The Supermodel's Best Friend (A Romantic Comedy) (6 page)

Fawn gave her another look, the kind she gave
Lucy in junior high about not wanting to wear blue eyeliner, the
one that said
loosen up
. She hurried over to the bike, one
hand lifted in a girly wave. “You must be Miles! I’m Fawn! Huntley
told me all about you and I’m so happy so see you, he wasn’t sure
if you’d be here, so I’m really glad—”

Miles held up a gloved finger, shook his
helmeted head, and turned away from her. Taking all the time in the
world, as though a crowd of people weren’t staring at him, he
dismounted, put down the kickstand, and straightened.

Lucy took an instinctive step back. The man
was ginormous. She had to tilt her head back to see the top of
him.

He took off his helmet, pulled some neon
orange foam out of his ears, and fixed his gaze on the staffer with
the walkie-talkie. “Excuse me, am I in the right place for the
Sterling wedding?”

He had a deep voice, soft but carrying, and
looked just like the type of guy you’d want to hide behind in
battle. His movements were slow and deliberate, graceful, no energy
wasted.

Groucho, walkie-talkie at his ear, stepped
close to him. “I’m sorry, sir, but no motorized vehicles are
permitted past the Greeting Lot.”

“Oh, I’m sure he just didn’t realize,” Fawn
said, slipping between them, flashing her trademark smile that,
even lit only by the subtle glow of the cabin’s porch light,
instantly captured both men’s attention. “You are Miles, right?”
she asked, turning the beam of enchantment directly on him.

“I am,” he said, then put his helmet back on,
remounted the bike, and kicked it back to life. Ignoring his best
friend’s future wife and the rest of them, he started to drive
on.

Lucy jogged over and stood in front of the
bike. “Hey!”

He waited, then hung his head, lifted it, and
killed the engine again. “Yes?” His voice was muffled through the
visor.

Lucy pointed at Groucho, who had moved a few
feet away to talk on his walkie-talkie, and at Fawn, who was biting
her lips and staring at Miles like a kicked puppy. “Did you hear
what they said?”

He pushed up the visor and stared at Lucy
with rather nice gray eyes. “And who are you?” His gaze slid down
to her feet and back up to her face.

She felt the hairs on the back of her neck
stand on end. “I’m a guest here, unlike these guys, who are just
trying to do their job. If you drive past them they’ll get in
trouble.”

He glanced at the three young men in their
white tunics and baggy pants. “I can’t park my bike back
there.”

“I’m sure they can work something out,” Fawn
said, though her smile was beginning to slip. She would never be
happy if her husband’s best friend didn’t like her, and as far as
Lucy was concerned, nobody had any reason not to like Fawn. He’d
barely even glanced at her, and everyone glanced at Fawn. Sometimes
right before driving into a telephone pole.

“Look, it’s been a long drive and my ass is
asleep,” Miles said. “Please get out of my way.”

Lucy stepped closer to the bike. “After you
promise—”

Fingers wrapped around Lucy’s upper arm, Fawn
yanked her away into the darkness and hissed in her ear, “Do you
want him to hate me?”

“But—”

“Let the resort people handle it!”

Lucy stopped struggling. She was ten inches
shorter than Fawn but twenty pounds heavier; she could have broken
free if she’d wanted to, but Fawn had a point. She went with her up
a handful of wooden steps to the door of the cabin marked
“Ceanothus” in metal script. The doorknob was wrapped with a large
blue satin bow, and it opened without a key.

She glanced back at the small crowd around
the bike and decided she really should mind her own business. They
stepped inside and flicked on the lights, illuminating a cozy
interior decorated in creams and blues. A pair of four-poster beds,
heavy with pillows in all shapes and sizes, were lined up in
parallel. Though Fawn had spent every night with Huntley for
months, she wanted to share a cabin with Lucy before the
wedding—for appearances and for luck, she’d said.

Looked like she would need all the luck she
could get. “I didn’t like the way he ignored you,” Lucy said,
dropping her purse on a loveseat near the front bay window. Someone
tapped on the door, and Fawn let in one of the guys who was
carrying their bags.

When he left, Fawn said, “It was a hard drive
on us, and we were in the limo. Miles was probably feeling even
worse.”

“You can’t get carsick on a motorcycle.”

“Lucy—”

“Sorry. Not my business.”

“It is your business,” Fawn said. “You guys
are paired up for the ceremony.”

Lucy had a sick feeling. “Don’t tell me he’s
the… the… ”

Carrying her makeup case into the bathroom,
Fawn paused in the doorway. “The what?”

“You know. The one you’re setting me up
with.”

Fawn’s mouth fell open. “
Miles
?” She
stared at Lucy. “Do you like men that big?”

“God, no. I just thought you might be
tempted. Maid of honor, best man, you know.”

Fawn sighed, rolling her eyes. “No, no, no.
Can you imagine the two of you trying to get it on? You barely
reach his belly button.” Laughing, she began unloading her
inventory of cosmetics, lotions, brushes, and perfumes. “Can you
imagine?”

Lucy smiled, grateful her friend had some
sense, and left her to unpack her own things.

But she could imagine.

Oh, yeah.

* * *

Miles watched the two women walk away, his
eyes following the round, jean-clad bottom of the curly-headed,
angry one. She was cute in a miniature tomboy kind of way, but he
was too tired and sore to flirt with anyone right now.

He took his helmet off again to rub his eyes.
What the hell just happened, anyway? He’d been driving through the
woods, trying not to impale his skull on a tree or a deer after the
GPS and the lights gave out, thinking that when he’d finally seen
the faint glow of moving cars ahead he could find out where he was
going.

Then the beautiful blonde and her spunky elf
friend accosted him just as his bike started making a sound it
wasn’t supposed to make, and his back told him what it thought of
riding a motorcycle for five hours after playing flag football with
prematurely strong (and sadistic) twelve-year-olds all
afternoon.

Huntley had told him to drive past the lot
and a series of cabins until he came to the main building, but
apparently this was not so cool. Typical rich man’s son, Huntley,
not thinking any rules applied to him and his people.

“Sorry to make trouble,” Miles told the guys
in the white pajamas, “but I didn’t realize I was supposed to stop
back there. And my ears are still ringing.”

The one with bushy black mustache put down
his walkie-talkie and smiled, the officiousness forgotten. “No
need, Mr. Girard. Just found out you need a special spot for your
wheels.”

Ah, no doubt the other person on the
walkie-talkie knew how much money was being thrown around here.
“Nothing too fancy,” Miles said. “Something with a roof would be
nice. I have to do a little maintenance.”

“No problem. Just follow me in the cart.” He
held out his hand. “I’m Shawn. Technically my title is Lead
Greeter, but everyone calls me Golf Cart Guy.”

Miles took his hand. “How about I call you
Shawn?”

His face broke out in a toothy grin. “I’d
like that, Mister—”

“Miles. Just Miles.”

Shawn smiled more widely, eyes darting to the
bike. “How fast can it go?”

“A lot faster than I drive it.”

“Not into speed?”

“I’m an old man who values his life too
much.”

Shawn directed the other staffers to deliver
the women’s luggage into the cabin, then stuck the walkie-talkie on
his belt and lowered his voice. “I’m saving up for a Ducati,
myself.”

“Nice. Lot fancier than my wheels,” Miles
said.

“No, no, yours are excellent.”

“It’s pissed at me right now. Needs some
TLC.” He rubbed his back. So did he.

Within ten minutes, Shawn had his motorcycle
parked inside a private garage behind a long, squat building made
out of rough timbers, stucco, and tile—a cross between a Spanish
mission and a ski lodge. Many of the cabins at the spa appeared to
be covered with solar panels; Miles wondered how well that could
work in a forest blanketed in fog much of the year. No doubt it
looked good on the brochures.

Huntley wasn’t expected until early the next
morning, so Miles found his own cabin—on foot, his pack on his
back—and slept off as much of his soreness and annoyance as he
could.

Which, when he woke up after ten the next
morning, wasn’t nearly enough.

“Oh my God,” he said, rolling to one side,
amazed at the soreness all over his body. His legs, his butt, his
back, even his arms ached.  “I’m getting old,” he mumbled,
moving his feet off the edge of the organic, hand-made mattress to
the bamboo floor. Thirty-four, and he couldn’t play pretend
football and go for a little ride without falling apart. If Huntley
wanted to flip him to the ground today, Miles wouldn’t be able to
put up much of a fight.

Ignoring the private hot tub out the cabin’s
back door, he got dressed and walked through the forest to the
lodge, willing his body to do his bidding without any coddling. He
would enjoy a soak later.

The lodge wasn’t arranged like a hotel, but
like a school, with a wide open space when you walked in and an
office to the side. No front desk, no command center, no focal
point of authority, just couches and little tables with bowls of
fruit too pretty to be real.

He picked up a geometrically precise pear and
took a bite, relieved it was juice, and not wax or plastic, that
dribbled down his chin.

“Miles! My man!”

Miles swung around, legs braced for impact.
“Huntley the Third.”  When he was sure he wasn’t going to be
jumped, he held out his hand. “This place creeps me out.”

Huntley pulled him close and slapped his
back. “Shut up and enjoy it.”

“Is that what you tell your women?”

Looking over his shoulder, Huntley gave him
another whack, this one harder. “Keep your jokes to yourself until
Saturday, will you? Emotions are flying high.”

Miles glanced around the lobby, looking for
coffee and finding it on an antique stove near a white slip-covered
sofa. “Still can’t talk you out of it, I suppose.” He poured a cup
and sipped, steam rising up into his nostrils, not caring if it
burned.

“Wait until you meet her. She’s perfect. In
absolute terms, not just for me. I haven’t even seen her yet this
morning. We’re in separate cabins for good luck or something—I’m
not sure, but who am I to argue?” Huntley poured himself a glass of
something that looked like water with leaves floating in it.

“Actually, I met her last night,” Miles
said.

“You did?” He put his glass down. “Well?”

“She’s beautiful, obviously.”

Huntley grinned. “See?”

“That’s just the problem. I do see.”

“I thought we’d settled this.”

“I thought you’d come to your senses. She’s a
model. Of course she looks good. I’m sure she’s been
really
nice to you, too.” Miles took another scalding sip. “Admit it,
Huntley, you’re thinking with your dick again. ”

Huntley grabbed the mug so fast it spilled
the coffee, scalding Miles’s hands and dripping on his favorite
sneakers.

Looking over his shoulder, his voice rough,
Huntley said, “If she hears you say anything like that,
ever
, I’ll probably try to kill you, so prepare
yourself.”

Miles took a step back, found a napkin, and
wiped his hands. The edge of his right hand was bright red and
throbbing, but it was his own damn fault. He was an idiot. The man
was up shit creek in love. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

Huntley shifted his shoulders uneasily. Miles
could see he was trying not to apologize. It had been decades since
Huntley idolized him, but the residue of the boy’s feelings were
there in the grown man. “You’re burned,” Huntley said.

“My fault. Though I’d probably rather you’d
knocked me down instead. After I’d put the cup down.”

“Are your shoes okay?” Huntley frowned at the
dark stain spreading over Miles’s old gray sneakers. Then frowned
more deeply when he saw the old gray sneakers more clearly. “What
the hell are you wearing on your feet?”

“Don’t disrespect my sneakers. Insult to
injury.” Miles bent down and wiped coffee off the rubber toe, which
had the ironic effect of cleaning off some of the grime. “I’m a
teacher, Huntley the Third. I can’t afford the pretty shoes you
rich people wear.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Rich?”

Huntley laughed. “No, that’s a fact.”

“So is your father going to pay—”

“I invited your parents,” Huntley said
suddenly.

Miles froze in place, feeling the blood drain
out of his face. He balled up the soggy napkin in his fist.
“What?”

“Actually, it was my father who invited them.
I couldn’t stop him.”

“I assume you mean my father and stepmother.”
His biological mother died in a car accident when he was three. A
few days later, he was dumped on his father, an executive where his
mother had worked as a secretary, a man who was already married (to
wife number two) with a son. That stepmother was a really nice
lady, and she still sent him cards on his birthday, even though
that marriage ended soon after. His current stepmother was wife
number four.

Huntley squeezed his eyes shut. “Sorry. Yes.”
He opened them and leveled the baby blues on Miles with genuine
agony shining forth. “Maybe they won’t come.”

Miles looked down at the napkin in his hand.
He’d wrung all the liquid out of it, and coffee dripped between his
fingers. “He knows you asked me to be your best man.”