Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 65939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Apparently, he sleeps with all his clients.
So I block him—the last thing I need is another a-hole in my life. Especially one as irresistibly charming and handsome as Ashton Vancroft.
The catch? Three years later, our best friends, Emma and Marcus, get engaged, and we are both forced to play nice at their destination wedding in Florida.
Is he really the self-centered playboy I’ve made him out to be? Or is there something more to this fitness-obsessed now-billionaire that I missed the first time around?
Well, after getting stranded on a secret island together and being forced to hunker down in the same cabin, I guess I have no choice but to find out
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Part One
Three Years Earlier
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.