Crushed (3 page)

“Congrats on graduating,” I say, giving him a friendly-yet-dorky punch on the shoulder.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Beefcake roll his eyes.

I ignore him.

A couple weeks ago, Devon graduated from UCLA. I didn’t fly out to the ceremony, of course. That was a right reserved for his family and girlfriend, but I’d been proud from afar. Devon is Kristin’s age—a year older than me—but,
unlike
Kristin, he managed to graduate on time.

Mostly I am just glad to have him back in the state of Texas. And, according to Kristin, he’s here for good, planning to work at his father’s company.

I secretly wonder what happened to his long-ago dreams of an East Coast law school, but I guess he has the right to change his mind. God knows he’s smart and charming enough to do whatever he wants with his life. Devon may have been the quintessential Texas quarterback in high school, but he was also the valedictorian.

You’re seeing why it’s impossible not to love him, right?

The thing is, I loved him
before
everyone else did.

I loved him when he was a wimpy fourth grader to my chubby third grader and we’d exchanged chapter books on the playground before dashing off to our respective classes.

I loved Devon Patterson back before he was cool.

Before he hit that eighth-grade growth spurt, before the expensive dermatologist figured out how to get rid of the acne, before the braces turned his crooked grin into a toothpaste commercial.

“Thanks, Chlo,” he says with a grin. “You’re looking great!”

“I don’t look that great,” I say in response to his too-generous compliment. I lost four pounds over finals, but I know I’m well on my way to gaining it back and then some.

On a good day I’m curvy.

On a bad one, I’m plump.

Most of the days are bad ones.

But Devon’s never seemed to notice. Of course, he’s never exactly wanted me, either.

“You do,” he insists.

But before I can bask in the compliment and maybe fish for another one, he’s moved on. “Hey, Kristin and I are headed up to the clubhouse to get a beer. You wanna come?”

Um, no.

I hate beer. I learned that in a big way on my twenty-first birthday a few months ago.

But more than that, I hate the thought of Devon throwing out the pity invitation. And even if I wanted to go watch him and Kristin stroke each other’s palms on the patio (I don’t), my sister is giving me
the look
.

The one that says
I want to be alone with my boyfriend for a little while
.

And even though Kristin sometimes makes me crazy, and even though I’m secretly in love with her boyfriend . . . she’s still my sister.

I know my place.

“Nah, I’m good,” I say with a smile up at Devon. “I’ll catch up with you guys later.”

“Sorry to cut the lesson short,” Kristin says with an apologetic smile to Michael.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says gruffly. “I’ll see you Wednesday.”

I watch as Kristin and Devon walk hand in hand toward the clubhouse before tearing my gaze away and going to retrieve my book. At least now that I don’t have to pretend to be soaking up Kristin’s athleticism through osmosis, I can go read in the AC.

I feel eyes on me and resist the urge to fidget when I see Michael staring at me with a dark unreadable look as he puts his stuff back into his duffel.

“It’s never going to work out the way you want it to. You and your sister’s guy.” His voice is almost bored, as if he’s discussing the weather and not the love life of a girl he doesn’t even know.

“What do you know of it?” I mutter, pulling my hair off my neck and into a messy bun on top of my head. I’m too hot and cranky to play dumb.

“More than you think.” He slings the strap up over his shoulder and continues to watch me.

“Yeah, I’m sure you have all sorts of problems with the ladies. I mean, your body is just repulsive.” I say with a general wave over his sculpted perfection. “And I bet the women just
hate
that
keep away I’m dangerous
vibe you’ve got going on.”

“You’d be surprised. It’s not always about looks.”

I give him an
Oh, come on
look over my shoulder before I start to head in the direction of the clubhouse.

It’s
always
about looks. Only gorgeous people say that it isn’t.

There’s a comfy chair by the fireplace that has my name all over it. Nobody even notices that corner of the clubhouse during the summer, when it’s all about the pool and the patio. It’s is the perfect place to hide from the world.

And by
world,
I mean my sister, mother, and father, who like to coax me into things like
family rounds of golf
when Kristin and I are home for the summer.

“You’re not even going to try?” Beefcake’s voice stops me before I can retreat to my reading cave.

I stamp down a surge of irritation and turn to face him. “Try what?”

“To get the guy.”

“Listen, Beefcake,” I say, with an exaggerated sigh. “I appreciate you trying to help the little fat girl, but quit messing with me, okay? You’ve assessed the situation for about sixteen seconds. I’ve been assessing it for sixteen
years.
And guys like that do not fall for girls like this.” I gesture down at myself.

“It’s not about looks,” he repeats.

“Okay, don’t start that delusion again.”

“It’s about confidence.” He comes to stand in front of me. “You act like you’ve got tons of it with the smart-ass routine, but inside you’re terrified.”

I feel a little tingle of nervousness rush down my spine.

“I’m fine with how I am,” I snap.

“I’m sure you are. But you’re what, twenty?”

“Twenty-one.”

He shifts the bag. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re too young not to be fit.”

Hurt rolls over me. I know I’m not thin, but it stings, and I start to give him a piece of my mind.

But before I can lay into him, a big hand closes over my mouth, our eyes locking as he physically stifles my retort. “Note, I didn’t say
thin
or
skinny.
I said
fit.
Healthy. It’s not what’s on the scale; it’s about what’s up here. It’s about getting in control of your life.”

He sets his index finger to my temple briefly before letting his arm drop, and I feel oddly out of breath, although I don’t know if it’s because I’m outraged at him for so brazenly crossing the lines of appropriateness or because it’s been a long, long time since someone’s touched me.

It annoys me that I’m not immune to his calculated man-whore routine.

But what bugs me even more is that he knows. He knows what I’ve never told anyone.

That I don’t feel in control of my own life.

“Back off, Yoda,” I say.

He shrugs and turns away, and then
damn me
and my always-yapping mouth, because the words are out of my mouth before I can stop them:

“Hypothetically,
if
I wanted your advice . . .”

He turns back, and he’s unsmiling but I don’t miss the little surge of victory in his eyes.

Whatever.

I’ll let him have his triumph if he can help me find this confidence he speaks of.

Most of the time, I like me just the way I am.

I’m proud of the fact that I’m smart and funny and stand up for what I believe in. But I wouldn’t mind finding an outlet for stress and heartache other than chocolate. Just for those emergency situations, ya know? Those moments you realize that the rest of the world doesn’t prize the good qualities the way your heart tells you they’re supposed to?

“What are you doing weekdays at seven?” he asks.

“Um, usually dinner with the family?”

Beefcake’s eyes roll to the sky. “Seven
a.m
.”

“Ohhh. Well, in that case I’m generally at spinning class, unless Pilates has run late,” I deadpan.

He stares at me in silence until I relent. “Okay,
fine,
I’m sleeping.”

“Not anymore you’re not. Tomorrow we meet at the fitness center here.”

I stare at him, and he stares back, and then damn it, he breaks out into a smile, a real smile, then a laugh.

“God, you should see the look of disgust on your face right now,” he says.

“Trust me, it comes straight from the heart,” I mutter.

“Give me one week, Chloe. It’s a prime spot on the personal trainer’s schedule, but I’ll keep it open for you.”

“Why?”

His smile slips, then fades altogether.

He never does answer me, but by the time I finally get around to curling up with my book ten minutes later, one thing is very clear to me: Michael St. Claire might be helping me, but his motives are off.

He’s doing it for
him.

I just don’t know why.

Chapter 3

Michael

Back in New York, there are people that seriously hate my fucking guts.

I have no doubt they’re talking some serious shit behind my back.

But who needs them?

Because I have Chloe Bellamy telling me to my
face
that I’m no good.

“You know what this is?” she says between pants. “It’s athletic elitism. You naturally sporty types dangle this carrot of health in front of the rest of us, and we figure if we want to live past thirty-two we’d better play along, but it’s all a trick.”
Pant pant.
“You really want to watch us flounder while pushing us to sprint.”

I glance down at the controls of the treadmill: 4.2 mph. Four minutes have gone by. “Chloe, this is the warm-up.”

She lets out an exaggerated gasping sound and reaches to adjust the controls, but I bat her hand away. “One more minute. Let’s get to five minutes of steady heart pumping.”

“Heart
failure
is more like it,” she says.

I hide a smile at her melodrama. If I thought she was really struggling, I’d give her a break. But before getting the job here at Cambridge Club, I spent six months shadowing a trainer at one of the behemoth Dallas gyms: long enough to know when someone was overexerted versus what I like to call
anti-movement.

Chloe is definitely in the latter category.

Although I guess I should just be relieved that she showed up wearing actual workout gear.

Brand-new, from the looks of it.

Most girls I know pull their hair back from their faces while exercising, and that’s girls who don’t have Chloe’s cloud of crazy curls. But Chloe’s hair is bouncing free in all its wild glory.

I’d started to suggest she might want to do something with it, but I don’t bother because a) she won’t listen; b) it’s hair. I don’t give a fuck.

But by the time Chloe punches the treadmill to a stop at the end of her five minutes, I realize I
do
care.

That damn hair is going to be a major hindrance.

“Water break?” she asks hopefully.

I gesture at her head. “Ponytail.”

She tilts her head. “Huh?”

“Your hair. Put in in a tail.”

Chloe snorts and gives me an incredulous look. “You know, yesterday I thought you had the whole alpha thing down pat. The glower, the big ol’ biceps, the lack of small-talk skills, but you’d better watch it. . . . Throw around the word
ponytail
in public and these housewives will be moving on to less metro pastures.”

I grit my teeth.

She wants alpha?

No problem.

Without a word, I turn my back on her, walking past the line of treadmills, elliptical machines, and weights until I reach the front desk.

Demi, the cute receptionist, jumps in surprise as I move behind her, opening her desk drawer and rummaging through the office supplies until I find what I’m looking for.

“You’re welcome!” she calls after me.

I return to the treadmills, fully expecting Chloe to be looking around nervously for me, but, of course, she’s not. This girl is just . . . I don’t even know that I can come up with a word beyond
different
.

Chloe Bellamy is different.

And I mean that in an
I could strangle her
way, not
I’m intrigued.

Chloe’s found her way over to one of the cable machines and is talking to a blond dude who barely looks old enough to shave, but is
definitely
old enough to appreciate the compliments of an older girl.

Even if said older girl is red in the face from her warm-up and all crazy-haired.

She lets out a long gusty laugh, and I watch as he flexes, likely at her request. By the time I make it over to them, she’s honest to God squeezing the kid’s biceps.

“What the hell are you doing?” I ask.

She doesn’t seem the least bit fazed by my growl, and she turns to grin up at me. “This is Caleb. Can you believe he’s only a junior in high school? I mean look at his—”

Wrapping my fingers firmly around her arm, I tug her away.

“What’s your deal?” she mutters, turning around to give Caleb a wave and exaggerated wink.

“What’s my deal? You should be
thanking
me. That kid is sixteen. I’m saving you from statutory rape charges.”

“Oh, come on. I was just feeling his muscles.”

With a grunt, I put my hands on her shoulders and push her into a sitting position on one of the benches.

“What are you—hey!” she yelps.

I ignore her as I wrestle with her mane.

This is a first for me.

The only other time I’ve even really noticed a girl’s hair was when I was nineteen. There was this hot summer night in a pool house when I finally got into Melissa Gilani’s pants after a fancy party her parents had thrown. Melissa’s hair had been up in this messy bun-type thing, and she had
definitely
liked it when I slowly pulled the pins out and released her long blond hair, letting it fall around her shoulders.

Of course, I’d been kissing her neck at the time. That probably helped.

But I am most definitely not kissing Chloe Bellamy’s neck, and putting her hair
up
in a ponytail is a hell of a lot harder than taking Melissa’s hair down was that night.

Chloe howls like a banshee as I try to wrap my big hands around the mass of it and pull it through the rubber band I’d stolen from the front desk.