to seem more like a date—or specifically, what happens at the conclusion of a third one—I should’ve objected, after all. Seeing the lickable beads of sweat glistening on his muscles makes my mouth—and other parts—water.

“It is hot in here,” I say huskily. “Mind if I?—”

“Hold that thought,” he says and hurries out of the cabin.

Huh?

When he comes back, I understand why.

He’s brought back my bra and panties, which have already dried in the heat of the sun.

“You’ve already seen all my bits,” I remind him. “Why would you want me to hide them now?”

His nostrils flare. “I’m not sure I’d be able to carry on a conversation if you were naked in front of me. Seeing you in that slip has been painful enough.”

“Oh?” I teasingly tug at the strap of my slip. “You might want to turn around.”

He nearly gives himself whiplash as he turns.

Feeling much sexier than our lack of civilization should allow, I put on my underwear before I tell him he can turn back.

When he does, he scans me hungrily, and his jaw ticks. “I was wrong. This might actually make the situation worse than if you were naked.”

I moisten my lips. “It’s not like I had a lot more to say anyway.”

He throws a meaningful glance at the bed. “There are ways to get to know each other that don’t involve words.”

I reach over and feel his perfect cock through his pants. “In that case, I’d like you to get to know me a lot better.”