“Of course, but it takes time for trends to reach there. As for punk rope, I’m not sure we’ll ever see that in London.”
“Good thing you’re not in London, then,” she says, wiggling her eyebrows, then pleading. “Come with me. You’re my comrade in exercise. We’re fitness warriors.”
That’s true. In the few months since I’ve met her, we’ve discovered we’re both addicted to exercise, but we haven’t worked out together yet.
“But what is punk rope? It sounds like we’d be in a mosh pit with a bunch of twine.”
She grabs a glass of water from behind the bar and downs some. “It’s like jump rope meets recess with cool music. Think of it as a PE class for adults set to rock and roll.” She flutters her lashes. “Come along. Pretty please.”
I give her a curious stare. “Why on earth are you asking me?”
She pouts. “You don’t want to go with me?”
I need to think long and hard on my answer. I do enjoy Truly’s company. An incredible amount. More than I probably should enjoy the company of my good friend’s sister, since that’s what Malone has quickly become.
And I do want to do all of these things with her. But I also know that it’s a risk. The more time I spend with her, the more time I want to spend with her.
Then again, I’ve been tops at resisting anything remotely resembling a relationship ever since a particular woman back in London—ahem, Claire—saw fit to break my heart in half and then stomp on it with steel-toed combat boots, so it’s not like anything with Truly is going to go further. I won’t let it.
So I say, “Take me to your punk rope class, please.”
She squeals in delight, and it’s a sound I rather enjoy.
I’m sure I’d enjoy other high-pitched noises from her, but this will do. It’ll do just fine.
* * *
The next day, I’m sweating buckets. My muscles scream. My brain struggles to keep up with a jump rope routine so complex it would take a degree in double Dutch to master. But at the same time, it’s ridiculously fun.
When we’re done, Truly and I are both laughing and sweating as she asks, “Do you want to grab a drink?”
“Do you actually drink at ten in the morning on a Sunday?”
She laughs, nudging my elbow. “I don’t mean that kind of drink. A proper après exercise drink.”
I shoot her the side-eye as we leave the YMCA and head into the Manhattan summer morning. “You can’t possibly be suggesting we lose the benefits of that class by having a chocolate smoothie? Next thing I know, you’ll be wanting to add peanut butter to it. And then what’s the point? Woman, I do have to maintain my figure. As the premier best man for hire in all of Manhattan, I must keep up appearances.”
She pats my belly. “It’s flat. Flat as a board. And I would never ask you to put anything bad in that perfect body.” My skin sizzles for a second at the way her eyes seem to roam over me.
Wait.
That heat lasts more than a few seconds because I do like her hand on my body.
“Please feel free to enjoy the washboard,” I say.
She pokes her fingers across my abs and whistles. “Hot damn, Jason Reynolds. You do indeed have a six-pack.”
“And you can inspect it anytime. Also, consider this my yes.”
“Yes to what?” she asks curiously as we reach the crosswalk and wait for the light to turn.
“Yes to any fitness class you ever want to take, so long as it involves your hands on my belly.”
“Well, it was fun to touch.”
“And this is why I say no to smoothies. Cuppa?”
She adopts a posh British accent. “Why, yes. That would be ever so lovely. And that’s what I meant by après exercise drink, you weirdo.”
“You’re the weird one,” I fire back.
We pop into a café around the corner, where she grabs a coffee and I order an English breakfast tea.
We chat about growing up in New York versus London, the relative merits of movie theaters versus streaming, and then the most unusual lines we’ve overheard—at bars for her and at weddings for me. When we’re done, it occurs to me that I have a new friend, and I quite like this development.
But I also fully intend to keep her in the friend zone.
I can do that. I absolutely can.
Because I must.
Interlude
Spencer
Ah, the good old friend zone.
So many of us wind up there. Some for a few days, some for years.
It’s not necessarily a bad place to be.
There’s something to be said about friendship as the basis for, y’know, more. In fact, friendship can be the perfect foundation for a whole lotta something more.
That’s what I have with my wife—friendship and everything else.
So, hey, good luck, Jason and Truly, hanging out in that zone. The only questions now, I suppose, are how long they’ll last there and whether anything can knock them out of it.
But for now, let’s check in on some friends who face an entirely different set of complications: the dilemma of a filthy-rich woman and a man poised to become the next big thing.
Isn’t there something fantastic about female billionaires? You don’t hear their stories that often. But they can be pretty awesome—especially when they’re strong, driven, and self-made.
And if she falls for the man she has to strike a business deal with, she could lose everything she’s built. That would be quite a conundrum.
The course of love never did run smooth in Manhattan, but to get there, we’ll have to detour to Las Vegas first.
7
Enzo
Growing up on the outskirts of Madrid with barely a shack covering my head and only ragged hand-me-downs to wear, my goals were simple: Make it out of the slums. Get an education. And when I’d made it, maybe find someone to share the good things in life.
At the time, I pictured running water, books, and three square meals a day. Never did I imagine art, culture, and all-expenses-paid trips all over the world. Nor did I dream I’d be in Las Vegas, a place as far away from our shack in Spain as the moon from Earth.
I had flown in for a book show. The romance writer Kat Riley asked me to attend a signing and sit at her table. So I find myself in a hotel ballroom, signing a woman’s shirt.
The woman squeals. “Oh my God, I have every single book cover you’ve been on.”
I smile as I write my name across the back of her blouse—Enzo De la Rosa. “That makes me so happy to hear. And your shirt looks fantastic.”
She turns around, giggling and trying to pat the back of the shirt. That proves challenging, so she brings her hands to her face and gasps. Then she lowers them, her brown eyes dancing with happiness. “You have no idea. You’re my absolute favorite model. I buy every book you’re on. All the Kat Riley books and all the others. The alien books. The cowboy books. The billionaire books.”
“That is terrific. I hope you love them. That is great for the authors too.” I beam—because I’ve done it. I’ve made it out. I’m supporting my family back home with my book covers, cobbling together a living from modeling.
The woman blows me a kiss, and I shoot a smile to Kat, who gives me a thumbs-up. “You’re doing great,” she says when the fan moves on. “I knew it would be smart to bring you.”
Before I can sit, a redhead rushes to our table, gives a quick hello to Kat, then bestows her attention on me, shaking her hands out and taking a deep, shuddery breath. “I can’t believe I’m actually meeting my idol.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I say. Honestly, I feel a little bad because they do all seem to be here to see me. But I’m glad they’re at least getting Kat’s signature too.
“I’ve loved you since the alien books.”
“As a young boy, I aspired to be an alien,” I say, flashing a grin.
She gasps. “Gah! You’re so funny. I loved it when your whole body was in blue for Caught Up with the Alien Bill
ionaire. Please, God, let the sequel be Swept Away with the Alien Billionaire’s Secret Baby.”
“That was a fun shoot. I did enjoy that one.”
She nibbles on the corner of her lips then takes another deep breath. “Do you think I could ever sign up to work on one of your shoots? If you ever need somebody to put blue paint on you, I’d be willing to do it.”
Kat clears her throat. “I’ll post a sign-up list for that ASAP.” She stands, cups her mouth, and says to the line, “Who wants to put blue paint on Enzo De la Rosa? Show of hands?”
The crowd goes wild.
“Can you please do a blue alien again?”
“Please, please, please!”
“Invite all of us to come to your shoot.”
“I’ll pay if you let me put blue paint on Enzo!”
I blush, flashing a smile. “Ladies, ladies. You can all put blue paint on me.”
* * *
A little later, a woman with red glasses and blonde streaks in her dark hair stands in front of me.
She extends a hand. “Gigi Williams. I’m an agent. Blue aliens are all well and good, but I can get you on billboards in Times Square. I can put you in TV commercials. I can get you in magazine spreads. There won’t be a place where someone beautiful can be seen that you won’t be.”
I chuckle lightly. How many times have I heard that promise? How many times has it not been true? I won’t let myself believe it. “Thank you very much, Gigi. But I’ve heard that before.”
Her expression speaks only of confidence. “I completely understand, but I’m going to prove myself to you. I’ll get you a gig in twenty-four hours.”
I shrug happily. “Sure. If you do, I’m yours.”
We exchange numbers, and I thank her for her enthusiasm, though I suspect it will amount to another round of blue alien covers, and that’s fine by me. I’ve graced the front of fifty romance novels, and if I can keep working in this world and become the next Fabio, I will be a most happy man.
When the show ends, I help Kat pack up her sign and her swag.
“You’re going to hit it big,” she says. “You know that, right? Just remember me when you’re on a billboard in Times Square.”
“Of course. But I don’t expect to be there anytime soon.”
I don’t lack confidence. But neither am I so naïve that I believe that the world operates according to what’s fair. Just because you’re good at something doesn’t mean you will make millions from it. There are many talented people, many beautiful people, many smart people who never make it big.
It’s all about the right opportunity at the right time.
* * *
But this time is right, and the opportunity comes the next day when Gigi calls before I have to fly back to Spain.
“I booked you on a shoot for a T-shirt brand,” she says.
My eyes widen. “Already?”
“I’m a woman of my word. Can you stay in the United States for a week?”
“I don’t have any place to sleep.”
“No worries. They will put you in a hotel in New York and I will send you out on other jobs.”
That night as I fly to New York, I say a private thanks to the passionate book fans who love blue aliens and billionaires.
And over the next few years, I fly in and out of New York more times than I can count. I fly to Paris too, and Milan. Los Angeles as well.
It doesn’t happen in the blink of an eye. But it does happen. My career takes off, and neither Gigi nor Kat were wrong.
I’m on billboards in Times Square and in ads for cologne and eyeglasses, for leather shoes and high-end department stores, for the highest of high-fashion brands, and for cars too. Those are my favorite, modeling with the sleek, sexy automobiles.
The new job gives me my heart’s desire: the chance to buy a new home for my mother and my sister. To help my family have the life they’ve longed for.
To buy a work of art now and then.
Every time I do, I also purchase another book from Kat Riley as a thank you to the blue alien billionaire opportunity that changed my life.
One day after a shoot in Manhattan, I step into a gallery on the hunt for a new work of art, and I stop in my tracks.
I’m struck by the most beautiful piece of art I’ve ever seen.
And I must know her name.
8
Valerie
I press the speaker button on my desk phone, calling my assistant. “Hello, Sadie. Please be sure to have that report on my desk by three p.m., and do get yourself some lunch today and charge it to me. I can’t have you running around lunchless again. And no DoorDash. Please, for the love of Louboutin, take a lunch break.”
“Of course, Ms. Wu. I’ll have the report ready on time. And I’ll DoorDash a chicken salad.”
“You’ll do no such thing. You’ll leave and eat lunch out of the office, and I’ll take care of it. You just enjoy yourself.”
She takes a beat, then says, “If you insist. But then I’ll have the report done by two-thirty.”
I laugh. “That’s what I love about you. Always exceeding expectations.”
“Why would anybody want to do anything but exceed expectations for you? Also, thanks in advance for lunch.”
“You’re welcome. You need to eat.”
I hang up, scrolling through the list of meetings I need to attend this afternoon.
I’ve learned that in business it’s easy to be fearsome, but it’s much harder to be kind. Yet you can succeed if you treat people well. And that’s what I endeavor to do when my assistant delivers the report to me at two-thirty, right on time.
But punctuality isn’t everything.
There is attention to detail, strategy, and insight. And as I peruse her report, I see that Sadie has given me that.
I meet her young gaze, her blue eyes framed by long lashes. “Sadie, this is fantastic. And in fact, you should leave at six instead of staying until eight to impress me,” I say with a wink, so she knows I’m onto her.
“I don’t think it’ll impress you if I leave at six.”
I grab my purse. “It will. Enjoy your life, or your whole life will be work. Now, I have a quick appointment with a business partner, but I don’t want you to stay all night.”
“I promise I won’t. But I did have an idea for you,” she says, her tone cheery, a good sign I’ll like what she says.
“Oh, what’s that? I do relish good ideas.”
“Did you know there’s a showing of David Harper’s work at the Francesca Zurman gallery in Soho?” The glint in her eyes matches that chipper tone.
I gasp. “No! No. You can’t be serious. How did I not know? How did you know?”
She shrugs playfully. “It’s my job to find things that delight you. I snagged you a ticket.”
“I adore you the most, and I command you to leave now and enjoy this city,” I say, then I zip down from the top floor of the skyscraper that serves as my media empire’s kingdom and head for the car waiting to whisk me across town to the meeting. Once that’s done, I return to my office on wheels and make calls to our offices in Singapore, Auckland, Rio de Janeiro, and right here in Manhattan, where I check in with one of my colleagues on a new ad campaign we’re spearheading, centered around the company’s worldwide position in the media industry.
“Yes, and we just hired that new supermodel that’s all the rage. He’s like Gisele Bündchen but, you know, a guy,” she tells me.
“Gisele pretty much is the template for successful models. And what is his name?”
“Enzo De la Rosa.”
But I don’t have time to google him. My car has arrived at the art gallery where I’m on the hunt for a new David Harper painting that would look fabulous in my living room here. Or maybe it would be better in my London home?
And as I’m looking over the pieces with a critical eye, a voice drifts to my ears.
A man’s voice.
A man with a delicious Spanish accent.
�
��Ah, yes. That one looks incredible.”
When I turn around, I see a face that was carved by angels.
9
Valerie
It would be a cliché to say that our eyes lock.
So I won’t say that. I will say that my eyes roam shamelessly up and down his body.
They wander all over his six-foot-something frame, his one-in-a-trillion face, and then meet deep brown eyes that seem to convey a thousand possible emotions.
But I’ve never been the type of woman who’s attracted to a man solely for his looks. It’s far too easy to find a good-looking vapid man, a good-looking cruel man, or a good-looking dim-witted one. Looks have never been enough.
I require a challenge.
Even though he’s quite possibly the most handsome creature the universe ever crafted, I have no expectation that there will be a spark.
I head over to the painting that’s caught his attention and study it closely. “I’ve always found his use of brushstrokes quite enigmatic, but at the same time, they reveal bizarre hidden truths about humanity.”
The man whips his gaze to me, his eyes wide and brimming with curiosity. “Yes! It is as if he understands everything about our nature that we are struggling to hold on to and puts it somehow into his art.”
A shiver runs down my spine. Another art lover. One who doesn’t seem vapid at all.
I return my focus to the gorgeous tapestry of color in front of me. “You can see his depth of understanding in the way he constructs the figures and the way he tells the story. It makes this entire canvas come alive with meaning.”
The man shakes his head in admiration, gazing at the art. “Sometimes I feel as if a piece of art can see inside my soul and elicit all the things I wonder about at the end of the day.” He laughs, a self-deprecating sound. “Who am I kidding? I don’t think about this only at the end of the day. I think about it all day long. If I didn’t have art to stare at, my brain would be overrun with philosophical questions.”
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