The Supermodel's Best Friend (A Romantic Comedy)

by Gretchen Galway

  “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.”

  Huntley hesitated. “Yes.”

  “Well. That’s too bad.” Miles threw the napkin across the floor toward a green bin labeled COMPOST. “I’m really sorry, but you’d better notify your runner-up. Alex is coming, didn’t you say?”

  Huntley reached out to grab his arm, but Miles was already moving toward the door. “Your father won’t be here until Friday,” Huntley said, jogging after him, “and I’ve stuck them in a cabin that the manager promised me is halfway to the Pacific.” He dug his fingers into Miles’s forearm. “Damn it, Miles! You’re my best friend. You have to be here. This is it for me, Miles. Fawn is it.”

  Miles may have been sore from the ride up, and his back still tweaked at a forty-degree angle, but nothing was going to stop him from getting back on his bike and riding the hell out of there. Except for distant glaring at his half-brother’s wedding, he hadn’t seen his father in sixteen years. He was going for a few more—like, forever. Forever would do it.

  “If I believed in this marriage, Huntley, I might stay. Given she’s just another model who’s done something special to the little man in your pants—no. Absolutely not.”

  He flung open the door of the lodge, not surprised, given his luck, to see the beautiful girl in question and her little redheaded friend standing there.

  Chapter 5

  “FAWN!” HUNTLEY CRIED, LEAPING PAST him and taking the tall blonde in his arms. He spun her around to face Miles. “Help me convince him to stay. He’s trying to make a run for it.”

  The girl smiled at Miles, all gorgeous and toothy.

  Huntley stood off to the side looking smug, as though one glance at the genetic miracle of his girlfriend would stop him dead.

  “Hello and goodbye.” Miles brushed past her and strode into the woods. He’d found a shortcut through the trees that went straight from the lodge to his cabin. Huntley said his father was coming Friday, but that may have been wishful thinking. Alan Girard wouldn’t pass up a free week’s vacation at an exclusive spa, especially if he could watch his old rival, Huntley’s father, bleed a fortune. Even with a prenup, Alan would be rubbing his hands together anticipating an extracted divorce with lots and lots of lingering financial pain.

  “Damn it, Miles!” Huntley caught up to him and grabbed his arm. “You’re the do-gooder, always trying to save the criminals of tomorrow. How about you lavish a little of it on me?”

  “‘Criminals of tomorrow.’ Nice.”

  Huntley jogged alongside him over the ferny undergrowth, his blue eyes perking up with hope. “Who else do I have in my life to look out for me like you do?”

  “You’re a billionaire. Put someone on salary.”

  “Underlings only tell you what you want to hear, like stop buying so much useless shit, do fifty squats, invest in Google. The important stuff, never.”

  Miles stopped walking, aware the women behind them were watching. The short spunky one, Lucy, wore all black, setting off the brightness of her hair. Tight jeans, tight sweater, tight leather knee-high boots. Next to Fawn, who wore something girly and transparent in pink, she looked like a redheaded Catwoman.

  Blinking away that enticing thought, Miles turned back to Huntley and lowered his voice. “I told you what I thought and you bribed my employee.”

  “You didn’t really mean it. You just have a bad attitude about all marriage right now.”

  “Do you really want that in a best man? When your parents are fighting you too?”

  “You’ll back me up. You’re too decent not to.”

  “It’s better I go. I won’t be polite to my father, your parents will see I’m not happy here—and let’s face it, I’m no good at pretending to like people when I don’t.” Kids he could manage. Adults, not so much. “I’ve already hurt your bride’s feelings.”

  “You haven’t even talked to her. Listen—you agree to give Fawn a chance and I’ll keep your father and stepmother away from the wedding.”

  “How? You’d tell your father to disinvite one of his oldest connections? One with almost as much money as he has?”

  Huntley’s gaze fell to the ground.

  “Thought so,” Miles said, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You don’t have a lot of practice defying him.”

  “Are you calling me a coward?”

  Sighing, Miles squeezed his shoulder. “You’re going ahead with the wedding, aren’t you? When even your best friend is giving you a hard time?”

  “But that’s the exception, that’s what you’re saying. That I’m the chickenshit.” Huntley moved up closer, chest to chest, and stared up at him. “This from a guy who can’t even be in the same state as his own father because of something that happened over fifteen years ago. Almost happened. You’re still running away from one little come-on—”

  “Watch it, Huntley.”

  “Maybe it’s not your father you’re afraid of. Maybe it’s his horny little wife.”

  Miles’s body went rigid. He glanced at the women, still watching them, and let out a long breath. “I’m leaving now,” he said, stepping back.

  “You don’t think you can fight off a woman? Big guy like you?”

  “Shut up.”

  “I could teach you a few defensive moves.” Huntley jumped in front of him and grabbed the lapels of his leather jacket. “Come on, we’ll go practice in the Yoga Yurt.”

  “Let go of my jacket.” Even though Huntley was holding on to him, he leaned his chest back and kept walking, dragging his friend alongside.

  “Oh, Miles,” Huntley cooed in a high voice, “you’re so big and strong, so big and handsome, so big and, oh, so big—”

  Refusing to laugh, Miles gave him an icy stare and dragged him another step. Really getting into the spirit of things, Huntley lifted his foot and rubbed it up and down his calf through his jeans. “Such big muscles,” he chirped, and when his foot went a little too high, Miles grabbed him and flipped him over onto the ground.

  Flat on his back, Huntley didn’t try to get up. “Then again, she might like it if you got rough. Think it’s foreplay.” He shifted, trying to roll over, then flinched and gave up. “Whoops. I think I’m hurt.”

  Miles looked down at him. “Good.”

  “Tweaked my back. I don’t think I can get up.” He closed his eyes and grinned. “Here comes the bride,” he said, just as Fawn came running up and flung herself onto her knees in front of him.

  “Baby, are you okay?” She cupped Huntley’s face with her hands, then looked up at Miles in angry confusion. “Why did you attack him?”

  “I’ll be fine.” Huntley smiled into her eyes. “I’m used to Miles beating me up. He’s just so big, you know?”

  Miles snorted and moved to finis
h what he’d started when Catwoman jumped in front of him, poking his chest with a pointy fingernail. “I think it’s time for you to go.”

  He looked down at her finger. She couldn’t have been much over five feet tall and didn’t look very muscular, either—more bunny rabbit than pit bull. Goth bunny. “You going to make me?”

  She jabbed him again, this time in the belly. “I’ll give it a shot.”

  Huntley groaned and got into a sitting position with Fawn’s help. Pressing his face into her chest, he groaned louder. “I need him to—help get me to the cabin. Then he can—go. I’ll ask—Alex—to be my—best man. He’s a—nice guy.”

  Miles looked down at Huntley’s petite bodyguard. She had green eyes, as green as the oxalis growing under the redwoods. She acted as if her finger, still pointed at his heart, carried magical powers.

  Maybe it did. He found it mesmerizing.

  “You’re bleeding!” Fawn cried.

  Huntley stared at a red smear on his hand. “So I am.” He turned an overly mournful gaze up to Miles.

  “Oh, for God’s sake.” Miles gently pushed Lucy’s hypnotic finger out of his way and squatted down to his friend. He put an arm around Huntley’s ribs and hauled him to his feet, not immune to his genuine gasp of pain. Huntley sagged against him, unable to straighten completely. “Where’s your cabin, you big baby?” Miles asked softly.

  Fawn put an arm around Huntley’s other side, her face twisted with worry. Good thing she was tall. “We’ll get you a doctor.” Eyes shining, she frowned at Miles over Huntley’s golden head. “Be gentle with him.”

  Huntley grinned, then flinched. “It really—wasn’t—his fault,” he gasped.

  Rather touched by Fawn’s attitude, Miles took more of Huntley’s weight and wiped a floppy chunk hair out of his eyes with his free hand. “Sorry, buddy. Sometimes I don’t know my own strength.”

  They stumbled down the dirt path until they came to the paved walkway leading away from the lodge. “It’s the Live Oak cabin,” Huntley said. “Number seven.”

  “Lucky seven,” Miles said.

  “Asked for it—on—p-purpose.”

  Miles caught Fawn’s eye and managed a smile. Her concern wasn’t faked, that was obvious. “Maybe you are lucky, Huntley.” He stopped, nodded at the cabin next to them, and bent his knees. “I’ll try to carry him from here. That’s cabin four already.”