My Brother's Best Friend - A Second Chance Romance (San Bravado Billionaire's Club Book 8)

by Layla Valentine

  “If Miranda calls,” I say, “tell her I’m otherwise occupied.”

  With that, I leave, before Jonathan can ask me any more questions.

  Chapter 10

  Tyler

  When I arrive at the gym, my car does not, for once, stick out by leaps and bounds as the most expensive one in the parking lot. The membership fee here is reasonable—I know because I checked back when I was first setting my own prices at VirtuGym—so the presence of so many luxury vehicles tells me immediately that the high-end clientele are not here just because it’s a high-end place.

  I have to believe that these people are here for Mel, and I wonder for a moment if they’re training with her or if they’re just going to be sitting around waiting for her to notice them. But then again, so am I.

  I’m dressed like every other person here to work out, in gym shorts and an athletic T-shirt. Really, I’m hoping that I can see her before she notices me, so that I can have a chance to escape if she’s busy or married or something. God, I really hope she’s not married.

  Trying to convince myself that I’m only here to check up on an old friend, and not to satisfy my curiosity about how things have gone for an ex-lover after we parted, I don’t let myself turn back. Instead, I make my way through the parking lot and into the large, modern building.

  “Welcome to Shape Up!” a cheerful young woman, short and perky, greets me from the front desk. “Can I scan your membership card?”

  I shake my head, stepping toward the desk and looking around the room. Mel is nowhere to be found.

  “I’m not a member,” I tell her, and she smiles broadly.

  “Oh!” she chirps. “In that case, would you like to sign up? The membership fees are listed—”

  “I’m actually here to see a friend,” I confess, cutting her off before she can get into the whole sign-up spiel. “Her name is Mel Page. Is she working today?”

  The young woman’s posture droops, her customer-service face falling.

  “Oh,” she says, this time with a much more defeated inflection, “I see. Well, you’re going to have to wait in quite a long line—Mel is booked out for months.”

  “I’m not looking to train with her,” I reply.

  The woman looks confused. “Then, what are you looking to do?” she asks, a question that gives me pause. What am I looking to do? I saw her name in the paper and I became irrational, never stopping to think about what I would actually say to her if I saw her here. Do I want to apologize? Do I want to be friends? Do I want to kiss her, take her back to my house and have sex with her again?

  Before I can answer that question even for myself, Mel rounds the corner. She’s talking to a client, and I sort of shift to ensure that a conveniently placed decorative plant shields me from her view.

  “Sir?” the girl at the front desk—Jackie, according to her name tag—prompts. “Are you looking to set up an appointment with Mel Page?”

  “Uh, you know what? Maybe I am,” I lie.

  I have no intention of training with Mel, of course, but now that she’s so close, I find myself feeling nervous in a way that I wasn’t expecting.

  It’s like I’m back in high school, trying to talk to my very first crush, nervous and anxious. My heart is pounding in my chest and I’m worried that she’ll see me if I draw too much attention to myself—but at the same time, I want nothing more than for her to notice me, walk right over here, and tell me she feels the same way.

  I sneak a peek at her while Jackie peers at the schedule on her computer. Immediately, I’m blown away by how good she looks. Somehow, she’s even more beautiful than she was five years ago, despite that she’s dressed in just a sports bra and a pair of leggings. She’s not wearing makeup—I’m sure it would run after a day of working out—but her skin is glowing. Though she was by no means unfit the last time we met, she’s now got hard, toned muscles, and her posture is more confident. She’s walking and talking with a client, a towel draped around her shoulders.

  Though I can’t quite catch what she’s saying, I can tell that this is a client that she knows well, from the way that he puts his arm around her after she tells him to have a good day. Friendly, sure, but I can’t tell if it’s more than that.

  “The first appointment she has available is in mid-July,” Jackie explains. “How often do you want to see her?”

  Every day, I think, but I can’t say that out loud.

  “How often do most of her clients meet with her?” I ask, and Jackie smiles politely as if I’ve asked a stupid question.

  “It depends on the client,” she explains, “and their purpose for training. Some of our professional athletes are here six days a week, but a few of the models she sees are only here maybe once or twice a week.”

  “How often is that guy here?” I ask, gesturing to the tall man Mel is still chatting with. I recognize him as an actor. He’s one of the people we auditioned for our VirtuGym commercial before the marketing team decided that it might be a better look for the company if I were the face of the advertisement—at least in the local commercials—since I’m a more recognizable face related to the brand. He was nice, and he’s an objectively a good-looking man. He certainly seems to be close with Mel. Jackie’s face softens into a dreamy expression as she looks at him, like a star-struck teenager.

  “Oh, that’s Evan Espinosa,” she gushes. “He was just cast as the lead in a boxing movie, so he’s trying to bulk up quickly. He’s here every day, sometimes twice a day.”

  My jaw nearly drops. “He sees her that often?”

  “At first, he wasn’t picky about who he trained with,” Jackie says, “but after a few training sessions with Mel, he decided he wasn’t going to work with anyone else. He’s willing to pay nearly double her normal hourly rate just so he can monopolize her time.”

  Somehow, I don’t think that sounds strictly professional.

  It hurts my ego a bit to think that Mel’s moved on, but as I watch her talk to him, I notice something that makes me reconsider my decision to throw in the towel and leave: she’s leaning away from him, standing with her feet pointed back toward the gym rather than at Evan. Body language is important in my field, because selling your product is more about selling yourself than it is about pleading your case as a viable business. I know what she’s not saying to him: Mel isn’t enjoying talking to Evan. While it might be just that she’s busy and wants to get back to work, she’s definitely sending the subtle message that she wants to get away.

  Maybe there’s a chance she’s still single, after all.

  “How many of her clients are men?” I ask, selfishly curious. “Does she train with women, too?”

  Jackie gives me an amused smile. “You sure have a lot of questions,” she notes. “Why don’t you ask her?”

  “What?” I stall, but before I can stop her, Jackie beckons Mel over.

  “Hey, Mel,” she calls. “I’ve got a guy here that wants to ask you some questions!”

  Mel turns around to face us with a dazzling smile that drops into a grimace as soon as she sees me. “Tyler?” she says incredulously.

  My breath catches in my throat—I feel frozen in place. Mel Page is standing right in front of me, waiting for me to say whatever I’m going to say. Her face is an unreadable mask of surprise and shock.

  I have no idea what she wants to hear, so all I can offer is, “Hey, Mel.”

  Chapter 11

  Mel

  I’ve just finished a particularly tough training session. A few of my coworkers—both the desk workers and the other trainers—have told me that Evan Espinosa has a thing for me, and though I deny it to their faces, I know they’re right. Evan is flirtatious when we work, and he refuses to train with other people. A few times, he’s asked me when I get off work or if I’d like to take a break to get lunch, his treat. I’ve never accepted, despite the fact that he could definitely get us a seat at any of the finest restaurants in San Bravado in a matter of minutes.

  Really, I’m
just not into him. He’s cute; there’s no arguing with the fact that he’s ruggedly handsome and charmingly funny. I’ve considered accepting a date with him. I tell my friends that I don’t know what keeps stopping me, but that’s a lie. I know exactly what’s stopping me.

  It’s the same reason that I went online to find that stupid commercial Jackson and I saw yesterday, just so I could replay it: Tyler Cross. He’s on my mind now more than ever, and when I think about accepting a date with anyone else, I just think about how it can’t possibly stack up to the two nights that I spent with Tyler. The promise of nothing but disappointment is worse than the thought of just going back home alone for another night.

  When Jackie calls me over, I assume she’s going to pester me about Evan, whom I know she has a crush on. The last thing I’m expecting to see is none other than Tyler Cross standing in front of the front desk.

  “Tyler?” I breathe, feeling my face heat up. I distantly hope that he blames the redness of my cheeks on the workout I just completed. How did he find where I work? Could this possibly just be a coincidence?

  “Hey, Mel,” he says, sounding somewhat hesitant.

  This is definitely not a coincidence—Tyler owns one of the biggest gym chains in the world; there’s no way that he would be searching for a place to work out and just happen to walk into mine.

  The uncertainty of Tyler’s stance is a new look for him. I’m used to seeing him so confident—the way he presents himself both in the media and in real life—but now, he looks almost embarrassed.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask. Part of me wants to turn him away, to tell him that I want nothing to do with him, but curiosity wins out. I have to know why he’s here before I tell him to get out of my life.

  “I was in the neighborhood,” he says lightly.

  I have to bite my lip to keep myself from smiling at the absurdity of the excuse. Shape Up is fifteen minutes away from the nearest VirtuGym and a half hour from his house, give or take, if the article I saw recently about the homes of the fifty richest people in the U.S. was anything to go by.

  “Right,” I say, not willing to argue such a small point. “And what exactly do you want?”

  He’s even more handsome than the last time I saw him. His hair is cut shorter, sleeker, and it looks like he put a bit of product in it today—was that in preparation to come here? I don’t think he’d dress up just to see me, but I can’t be sure.

  In the time it takes me to get myself composed and avoid the spiral of falling for him again—which I absolutely do not want to do—Tyler has already relaxed back into the suave, cool, assertive ease that he normally conducts himself with.

  “I stopped in to see you,” Tyler tells me.

  I can hear my heartbeat in my ears, and my face starts to feel red once more.

  “I don’t know why you’d bother,” I tell him, feigning indifference. “I’ve made my feelings about you very clear.”

  Tyler nods easily, looking like my statement has had no effect on him. “I thought you might say that,” he says, but something about the way he says it implies that he doesn’t believe me.

  “I mean it, Tyler,” I say. “I don’t want anything to do with you. Telling you to go to hell was the best decision I’ve ever made.”

  He considers this for a moment before speaking again. “I don’t remember you ever telling me that specifically,” he notes, and I have to actively restrain myself from flipping him off.

  “Then I’ll say it now,” I tell him. “Go to hell.”

  Tyler picks up the duffel bag he’s brought with him and tosses it over his shoulder casually. “Well,” he says, smiling at me in a cocky way that somehow makes me both angrier and more drawn to him, “this is my lunch hour, so if you change your mind, you’ve got my number.”

  I huff irritably as he saunters away, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of watching him leave. I’m not sure if he turns around to see if I’m staring at him, but when I look over at Jackie, she has clearly watched the entire interaction and is hooked—not surprising, since she’s a bit of a gossip.

  “Are you just going to let him leave?!” Jackie asks, looking at me with wide, entranced eyes.

  “I sure am.”

  Jackie pouts. “I’d go after him, if I were you,” she suggests. “It sounds like you two have a history.”

  “It’s…complicated,” I admit.

  Now sure that it’s safe to steal a glance outside the window without Tyler knowing I’m doing so, I watch him open the back door of his car to toss in his bag, then slowly walk around his car. He waves at me when he looks up to see me staring at him, so I frantically turn back around to Jackie.

  “He’s waiting,” she tells me after a moment, and when I sneak one more peek at him, he is indeed waiting to start his car.

  How long is he willing to sit there?

  “Am I an idiot for wanting to take him up on his lunch offer?” I ask, mortified at my own desires.

  Jackie seems delighted, breaking into a grin. “Yes,” she confirms jovially, reaching out to fix a stray piece of hair that has fallen from my ponytail. “You have just over an hour until your next client. Go, go, go!”

  I throw open the door of the gym and jog toward Tyler’s car, where he’s still waiting for me to change my mind.

  I hate that he was right, but I can’t ignore my curiosity. I have to know what he’s going to say, to figure out if he’s been thinking of me as much as I think of him. It’s just lunch, after all, and nothing further. After that, I’ll have my questions answered, loose ends tied up, and the strength to toss Tyler Cross out of my life once and for all.

  Chapter 12

  Mel

  I’m wildly underdressed for the restaurant Tyler chooses, but then again, so is he. The walls of the lobby are made of fish tanks, each filled with lobsters, crabs, and all kinds of fish.

  “I hope you like seafood,” Tyler says, but it’s more of a question. “If you don’t, we can go somewhere else.”

  “I love seafood,” I reassure him, “but thank you.”

  “This place is the best,” Tyler says quietly, walking right up to the host, past the several groups of well-dressed people who are already waiting. “Table for two, please. We'd like your first available,” he says to the employee, leaning in to shake his hand.

  I glance at my smartwatch. “Tyler, this is really nice and all, but I only have an hour for lunch, and they’re really packed—”

  “Right this way,” the host says, leading the way out of the lobby and into the restaurant’s interior.

  “What did you do?” I hiss to Tyler as we follow him.

  “Places like these always have somewhere they can seat you,” he replies, “if you give them some incentive.”

  Oh, so he’d paid the employee to seat us faster. I didn’t even see the money leave his hand, the transition was so smooth. Convenient, but infuriating at the same time.

  “I don’t like getting special treatment just because you’ve got money to flaunt,” I argue, and Tyler shrugs.

  “There’s nothing wrong with playing the game,” he says breezily. “The greeter gets paid, and we get seated. Everybody wins.”

  While I still have my reservations, I don’t see the point in fighting him on it any further—we’re already sitting down, anyway. Tyler orders caviar as an appetizer for us to share, and tells the waiter that we’d like two orders of whatever the chef recommends as an entrée.

  “I’ve never had caviar before,” I tell Tyler as the waiter hurries off to the kitchen with our order.

  A slightly teasing smile plays at his lips. “Really?” he asks, unfolding his napkin and dropping it across his lap. “Well, it’s not necessarily all it’s cracked up to be, but this place imports the very best from the Caspian Sea. It’s worth the money here.”

  I can’t help but feel highly aware of our class imbalance. Tyler grew up rich; to him, things like caviar and casual visits to five-star restaurants for Monday lunch are
as mundane as two-for-one Friday night pizza orders for Jackson and me. It’s something that I’d normally feel self-conscious about—truly, I’m completely out of my element in Tyler’s world. However, sitting across from him in one of the fanciest restaurants in San Bravado, both of us wearing gym clothes in the midst of tables full of men in tuxes and ladies in pearls, I actually can’t help but laugh.

  It feels ridiculous; we both look ridiculous. But Tyler isn’t embarrassed or trying to hide himself from the other patrons’ prying eyes—instead, he’s looking straight at me, his gaze steady and warm.

  “You look great,” Tyler says casually, as if we’re catching up after a few weeks rather than five years.

  “So do you,” I reply cordially. “I’ve got to say, it was a shock to see you at my gym today.”

  Tyler hesitates slightly. “Yeah, I thought it might be,” he admits. “I read an article in the paper about you, and it listed your workplace. I was curious.”

  Ah, so it was curiosity that had fed this visit. Well, that’s a good thing, I decide, because it’s the only reason I accepted the date.

  “Speaking of media presence,” I say, “I saw your new commercial yesterday.”

  Tyler looks up, trying to read my face, my tone, to find what I want him to say. I keep my gaze cool and consistent, my voice even; Tyler may have succeeded in a lot of fields just by being able to tell people what they want to hear, but I’m not going to let him get off that easily.

  I expect him to be haughty, to flaunt his success. He’s a powerful man, after all, and clearly he wants me to know that, so I brace myself for whatever bragging I’m going to have to endure.