“You bring out some strange things in me, Reed.”
It was true. She was a different woman these days—her relationship with her family was improved and she was more confident in herself. She’d even taken to wearing the occasional color now that she didn’t mind standing out. Remi was most impressed.
“And you in me.” He grinned. “Dad keeps telling me I’m like a new man.”
Adam McMahon still had his good days and his bad, but his regular sessions with Dr. Preston appeared to be working. Slowly. There hadn’t been a single hospital incident in three months. And Adam was already talking about how they could manage getting him a more portable oxygen tank so he could be at the wedding when they eventually organized it.
But Reed had wanted to show how committed he was—that this time he wasn’t going to walk away. The wedding itself could wait until they knew exactly how they wanted it to go. But the ring was a symbol that he was ready to go all-in.
“You are a new man. A new literate man.”
“Speaking of which, you’re encroaching on my reading time,” he said. A worn copy of Around the World in Eighty Days was tucked between him and the back of the couch. It was a gift from his father, a family heirloom that was now in their possession.
“Since when do you take books over women?” she said, poking out her tongue.
“Woman,” he corrected with a grin. “Singular. And I only want one more chapter. I’ve just gotten to the good stuff.”
“One more chapter,” she scoffed, pushing him back against the couch so she could straddle him. “Famous last words.”
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Bad Reputation
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Subject: You’re famous…well, part of you is.
Wes,
I’m sure you’re not enough of a douchebag to have a Google alert set up for your own name (or, if you are, no judgment—okay…a little judgment) so you may not have seen this. But your junk is famous! No, that’s not a typo.
I’m not the kind of woman to have a one-night stand, but after I saw a picture of him on holiday in Bora Bora with that Victoria’s Secret model, Nadja Vasiliev, I HAD to know if it was real. And I can tell you ladies, that bulge was not a product of Photoshop.
Let’s just say that most guys are garden snakes. If you’re lucky, you might get a king snake. But Wes is an anaconda…and he knows how to use it.
Oh. My. God.
I don’t even know what to say. There’s this app that allows women to rate men they’ve dated or something crazy like that. I was checking it out for a friend *cough—it was totally me—cough* and I found you on there. Your reviews were enlightening, my friend. Maybe I should rescind my previous request that we never get in each other’s pants. Because apparently, you’ve been hiding a predator in there.
Here’s the link: www.badbachelors.com/reviews/Wes-Evans.
Happy reading.
Sadie out.
Chapter 1
Something wasn’t right. Either it was too long or too…thick. Remi Drysdale tilted her head and stared. “I don’t think it’s going to fit.”
“They all say that.” The man in front of her flashed a brilliant smile, which seemed even whiter when surrounded by yesterday’s five-o’clock shadow.
Remi rolled her eyes. She was used to cocky guys talking a big game. But if online dating had taught her anything, it was that men grossly overestimated themselves.
Noting her unimpressed expression, he added, “It’ll fit. Trust me.”
“Hmm, I really don’t know about that.” She leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. “I’m assuming you’ve done this before.”
His smile slipped. “Of course I’ve done this before.”
Suddenly, he didn’t look so confident. Remi stepped forward and touched his arm, using her sweetest smile to keep him from leaving the job unfinished. “We don’t want to damage anything. Just…go easy. Slow and steady, all right?”
“Just you wait and see.” He nodded. “It’ll slide right in and fit like a glove.”
“If you say so.”
She stepped back as the man and his partner carried the long piece of wood across the barre studio and set it in the glossy black brackets they’d installed a few moments before. The barre fit…barely. The rounded edge was a hairsbreadth from the wall, and her boss had insisted that the studio’s fresh paint job remain scratch-free.
“See.” He winked. “Told you.”
“You were cutting it close.” She inspected the barre, running her hand along the smoothly polished surface. “But I stand corrected.”
“We’ll bring the other one in along with the portable units,” he said. “Then I’ll need someone to sign.”
Remi nodded. “I’ll call my boss again.”
She waited for the men to leave before her lips split into a wide grin. She punctuated her excitement with a pirouette, the rubber soles of her Converse sneakers squeaking against the polished floor.
The studio was perfect. It was formerly an accounting office and had been run-down and looking very grim when Remi’s boss, Mish, had rented it a few months back. Since then, windows had been replaced, new flooring installed, and walls painted. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors covered two sides—one behind the barre and another along the front of the room where the instructors would stand. The mirrors made the room look enormous and gave the space a bright, airy feel.
Best of all, this new studio was a scant ten-minute walk from Remi’s Park Slope apartment, which would mean no more getting up at the butt crack of dawn to haul ass across Manhattan to the Upper East Side where the first studio was located.
Remi pulled her phone out of her bag and swiped her thumb across the screen. She was about to hit the Call button when Mish burst into the studio.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry!”
Remi laughed. “I know you’re Canadian, but three sorrys seems a bit much. Even for you.”
“Shut it, Aussie.” Mish pulled a hair tie off her wrist and attempted to tame her mane of wild blond hair into a ponytail. “This looks amazing.”
“It really does. The guys are bringing in the second barre now, and then they’ve got the portable ones too. Where were you thinking of putting those?”
“Probably in the storage room. I don’t know how full the classes are going to be until we open, so we may not need them until business picks up.”
Mish had opened Allongé Barre Fitness with one tiny studio on the Upper East Side. When Remi started working there four years ago, she’d only taught two classes per week. But over the years, she and Mish had grown close and Remi’s schedule had expanded. Now Mish was about to open her third studio—the first in Brooklyn—and Remi was going to be the main instructor.
A quiet voice niggled in the back of her mind, like a tiny pinprick of dissatisfaction. Not big enough to cause any real pain, but she felt it nonetheless.
This isn’t what you’re supposed to be doing…
Shoving the feeling aside, Remi wrapped her arms around Mish and squeezed. “I can’t believe you’re opening studio number three. I’m so proud of you.”
“I couldn’t do it without you, Rem,” she said. “Seriously. Being in business by yourself is tough, and I feel so much more confident knowing you have my back.”
“Always. This is going to be a huge success. I know it.”
The men returned with the second barre and installed it about a foot below the first one.
Mish went over to meet them and to apologize for being late. When they were finished, she d
irected them to the reception area to sign the paperwork, leaving Remi alone in the room once more.
Remi could already see her little students in here—the parents-and-kids classes were her favorite. She loved the wide-eyed wonder of children learning something new. The way they tackled things without the fear of embarrassment or failure that inhibited her older students.
Sure, this wasn’t real ballet. But perhaps that was exactly the reason it suited her.
* * *
Wes Evans was used to women looking in his direction. He worked out and presented well—always living by his father’s advice that he should dress like he was about to meet someone important, because in New York City, a meeting like that could take place anywhere. While riding in an elevator, sitting in the back of a cab, or lining up to order a coffee.
After a stint as a guest judge on So You Think You Can Dance, his face had garnered even more attention. When people recognized him in public, fans of the show wanted to gush over their front-runner picks, and wannabe performers tried to talk their way into an opportunity.
But this…this was different.
“What can I get for you?” The barista devoured him with her eyes, the smooth dart of her tongue leaving behind a glossy sheen on her pink lips.
“Cold brew.” He pulled his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans. “No milk.”
She tilted her head slightly. Behind a set of thick-framed glasses, her gaze roamed down his body, lingering south of his belt. “Size?”
“Grande.”
She nodded and reached for a clear plastic cup, sticking the cap of her Sharpie into her mouth and pulling the pen out with a pop. Another barista passed behind her, also checking him out. “I heard he was more of a venti,” she said in a not-so-quiet stage whisper.
The first barista mushed her full lips together as though trying not to laugh while she marked the cup. “It’s Wes, right?”
“Yeah.”
He wanted to ask how she knew his name—but frankly, he wasn’t about to stick around and be subject to more of this open assessment. He felt like a piece of steak being wheeled around on a cart at one of those fancy restaurants, just waiting for people to assess his shape and size.
“Can I get you anything else?” she asked.
“No thanks.” He handed over a ten-dollar bill and walked away before she had time to count his change.
He was ready to be done with today. And the quicker he got his coffee and hid in the back corner of the café, the better. Perhaps he should have chosen a place a little less public for his meeting, but when Sadie, his best friend and now business associate, had forwarded him the email about the Bad Bachelors website this morning, he hadn’t taken it too seriously.
The second he’d stepped out of his Upper East Side apartment, though, he’d realized that Sadie wasn’t the only one using this tabloid cesspool of a website.
“Hey, Wes.” Sadie waved from a table near the café’s pick-up area. Her short hair was shaved on one side and longer on the other, the blue and purple strands curving down around her jaw. “Or should I say ‘Mr. Anaconda’?”
The barista placed his cold brew on the counter and winked before turning to her next order. Wes picked up the cup and noticed the barista had written her phone number on it.
“Don’t fucking start,” he said, dropping into the seat across from Sadie. “I’m beginning to wonder if the human race suddenly developed X-ray vision with the way everyone is looking at me.”
“I doubt they need it. Someone did a digital re-creation over that picture of you and…what was her name? The Russian chick. Natasha? Natalia?”
“Nadja.”
“That’s it.” Sadie snapped her fingers. “Anyway, it’s floating around online. They Photoshopped it to show what was going on underneath your boardies, and I have to say—”
“You really don’t.”
Sadie grinned and waded her straw through a mound of whipped cream sitting on top of some caramel-mocha concoction. “You’ve been keeping things from me.”
“I thought we had an agreement.”
Wes and Sadie had been friends as long as anyone could remember. They’d grown up next door to each other in one of the most exclusive apartment buildings in Manhattan, traded lunches on the playground, and, after a disaster of a kiss around the time they were eighteen, had promptly agreed that they would always and forever be friends. Nothing more.
“Yeah, I know. But that was before I knew you were packing more than the average salami.” She couldn’t keep a straight face and burst out laughing. “Ew. No, I can’t even joke about it without feeling dirty.”
“Gee, thanks.” He scoffed.
“Nothing personal. Besides, you’re going to have every other woman in this damn city chasing after you now, so you don’t need my attention too.”
“Excellent.” He clapped his hands together. “Can we cut the locker room bullshit and get back to work, then?”
“No need to get snippy.” Sadie looked too damn smug for her own good. “You know women have to put up with this all the time, right?”
“I do, and you have my sympathy.” He slipped his tablet out of his satchel and swiped his thumb across the screen to unlock it. “Maybe we should both get ‘eyes up here’ tattooed on our foreheads.”
“Tits McGee and the Anaconda. What a pair we make.” She threw her head back and laughed.
“We’re moving on,” he drawled.
“Fine,” she huffed. “Business talk time.”
Wes opened the spreadsheet that had their production budget outlined to the very last detail, with a sum total that would make most people’s eyes pop. Broadway productions were expensive. Even those classified as “off-off-Broadway,” which were held in small theaters that seated fewer than one hundred people at a time, cost a pretty penny. In this case, many of those involved were doing it with the hope that the show would break out, participating for next to nothing. But the theater still needed to be paid, costumes needed to be created, and sets needed to be designed.
All of which required deep pockets.
“I got a final figure from the Attic,” Wes said. The boutique theater wasn’t their first choice for Out of Bounds, but the last two places had refused to let them put seats on the stage. Apparently, they didn’t know how to change the ticketing system to accommodate a deviation from their standard seating plan. “It’s more than we budgeted for, but we can manage it. I’ll push the investors harder, and I have wiggle room with my own funds.”
Sadie frowned. “You’re already pouring so much of your own money into this.”
Sadie didn’t often show when she was stressed. She preferred to curl in on herself during tough times like a hedgehog, letting all her spikes face outward. But Wes knew her too well not to detect the hint of concern in her voice. She was worried, for them both. And she had every right to be. They were putting everything they had into his crazy idea.
Out of Bounds was his brainchild, a dance production with no separation between stage and seating. The cast were part of the audience and the audience part of the show. It was the antithesis of the world he’d grown up in, one that was fortified with rules, and posture, and tradition. With his big-picture view and Sadie’s talent for turning his vague descriptions into something living and breathing, he knew they had something special. All they had to do was back themselves long enough to give the rest of New York a chance to agree.
“I can manage a bit more,” he said. “I want this to work.”
Sadie bit her lip and nodded. “I do too, but I’m worried you’ll get cleaned out if this fails. That we both will.”
“It won’t fail.”
Even as he said the words, the stats danced in his head. Successful Broadway productions were in the minority, with fewer than 25 percent turning a profit. And those were the ones with big advertising budg
ets. Breakouts like Hamilton were rare diamonds in a graveyard littered with the bones of failed dreams.
Fact was, the numbers were against them. They were more likely to crash and burn and end up with bank accounts drier than the Sahara.
“It won’t fail,” he repeated, trying to sound confident as he reached for his coffee. “Besides, I have the city’s best choreographer working for me.”
Sadie snorted. “Flattery won’t get you anywhere, Wes. But I hope you’re right. I burned a hell of a bridge leaving your parents’ company to do this with you.”
“You and me both,” he muttered.
But that was a shit storm for another day.
Out of Bounds was going to make or break his future, and Wes wasn’t the kind of guy who backed down from a challenge.
“Now, all we need to do is secure the funding and find our perfect ballerina,” he said with a grin. “No sweat at all.”
Chapter 2
“It’s a tendu, duh!” Wes’s five-year-old niece, Frankie, did her best impression of a tendu, which looked more like a cross between a ninja kick and a Jack Russell peeing on a wall.
“Of course it is,” Wes said, smothering a laugh.
“She’s got my grace.” Chantel laid a hand on his shoulder as she breezed past, a subtle cloud of perfume following her. “Can’t you tell?”
Wes grinned at his twin sister. “What did Mother used to call you? A bull in a china shop?”
“A what?” Frankie cocked her head, but her foot continued to frantically “tendu” as if of its own accord.
“Nothing, darling.” Chantel bent down and kissed Frankie on the cheek, swiping her thumb across the faint lipstick print she left behind.
The action made Wes smile. Their mother used to do the same thing whenever she kissed them. Not that he would point that out. Comparing Chantel to their mother was an offense punishable by a withering death stare.
“Thanks for taking her to class.” Chantel stood and smoothed her hands down the front of her all-black outfit. “I told Marnie weeks ago I’d cover for her today. But someone was quite determined not to have her schedule interrupted.”
Bad Bachelor Page 30
