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)
“Hey, Ems,” I say. “How are things going?”
“The kittens are driving me insane,” she says without missing a beat. “Especially the biggest one.”
“That’s Mr. Cottonball, right?”
I’m more of a dog person myself—at least when I’m not mad at men—but the kittens mean so much to my bestie that it’s only polite to allow her to talk about them.
“Wrong,” she says, and I can tell she’s grinning without needing to see her. “The demon spawn’s name is Mr. Puffs. Cottonball is actually an angel, and so is Queen Elizabeth.”
Hmm. “If I were Cottonball, I’d be the one giving you shit for not bestowing me with any honorifics or titles.”
She laughs and launches into a long story about something the kittens did, followed by several more. After about ten minutes, she must realize that even a saint would be losing interest in the subject, so she asks how things are with me. Sighing in relief, I tell her about my latest failure in the dating market.
“That really sucks,” she says sympathetically. “After all the rotten luck you’ve had lately, you deserve a lucky break.”
“Nope. No more getting lucky for me,” I say firmly. “I’m done with men.” And having kissed our mutual friend Janie back in college, I—unfortunately—have zero desire to bat for the other team.
Emma snorts. “Yeah, right. How long is that going to last? A week? Or—gasp—a month?”
“Listen, my darling,” I say with an eyeroll. “Not all of us have an old lady’s libido.”
“Excuse me?” She huffs. “My libido is perfectly fine, thank you very much.”
“Oh, yeah? When was the last time—”
“Kendall?” she says theatrically and hisses like a cat. “Kendall, can you hear me? I think I’m losing connection.” She hisses again—though it might actually be one of her kittens this time.
“Seriously, Ems?”
Yep. She’s dead serious. The sneaky little bitch hangs up on me, which is just as well because the cab stops at my destination.
* * *
When I step into Essence, I realize it’s a social club for the uber rich that masquerades as a gym. Behind the front desk is a Warhol painting—a genuine one, I’m pretty sure—and in the far corner, I spot a celebrity heiress on an elliptical machine.
“Hello.” I slide Catherine’s card toward the supermodel-hot front desk woman. “I’m here to see Ash.”
She looks flustered for a second but recovers quickly. “You will find clothes in the locker room.” She gestures at the swanky entrance nearby. “Go and change, then warm up on that treadmill.” She points to a machine near the heiress. “I’ll have him find you there.”
I head to the locker room as instructed, not surprised in the slightest when it turns out that the place provides you with activewear by Versace.
As I change, I make a mental note to find out if Tierre has ever dabbled in gym clothes and to suggest it in case he hasn’t.
Exiting the locker room, I go to the treadmill in question and fiddle with the unfamiliar controls.
Soon, I’m running and generating those endorphins, but sadly, mopey thoughts intrude, so I bump up the speed, once. Twice. Thrice.
Crap. I never attached the red safety thingy to my leggings.
Well, better late than never. Panting, I grab the bar and reach for it—but just then, my right foot steps on the left.
Fuck me.
Instinctively, I let go of the bar as I fight to regain my balance, and that’s a mistake because the belt carries me back in an eyeblink… and I find myself airborne.
Chapter 2
Ashton
A few minutes earlier
“One more,” I order. “Good. Again.”
Megan does three more crunches, and then, despite my strongest urging, she falls back on her mat.
“Get up,” I say. “You have more in you.”
“No, I don’t.” She pants until she catches her breath. “You know, I think you’re more of a drill sergeant over video than in person. I thought that maybe—”
“Don’t you want that six pack for your superheroine role?”
She nods sheepishly.
“Then do as I tell you. I’m here to help you accomplish what you want.” I leave the obvious unsaid: If you don’t like my training style, get a trainer who will pussyfoot around… and then suffer the consequences, of which the lack of a six pack would just be the start.
“No. I like your style.” Her eyes gleam with mischief. “I guess I’m still not used to instructions like that… outside the bedroom.”
I pretend I didn’t hear the last bit. I don’t date clients, not even if they’re Hollywood sex symbols like Megan.
“Have you been following the meal plan?” I ask, mostly to change the topic.
She shakes her head. “My stomach has been cramping, and before you ask, it’s not that time of the month.”
I frown. “I might’ve given you too much fiber. Let me update the plan and shoot it over to you after you finish abs.”
“Actually, I’m afraid we have to wrap up now,” she says. “I have to get back to set.”