The Supermodel's Best Friend (A Romantic Comedy) by Gretchen Galway Read Free Book Online Page B

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